Young Writers Society

Garrick’s Christmas



Author’s Note: Garrick’s name is Old English. The correct pronunciation is GER-rick.



The boy’s backside slammed against the wall, and his two front teeth bit through the soft flesh of his tongue. He moaned and despite that he knew his father did not approve of weak eyes, he let the tears emerge, to hopefully in his mind, spite him.
Oh, how he loathed him too! If not for his mother, whom he loved dearly, he might have tried to escape, run to the streets of Virginia, or… Why not? His father was no man, but a beast, and animals are fair game. Animals are meant to be killed- for food.
“No,” the boy whimpered, shaking his head in disapproval of such grim thoughts. He was hungry, but not that hungry.
“Happy 25th of December, Garrick!” his father boomed, then laughed mechanically.
He did not answer. Just swallowed the blood.
“Well?” his father growled.
He responded by moaning and wiping the tears away. He felt his whole head ache, neck too.
“Are those tears, boy? Are you weeping like a sissy girl?”
The boy daringly looked straight into his father’s eyes and sneered. “I hawt you!”
“Oh, ho! “ his father whooped and danced about in circles inside the run-down dwelling. “Now, the idiot child cannot speak properly! “ He stopped and glared at his son. “And what is this? Is Garrick bleeding as well?”
“Leave him alone!”
His mother came up from the rear and made haste towards him, except… Except his father caught her right arm and pulled her back, and in doing so, he watched in dismay as he hit her hard on the shoulder, knocking his mother down. She fell with a heavy thud, and did not move much at all. Garrick could see she was still breathing but knew more bruises would show themselves on her in the morning.
Garrick’s father stepped quickly towards him but he was far too sore to flee. He felt his cheeks pinched so tight by his father’s grasp that his injured tongue slipped out. Fresh blood dribbled over his bottom lip and stained a very dirty thumb.
“Your tongue, boy, do you not see it? You’re nothing but an evil, little serpent now! Sin from the Devil himself!”
“I dun’t-”
“Your tongue is cut in two,” he sneered, and then releasing his son’s cheeks, Garrick watched him suckle the thumb that was stained in his own blood.

***

He opened his eyes tiredly and yawned. Another Sunday, another visit in his dreams.
Garrick scratched his bare chest, and subconsciously twirled his black chest hairs into tight knots. Another yawn. He sat up, stretched, and shoved the covers off. Standing, he stood stalk still a few inches from the bed.
“Humph,” was all he could say.
Lowering his head, he examined his body. The scar on his left collarbone might as well be a grotesque, whitish worm, slithering in odd and unnatural angles. His vision cast even further down; it went past his penis, and halted at his feet. While they were perfectly normal, no reminders of the past such as the scar to his collarbone, Garrick stared dumbfounding at the tops of his feet.
After a few seconds, he shrugged.
“Perhuth I wull-” He cursed, instead of finishing his sentence. Garrick walked quickly to the table. On it, was parchment, an ink well and a quill pen. In quick motions, he scrawled his message:
Perhaps I will visit you Elizabeth.
“Humph.”
He thought for a moment, and then scribbled a few more words:
Not nude. See you in the Granary.
There was one other in the Granary Burial Grounds of Boston. Perhaps it was his friend who was persuading him to leave, a former Officer of the Continentals. He was kind to him, Garrick remembered, when the world shunned him because of his speech impediment.
Garrick read the parchment, grunted disapprovingly, then crossed out the two sentences angrily. Instead, he wrote carefully and as neatly as possible:
I will visit you Elizabeth, and Sam.
Releasing the pen, he strode to where is clothes were thrown about on the floor, next to his bed, which wasn’t a bed per say, but rags piled on top of each other; a deer pelt, torn and holey wool blankets, and an old pillow he found stuffed under bits of wood in an alley near Griffin’s Warf.
He grabbed his clothing, and slipped it on casually. His friend and wife weren’t departing any time soon, no, not at all. Garrick cringed after he had finished buttoning his weskit. The corner of his right, top lip, curled up in disgust.
“I need a buth.”
After, he tied his garters securely around his stockings, just under his kneecaps, to keep them from sliding down.
Sitting on his “bed,” Garrick searched. Where was his frok coat, he wondered?
“I wull just steal on’,” he mumbled.
With his three cornered, cocked hat, Garrick made his way outdoors.

***


“I was a fool,” Garrick mumbled quietly to his shoes. “Sam taught me that.” He reached out, and ran his finger through the carved words above his wife‘s headstone: Memento Mori. “I did not avenge you, Sam taught me that too.” He knelt on his left knee and stared longingly at the little, gray headstone. The Epitaph was simple. There weren’t any frills or a long-winded speech concerning mortality and the fragility of life; the phrase itself, Memento Mori, was all that needn’t be said to the living treading curiously by.
The corner of Garrick’s right eye twitched as he read his wife’s Epitaph again. He only was able to read: …”Miss Samantha Soutwick, Wife of-” before his mind wandered, as it so often does, now that he was permanently alone. There was a time he, himself, had considered suicide. He was a soldier, but fighting for a more glorified cause- revenge. The other enlisted men spouted off tales of freedom of tyranny and sung their songs of slandering the King, but Garrick was different.
I sat up and straightened out my shoulders as I sat on ground. I was a gentleman but who, I dare say, was this ghastly man…? He was horrid looking. What man would dress in rumpled trousers, a torn shirt and a waistcoat with more holes in it than Swiss Cheese? And by God! Hair tossed about, unkempt or groomed in a coon’s age. I wrinkled my nose and brought my left hand up, covering my nostrils, concealing what joyous and splendid air that I was allowed to breath inside this wedge tent, let alone gag in disgust outright by his crude and obscene stench. I quietly coughed underneath my hand, and swallowed deeply. As I said, I, Samuel Adams Garrison, am a gentleman, and although I would adore more nothing than to spit in this man’s face and shout, “Dear God, sir! Is bathing against your moral code? Please for the love of sanity to my own especially, jump in the nearest river!”
He is watching, that much I do notice, but his features are fixed in a rather unpleasant expression as if I committed a great sort of crime recently, which I clearly, and surely, did not.
Well, no matter. Since it is the evening, and the sun shall soon depart, I suppose a few hours reading about the Lord will put me at ease.
“Sir, would you be so kind as to fetch the lantern? It is in the far right-hand corner of the tent.” I asked in a muffled tone.
In response, he instead turned his back on me.
“Well, that was quite rude,” I grumbled.
The man whirled around instantly after my remark. “Dun’t do that!” he shouted, and then sneered.
“Dun’t?” I asked confusedly.
“Take yer hund off,” the man growled.
Hmm. This fellow seems older than I. His skin was a bit darker but splotched with brown spots around his forehead. Not freckles, perhaps liver spots? However, he could not be as old as my father? He does have wrinkles caressing his cheeks. The only feature we both exhibit is graying hair. But, alas, mine is far grayer in my early twenties. At any rate, this fool, shall I so boldly say, is acting nothing more than an impudent child.
“The lantern,” I asked once more underneath my hand.
My fellow comrade stood, walked briskly in the direction where the lantern rested on the grass and lifted it up.
I leapt to my feet and jumped swiftly to one side as he tried to throw it at my skull! I heard the sound of glass cracking.
“Idiot! Buffoon! Now our lantern is broken! What do you say to that!” I yelled hatefully at him.
“The glass pan, pan-” He stopped and frowned.
“Well? What do you have to say?” I shouted.
“The glass is not shat… erd,” the man said softly, which took me by surprise to say the very least. I had fully anticipated a shouting match.
I walked to the lantern and squinted while turning it in slow circles by inspecting the glass. He was correct. Two of the panels, I presume what he was trying to say earlier, were cracked in a few areas but it theoretically should still suffice for light. No shattering of glass shards.
“Humph,” I grunted. “If we are to survive with one and another, we not needn’t throw objects at our bleedin’ heads.” Walking to the place where I was sitting originally, I snatched the matchbox, lit the lantern and set it in the middle of us. Then, I grabbed the Bible roughly and angrily flipped the pages, not particularly interested in which passage I chose.
As I began to feel comfortable under the glow of light, I did not read but three whole sentences until I was interrupted by a foul noise escaping from the man’s rear. Now, the inside of the tent reeked that much more than before. I lifted my eyes just enough so I could observe him, yet, the book concealed the rest of my face- from the nose to below my chin.
Perhaps he will excuse himself, I thought. I waited. But no, instead he tossed his waistcoat and shirt in a rumpled pile in the right hand corner of the tent. I can say with honestly, this man was indeed burly. He reminded me of Paul, except, this person was quite hairy. Tufts of hair on his shoulders and thick curls of black “fur” running down his chest. We were comrades, that fact remained true, in this war, but we had only been encamped in the outskirts of the Charleston’s River for less than four days. Neither of us have formally introduced ourselves. Still… Despite him attempting to decapitate me earlier, he is quite intriguing. While this man had not officially offered an apology, he did tell me the panels of the lantern were not shattered, but cracked- and his tone, it lowered immensely. It is almost as if, as if that was his apology. And that scar. How on Earth?
“Done staring?” he asked quietly.
My cheeks grew warm in embarrassment. I was almost certain I was blushing. I put the Bible in my lap.
“Forgive me, sir,” I smiled.
He stood, and walked quickly to my body. I looked up, waiting. He siezed me by the throat with his huge hands. I gurgled and tried to swallow. Too tight… He pulled my head sharply to his chest. I reacted by heaving, coughing and gasping. Drips of his sweat touched my brows and the stench from his armpits! My tongue lolled out and I felt salvia dribble over my bottom lip.
My body fell backwards a few inches as he roughly released me.
“Get a gud look?”
I stared wide-eyed at the man in response.
“Or would you like to see my backside?”
“Sir?”
Shut it!”
“How did you get that scar?” I blurted. I rubbed my Adam’s Apple a little afterwards, carefully watching him in case he attacked again.
“I was stabbed,” Garrick answered. He glanced up from his wife’s headstone and peered the cemetery. There were two other people this Sunday perusing the Grounds; moving slowly to one stone, then the next. He shrugged, and returned his focus to the little headstone. “I was not kun-” He stopped and paused, thinking carefully. What was the precise way to say…”Kund.” No. Garrick shook his head in disapproval. He knew that was not correct. “If I had the pen and paper I could spell it out.” His bottom lip trembled. He reached and wrapped his arms around the stone and hugged it. “I was not… kun- kind- to Sam,” he mumbled to the dirt. “At first.”
I awoke with a startle. All was silent in the encampment, besides snoring or hearing the familiar sound of urinating; our tents were pitched so close, some nights I heard raspy exhaling. Instinctively, I reached for a knife. Not there. Moving my palm frantically over the ground, feeling for anything that felt like steel, searching for a straight razor- anything to offer protection. My hand slipped over the damp grass: nothing. No such luck. I squinted in the night air.
“Who is there?” I whispered hoarsely.
Indeed, there was another with us, but to my dismay, my comrade lied in his corner, asleep. Not so much as a purr from him.
The person stepped closer towards me, a huge brute of a man; thick, stocky. Something fell lose from above. I reached out and ran my fingers on top of the coarse object. I recognized it was rope. Up and down. I also felt several knots. It took a few seconds, but eventually the realization struck. I gulped, as I came to grips of what the object actually was, and its grim purpose.
“I will yell for them,” I whispered louder than before. I sat up, and raised a fist. “You will be apprehended before you dare attempt to hang me.”
The intruder squatted in front of me. My heart, it beats much too fast for a proper count. I froze, breathing opened-mouthed.
“Would you do me-”
My eyes widened, dumbstruck. It was my comrade! He was awake! And he meant to kill me…
“Get away from me,” I growled ruthlessly, and then clawed the soil with my right fingers.
“They will har you,” he whispered. I cocked my head just so, to hear sufficiently. There was a bit of a trace of panic in his voice, and I would be lying if I denied that his nervousness did not amuse me.
He dropped the noose, and turned his back on me. It fell in my lap. I relaxed a little, knowing I was not in danger any longer. The man let out a moan. This, struck me. I crawled towards his foot, and tapped his ankle. He jumped back, and fell over backwards. Upside down, I sort of saw the shadows of his face. He was frowning that much I observed.
“Mind telling me what in all Holy, were you doing with a noose?” I whispered evenly.
“To hang,” he said softly.
“To hang who?”
“Me.”



____



Day five.
My comrade sat on top of his knees, watching me with a grim expression. His brows furrowed and indeed he was frowning. He was fully clothed; breeches, shirt and waistcoat. Two details were missing however, and I shared both: we were missing shoes- the Army had not enough provisions to say the least. I made due though by tying leather straps, holding scraps of wool or linen, any fabric I found, and wrapped them tight as I could around the soles of my feet. When scraps were unavailable- which I grudgingly deplored- I marched barefoot. As an adolescent, I made it a habit to hunt and even walk the streets of Boston with nothing more but calluses to protect the soles of my feet from lacerations of the harsh ground. It was only when the weather changed course, and the brutal fronts of chilly wind and of course snow, I was forced to borrow Father’s boots. Father has them now, our only pair. My comrade and I also did not have proper uniforms for the regiment we served under. Few men did. A simple brown frock coat is all I wore in battle- if we shall see one yet…
The question was there. It lingered. But, in the end, I decided rather than pry and have him throw the lantern yet again at my skull, I flipped open the Bible and began reading silently. The situation concerning the noose last night would have to wait.
I heard him cough. I did not look up.
Another cough.
I ignored him.
“Ow!” I roared.
“That dun’t hart you.”
“What did you say?”
“No blood,” my comrade replied casually.
“If you meant to say, throwing a stinking rock at my forehead does not hurt, you are sorely mistaken! There does not need to be blood for pain!”
Rapping on our tent.
“Come in,” I grumbled.
The person untied the knots, opened the two flaps and moved in slowly by walking on his hands and knees. I held up my left hand over my face to block the sudden glare of sunshine.
When I saw who it was I could not help but whoop with glee! I had not seen my old friend since we arrived near the Charleston River.
“The Good Doctor!” I said with joy.
“Or Doctor Warren,” he corrected me, and then smiled shortly after. “I heard some shouting, and decided it would be in the best interest-”
“For who?” I interrupted.
“That the former Son of Liberty was still alive and well,” Doctor Warren answered.
I laughed, remembering the days long past; my triumphs and dreadful mistakes while I was the youngest inducted and one of the original members of the Boston Sons of Liberty.
“I am fine.” Turning, I eyed my mute comrade. I snickered, then faced my mate, the ‘Good Doctor’ Warren.
“Well then, I shall be off. Still have to clean my musket.” He began easing himself backwards to the exit.
“Wait!” I said.
“Hmm?” Doctor Warren asked.
“Have you received news of Sam at all?”
“Not since he rode to Philadelphia, no.”
“Oh.”
“You two were close I presume?” Doctor Warren asked.
I nodded, now sadden by the news.
“Stay the course. Focus on the war at hand, young Garrison. Samuel would want that much from us both.”
I smiled a little at his comment. “Yes, and if we did not follow through, Sam would have raised holy hell.”
He nodded in agreement. “That was one of the many talents Samuel Adams exhibited. He was the master of stirring the minds of the people to succumb to his beliefs.”
I grew unhappy again when Doctor Warren said, ‘master.’
“Are you sure you are alright?”
“He used to call me, ‘Master Garrison,’” I said quietly.
“My wuf’s name was Sumantha. I called her Sam fir short.”
Both Doctor Warren and I whirled around and stared at him.
“Oh? How intriguing… Three Sams’,” Doctor Warren mused. “Well, Samuel, I shall be off.” He departed, but not completely leaving without winking at me.
“What was that for?”
He did not answer. The flaps were dropped and the knots retied by Doctor Warren.
My shoulders sagged. Deciding so, I returned my attention to the nameless comrade I shared this tent with.
“Do you read the Bible?” I asked politely.
He answered by turning his back on me- again…
I had had just about enough of these childish antics. I strode quickly to his right shoulder, tapped it three times, and then stepped backwards immediately, fully prepared if he attempted to strike.
He did nothing.
All right. If this person is wishing not to attack, perhaps we can speak to one and another, ceasing on the melodramatic violence for once.
I sat next to him, the Bible in my left hand. He scooted a few inches over, away from me.
“What is your name?” I asked softly to him. “I suppose you know mine now?”
He shrugged.
“Oh, well, it is Samuel. Samuel Garrison.” I waited.
A few seconds passed. Instead of introducing himself, he pointed to the Bible, and nodded?
“I do not understand? Surely your name is not, Bible?”
The man groaned in disapproval. He touched the cover with his index finger, then pointed to his chest. After, he nodded.
“Why do you not just talk to me?” I asked.
He pointed to the Bible once more, then to himself.
Surrendering to the nonsense, and utter confusion, I tossed it in his lap. He picked it up, glanced at the Bible, and then tossed it back at me. No opening of the book or searching of the pages… How odd…
“Do you know what this is?” I asked, pointing to the gold lettering on the cover.
The man nodded immediately.
“Would you like to read a few pages?”
No answer.
I was so beyond confusion. Perplexed was a far more suitable acceptance of a word choice.
“Well, if you see it to your satisfaction, here.” I placed the Bible next to his right kneecap. “You may read it whenever you like.” Scooting on my hands and knees, I crawled to a corner of the tent, preparing to nap on top of my frock coat.
A huge hand tugged my shoulder instead. I never was able to move three inches until my comrade halted me.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Garrick. Soutwick.”
I grinned. “Morning, Mister Soutwick.”
He shook his head. “No. Just Garrick.
“Garrick,” I said.
He shook his head again. “Ger-rick. Not Gare-rick.”
“Apologies.”
“Hmph.”
“What was your wife’s name? I cannot seem to recall.”
“Go.”
“Excuse me?”
“No more talk.”
“As you wish, Garrick.” I placed my right hand on his left shoulder and squeezed it a bit. “My offer stands. I shall leave the Bible with you today. Read anything your heart desires.” Leaving him be, I sensed I overstayed my welcome, and flopped onto top of the frock coat, and shut my eyes, thoroughly embracing sleep after last night’s fiasco.



[i]Day six.
Garrick approached me by scooting along the grass on his hands and knees, much like a toddler would. He stopped, no more than a couple inches away. My plan today was to write a letter to Father and Mother; address the current situation in the encampment, which was primarily nonexistent. No action, no drilling, a bunch of fat men sitting about drinking, staggering and sleeping under canvas or their own muskets. A few of the lucky ones, such as myself, had tents. Mine was given to me by Father. Since he had long been discharge from his previous service in the Seven Years’ War, I was very much grateful for the gift.
I glanced up. “Hello, Garrick.”
He did not reply.
I merely shrugged and returned my attention to the blank piece of paper. “A pen would surely be beneficiary,” I sighed unhappily. “Do you miss your folks?” I asked the piece of paper.
“Har.”
I shot my head up and frowned. “Do not mock me, Garrick. Do not laugh.”
He moved closer.
I remained.
“Sum,” he said.
My eyes caught something, this time… unusual… inside Garrick’s mouth.



Garrick released his embrace and slowly rose to a standing position. He still looked down at the little gray headstone, the final resting spot of Miss Samantha Soutwick. Opening his mouth, Garrick touched the tip of his tongue, except there wasn’t one, but two tips at the end. An instant amount of pain engulfed him. It started in his gut but shot up quickly to Garrick’s throat. He felt his kneecaps wobble a bit and he immediately shot out a hand and gripped his wife’s headstone to steady himself, to keep balanced. The hand that was fiddling with his snake-like tongue absent mildly rubbed both eyes, to erase evidence of suffering, to undo his memories, but to ultimately ban this morning’s nightmare.



“Your, your mouth?” I asked, wide-eyed.
I have never witnessed anything, well, if what I saw is to be true, I feel it is quite remarkable. Unusual, but interesting nonetheless.
I winced as Garrick immediately applied pressure around my wrist after the question.
“Let. Go,” I seethed. “Now.”
He instead shoved me backwards. I fell over on my ass but did not get any chance to retaliate. Garrick leapt on top of me. Snug in between his two calves, both my arms were tightly pinned. His shirt was thrown over his head. Now, a wonderfully hairy jungle greeted me. Lovely.
“You,” Garrick growled. He pointed to that same scar I noticed on his shoulder. “See?”
I cooperated by nodding.
“He stubbed me.”
I thought for a minute. What did he mean? Hmm…
“Stubbed!”
“Stabbed,” I blurted. The answer came without a second thought while studying the bare area of flesh where the scar was.
“Who is he?” I asked curiously, perhaps boldly too.
Garrick pointed to the piece of paper that had fallen near my waist.
“I do not understand. Really, I do not.”
Garrick stood, then, he turned around. I gasped. How could I have not notice, but, how? His back- lacerated… Scars in every direction; diagonal, vertical, many crisscrossed. It was like looking at thin, pale webs. These scars however were unique. I recognized the marks straight away. Father has these exact, but… My eyes just widened. Father was whipped by my grandfather, and he wept good and long the evening of the Bloody Massacre when he finally revealed with us a secret he closely guarded: Father’s earliest childhood memories of Atticus- my scoundrel of a Grandfather that permanently damaged father emotionally and physically for his own scars are there on his backside. The same as Garrick but no where near as plentiful…
“I am so sorry,” I moaned.
He whirled back around and instead of attacking, frowned. And he frowned deeply.
“For what? No pity fir me. Never was.”
I shook my head in disagreement. “I know,” I chocked, struggling not to…
Garrick arched an eye.
Oh, to hell with it, I thought to myself. I have openly sobbed in front of men before- my friends, and with Sam, my second father. I released, I let them come. One by one. The drops trickled across my cheeks.
Garrick knelt on his right knee.
“I know. I know,” I wept. “I know ev… every…” I could simply not finish my train of thought. The reality, for me, was too personal, too real. Father was abused by his father, Atticus. Years I wondered about my roots, my family history but father, with mother’s help, kept the childhood past secret; he refused to tell his only son. That is, until the Bloody Massacre erupted, slaying five innocent lives. I was there, a witness to the crime, hiding behind a large snow barrack some local boys built, watching. Mother was there too in the snowy streets except she was in the fiery, violent crowd, antagonizing the redcoats.
The end result was we escaped. Distraught as I felt , and frightened facing father, at the given moment, we made our way home. After a good, swift punch to my jaw by father, he eventually broke down, revealing everything. He was indeed happy we were safe and of course, not deceased but mother and father cried, it seemed, forever. I did not. I could not find it in me. Too shaken.
Garrick cocked his head.
I sat up and wiped the tears off. “I apologize.”
“Fir?”
“Nevermind,” I replied.
“Tell,” he insisted.
Looking him straight in the eye, I said, “I know you were abused. Whipped, like my father.”
He put his mammoth hand on my right shoulder, similar in practice as I did with him yesterday. I smiled sadly.
“Now, do not go and think you are allowed to kiss me,” I joked.
Garrick shoved me lightly. I fell backwards anyway.

Hey Sam! Stella here!

I. NITPICKS

[i]The boy’s backside slammed against the wall, and his two front teeth bit through the soft flesh of his tongue.

I'm not so sure about beginning with "The boy." I just don't know whether it works or not.

he let the tears emerge, to hopefully in his mind, spite him.

the commas here are out of place, I think, but don't ask me how to fix them!

“I hawt you!”

Hawt? Either this is an endearing mispronounciation of hate that doesn't work, or a typo. Reading on, your reasons for putting it here become clear, but would it really come out as "hawt?" Just... something to muse upon.

There was one other in the Granary Burial Grounds of Boston. Perhaps it was his friend who was persuading him to leave,

Did he just magically appear there, or was he there the whole time? I wasn't exactly clear on this.

Releasing the pen, he strode to where is clothes were thrown about on the floor,

his.

near Griffin’s Warf.

I... ignore me if I'm wrong, but I always thought it was spelt Wharf. If you know otherwise, as I say, ignore me.

Where was his frok coat, he wondered?

Frock?

Alright...

II. DIRECTNESS

The main problem I had here was with your prose. Throughout the piece, I felt basically unconnected with your character. While this may be partly due to style, and that's fine, it's also partially a problem. Remember that in their own minds, people are less formal. I know that you're introducing us to your character, so it's important to get in bits of information, but don't be afraid to actually start relating us to him immediately. I don't know if I'm making sense. Just. Try and make his thoughts seem more like the thoughts of a person, and less of those of a character.

III. SENTENCE STRUCTURE

Yeah, this needs to be seriously worked on, love. There were a lot of sentences that ran on. In the first part, where you're referring to two characters as "he" it's confusing enough already, without the added numerous clauses. Example:

Except his father caught her right arm and pulled her back, and in doing so, he watched in dismay as he hit her hard on the shoulder, knocking his mother down.

There are several more like this. Don't be afraid to cut them up. You might feel like you're being too choppy, but really, it'll be fine. Easier to read in fact, and can sometimes add more feeling and depth to your piece. As it is, I had to read over some several times before I fully understood them.

IV. OVERALL

Your MC himself seems well developed and unique, and I can see why you'd enjoy writing about him. I'm a sucker for character-driven stories, so that's good. However, it's the way you present him that is letting you down. Both things above lead to us being given a pretty distant, unconnected view of him. Make it more accessible, let us in more. I know you said you were out of practice, and it's apparent, your prose is rusty, but it's clear that there's some skill lying underneath. My main point, therefore, is probably letting us in- in all directions, including dialogue, though yours is by no means the worst I've seen.

Hope I've helped, drop me a note if you need anything!

-Stella x

Fishr!

I don't generally do nitpicks, but if you would like me to do a more indepth review on this, leave a note in my guestbook, and I'll be more than happy to.

Of things that stood out to me here was Garrick's father's manner. It may have been Snoink or OverEasy who spoke a lot about making your characters real, especially villains. Not to say that this character is a villain, but he's the antagonist of this story, and not a positive force.

His manner stood out to me because you don't provide any indication of reasoning behind his abuse. Had he said something about what the boy did, something he didn't like about him, it may be mildly more believable, but here, it's difficult to grasp his reasoning. He seems evil for no reason.

Another thing I want to point out is the dialogue. It seems unnatural, and though I know it's set in earlier times, I think it could stand to be neutralized. Humans don't speak in precise grammar, and I'm not entirely sure they ever did? There was always a hint of slang, mispronunctiation in the mix as well.

Aside frm that, I would like to see where you take this, Sam. Stella pointed out a few grammatical errors that you should keep an eye out for.

Did I ever tell you I like your writing voice? Well,I do. It's interesting, and you're quite impressive at historical fiction.

Best of luck!

June

Look who got around to this! Can I just say that I had a whole lot of fun reading this? You know I love your writing style. Your prose makes me want to write historical fiction. Lovely. And I've already told you that Garrick is a wonderful character, as is Sam. I'm extremely happy this has gotten you writing again--absolutely wonderful. I'm just going to pick out a few things, okay?

Like June mentioned, the father isn't making much sense to me right now. Perhaps we will learn more of him later, but virtually the only impression we get of him is his abuse of Garrick and occasional absurd movements. This leads me to think he may be drunk, but I did not get a very good feel for him at the beginning. It might be best to begin this with Garrick himself before going into characters that I doubt he wants to talk about or elaborate upon.

The dialogue has also been mentioned to sound slightly unnatural. I don't think it's unnatural, persay, but I was startled when Garrick had such clearly childish pronunciation in the flashback and at the grave scene had such perfect language. I don't know exactly how the impediment you are using works, but the contrast between Garrick's mispronunciations and his more polished speech is very sharp, which makes some of the dialogue sound out of place.

Now, onto some other issues:

His mother came up from the rear and made haste towards him, except… Except his father caught her right arm and pulled her back, and in doing so, he watched in dismay as he hit her hard on the shoulder, knocking his mother down. She fell with a heavy thud, and did not move much at all. Garrick could see she was still breathing but knew more bruises would show themselves on her in the morning.

As I've said, I love you prose, but the people are getting mixed up here. The 'he watched in dismay as he hit her hard on the shoulder, knocking his mother down'. All the he's and his's are getting confused here. Some sentence reworking may be in order.

“Your tongue is cut in two,” he sneered, and then releasing his son’s cheeks, Garrick watched him suckle the thumb that was stained in his own blood.

First of all, the split tongue and serpent thing was fantastic. You got a massive grin out of me with that exchange of dialogue. Again, here we have some confusion. The he's and his's confuse me in this dialogue tag. I suggest just reading this once over aloud to watch out for this kind of stuff.

He opened his eyes tiredly and yawned. Another Sunday, another visit in his dreams.

Do you really need 'tiredly'?

“I need a buth.”
After, he tied his garters securely around his stockings, just under his kneecaps, to keep them from sliding down.
Sitting on his “bed,” Garrick searched. Where was his frok coat, he wondered?
“I wull just steal on’,” he mumbled.

Love the expression of his speech impediment. For contrast--the next part:

“I was a fool,” Garrick mumbled quietly to his shoes. “Sam taught me that.”

This is the startling contrast I am talking about. We go from 'I wull just steal on'' to 'I was a fool'. Again, I don't know how the speech impediment exactly works, but this is where the dialogue jarred me.

You know I love the graveyard part.

As I said, I, Samuel Adams Garrison, am a gentleman, and although I would adore more nothing than to spit in this man’s face and shout, “Dear God, sir! Is bathing against your moral code? Please for the love of sanity to my own especially, jump in the nearest river!”

Have I mentioned I love Sam? You do such a good job of letting your narrator voices shine. Love it.

“Humph,” I grunted. “If we are to survive with one and another, we not needn’t throw objects at our bleedin’ heads.” Walking to the place where I was sitting originally, I snatched the matchbox, lit the lantern and set it in the middle of us. Then, I grabbed the Bible roughly and angrily flipped the pages, not particularly interested in which passage I chose.

Love it.

“How did you get that scar?” I blurted. I rubbed my Adam’s Apple a little afterwards, carefully watching him in case he attacked again.
“I was stabbed,” Garrick answered. He glanced up from his wife’s headstone and peered the cemetery. There were two other people this Sunday perusing the Grounds; moving slowly to one stone, then the next. He shrugged, and returned his focus to the little headstone. “I was not kun-” He stopped and paused, thinking carefully. What was the precise way to say…”Kund.” No. Garrick shook his head in disapproval. He knew that was not correct. “If I had the pen and paper I could spell it out.” His bottom lip trembled. He reached and wrapped his arms around the stone and hugged it. “I was not… kun- kind- to Sam,” he mumbled to the dirt. “At first.”

I absolutely love that transition. And the 'kun--kind' is perfect. Garrick is a wonderful character; I'm so glad you're exploring him.

If you haven't noticed, I liked this. A lot. Your prose fits the time period and your style very well, in my opinion. The character voices are perfect. That dialogue contrast jarred me a little, but, aside from that and the few other confusion and nit picks I pointed out, absolutely wonderful. Please do keep up the good work! I hope to read more of this as you continue. Nice job. Please keep writing! PM me if you have any questions.

Thanks so much guys for all the uber awesome help. I'll go through all the suggestions as soon as I finished this dang thing, i.e. the First Draft.

*hugs*

[Breaking up the story. Thanks for reading.




A breeze came forth, changed direction abruptly, and then swept north of the Granary. Garrick shivered a bit and wrapped his arms around his waist.

There was a light tap on his right shoulder and he leapt to the side, startled by the sudden presence of someone else. He grunted and then whirled clockwise, looking for the person that dared to disturb him.

“Catch your breath yet?”

Garrick cocked his head just so. He recognized the tone, and knew it well.

“Yus,” he said in a muffled voice.

“Well, are you not to speak to me face-to-face?”

His shoulders sagged. He had been disrespectful, and not to any person, to another that accepted Garrick as her own- her husband too. Garrick faced the voice that spoke to him. He glanced at his wife’s stone, than made eye contact with Martha Garrison.

“Visiting?” Martha asked.

He sighed. “Yus’um.”

Garrick flinched as he briefly caught a glimpse of Martha’s hand. He let her smack him upside the back of his head. There wasn’t any struggle or a single motion on his behalf to block the attack. It was against his code to pounce on woman.

“Are you mad? It’s cold out.”

He shrugged in response.

Martha grabbed her shawl and pulled it tighter around her shoulders as if to show Garrick the temperatures outdoors.

“There is not much snow out,” he mumbled.

Martha sighed in disapproval. “You’re as thick headed as Samuel.”

“Stub… Burn, too.”

She smiled a little. “Perhaps, but that title is still to be decided, and I fear, my husband is the most stubborn man in all of Boston.”

He glanced down at the headstone. His memories were in a flutter, abundant, but now becoming disjointed- falling to pieces. He rather carry on and reminisce about his wife and friend than to be disturbed, at least this afternoon.

“Have you visited Samuel today?”

Garrick shook his head, answering the mute headstone.

“Will you be doing so?” Martha pushed.

“Yus,” Garrick muttered.

“And dinner?”

“Will be there. Like always.”

Martha lifted his hand and squeezed it. He turned and faced her. She looked up at him and held eye contact.

Garrick grinned, a false expression, but he wanted her to think he was genuinely happy, despite the current melancholy setting the pair set foot in. Inside however, his emotions, he knew, were shackling him; cementing Garrick’s feet in the cemetery.

She leaned forward and kissed the top of one of his knuckles. “Welcome especially anticipates your return this Christmas.”

“Tell him, I will come.”

Martha turned her head to her right side, north of the cemetery. For several moments, she stared. Finally, “It has been difficult for Welcome recently, coping. To the day, he has departed…” She did not continue. There was no reason too. Garrick knew.

“Sam, your Sam, told me not to far.” He stopped and thought a second. Not ‘far.’ “Fear death. It is part of life.”

“We shall await,” was all Martha said.

“I love you,” he mumbled in a near whisper.

“We do too.” Martha released his hand. It dropped heavily by Garrick’s waist. Her bottom lip trembled. He diverted his attention to Samantha’s headstone, allowing the memories afloat. His ears heard the familiar sound of sloshing in melted snow. The sound became less audible. Eventually, there wasn’t any sounds at all. Martha Garrison walked to the log dwelling alone.




I sighed. Absent mildly, my left hand stroked, and then rubbed the back of my neck. I winced at the stiffness, and rightly so. I had been staring at the grass for what it seemed like ages. Garrick was with me, of course. He has been following me, or so I gathered as of late around the encampment. Ever since the connection with the scars along his backside, and my father’s own, near identical marks, Garrick is just, well, there. I turn my back for one reason or another, and he is there, watching. I move, and on occasion, speak to my good friend, Doctor Warren. Yet, a few yards off in the distance, there he be. In fact, he has been so near me that with little doubt Garrick was able to hear our small talk when Doctor Warren and I chatted.

Truly, it is quite difficult determining what might be going through that head of his. Garrick does not smile, or at least wishes not to publicly display the slightest of a grin, and that is fine. Sam did not hardly utter much in the way of laughter either. He was mostly too serious and intent on rousing riots and chaos if it meant my fellow Bostonians align themselves against that rotten scoundrel, three-thousand miles over sea. Today, however, was not a day to beseech hatred against King George. I was homesick.

I glanced up, ignoring the minor pain. Garrick was sitting awfully close to me. His stench was actually becoming a common familiarity. That is to say, I wish he would bathe himself but I was actually getting used to the aroma. He had his shirt on this evening but no waistcoat.

“Do you miss your kin?” I asked Garrick honestly.

“Sum,” he nodded.

‘Sum,’ as in, ‘Some?’ I asked.

“Yus, and no.”

“Hmm… Who is it you miss? As for me, I miss my parents, my father most of all. He did not approve of my enlistment. Actually, he drilled the notion of enlisting in any warfare was, well, I do not recall a specific word to describe… Ah, he deplored war with a vengeance, and drilled that hatred of his from the time I was a young adolescent to my early twenties. You see, my father survived the Seven Years’ War. I was a lad then, when he left my Mum and I- only aged about twelve years old. Ah…, but listen to me,” I winked. “Apologies.”

“Fir?” He tilted his to one side after the question.

“Does ‘fir’ mean ‘for?”

Garrick nodded.

“I do believe I am slowly understanding your odd dialect- and by ‘odd,’ I meant unusual. Take no offense, please.”

He shook his head.

“So, who is it that you miss? You do not have to answer though,” I said quickly, in order not to potentially insult him. While I would never publicly voice my opinion to Garrick for the moment, from day one I believe that man has intrigued my curiosity, despite him nearly taking off my head early on! “I understand if the question might bring about new- or old- pains.”

Garrick answered by scratching the top of his head.

“You are confused?”

Another nod.

“Apologies. I meant you do not have to answer if it hurts.”

“Hurts?”

“Inside.” I pointed to my breastbone, where the heart is.

Instead of answering, he picked up the Bible, which was lying next to my right foot, and dropped it in my lap.

“Read.”

I arched an eyebrow. “But, I am in no mood, nor have any desire to read about the Lord. I gave you permission, and it still holds true. You needn’t to ask. Read the book yourself. Feel free.”

“I…”

“What is it?”

“No!” he growled.

I clutched Garrick’s shoulder. “Come now. You have been following me almost in every direction of the encampment for two days. You have draped a noose in my face in the middle of the night, attacked me, and yet, here I remain. Do you think any other would put up with such nonsense?”

“No,” he said softly, calming down.

“Exactly. I am a loyal person, Garrick. I have carried many of my friend’s secrets, and have had my own dilemmas. Yours are indifferent to me.”

“I…”

I waited patiently.

“I… Cun’t.”

“Cun’t.” I thought about his choice of words. “Hmm… Do you mean ‘can’t’?”

Well, the man can smile. Garrick beamed. He grinned from ear to ear. Not entirely sure why he was suddenly so happy, but I smiled too.

“Wait. You said, ‘I can’t,” I frowned as the realization struck. “You cannot read, can you?”

He did not answer at first. More of a staring match, but no attacks, and no words. Garrick sat there, hardly moved, except for exhaling.

“I miss Sum,” he said finally.

Now it was my turn not to comment. I cast my thoughts backwards. Certainly, he was not referencing to my close, and dear friend, Sam Adams. Sam was with his cousin, John, in Philadelphia. Ah! Garrick mentioned a ‘Sum,’ when Doctor Warren paid a visit in our tent, checking up on my safety. Warren said he heard yelling and a general ruckus in here.

“Sam is your wife, yes, I remember, Garrick.”

“Was.”

My jaw went slack.

“Moth is opun.”

“Yes,” I muttered. “I am regrettably, sorry.”

Next thing I knew, I was pressed against Garrick’s chest, much like a sandwich. His arms squeezed tighter. If I had to select a choice of which was more inhumane: lack of air or sniffing sweat, I rather suffocate. Smiling inside my head at my private, sarcastic comment, truthfully, I quite like this ghastly, smelly man. Or at least, beginning too warm up to him.

“Garr-ick… I… cannot…,” I wheezed and slapped his forearm rather feebly.

He released immediately.

“Thanks,” I coughed. When I caught my breathe, I asked, “I suppose we are mates now.”

He shook his head in disagreement.

“No? Why not?” For the first time, I felt a small stab within. Garrick’s rejection stung.

“Frunds leave. They never stay.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. I mulled over the last few days, picking a part each situation. Garrick’s tongue, I wanted with all my might to probe him but he is a sensitive soul, much like father. Abuse is a demon in which must be purged, washed away so one is able to start anew- if at all possible. In Garrick’s circumstance, judging by the many scars on his back, there will never be redemption. That is how it is with father. Well over forty years, father carried the grief- the pain of never knowing if he was loved by Atticus.

“Would you like to speak about the noose, if it pleases you?” I asked as gently as I could.

He reached outwards. My eyes watched curiously. Garrick’s palm hovered over the Bible’s cover. I looked up at him, and took note, he was watching my face intently.

“You may hold it.”

He grunted, which I presume was his subtle way of a, ‘Thank you.’”

Quite a while slipped by. It was in the late evening. In a few hours, the night air would soon greet us.

“I like you,” was all Garrick said to break the silence.

“Thanks,” I smiled. “You may keep it this evening if it will be a comfort.”

Garrick smiled, reached around and gave me another hug with his left, while he held the spine of the Bible in his right.

I pushed him off. “Be gone with you,” I laughed. I crept to the corner of the tent and flopped on top of the grass. For some unknown reason, I shivered a bit. The air was not especially cold. In fact, I was quite warm a few moments ago, until I settled myself upon the earth. I clutched the sides of my chest, shivering. Within a few seconds, Garrick sort of… nestled himself close to my ribs, for lack of a more suitable description.

“No nooses to tonight. I can do without the stretch neck,” I remarked seriously.

“I keep you warm,” was his answer.

I smiled again, and turned to my left, ready to sleep early, despite the distractions of flickering light from the various camp fires caressing the white canvas of the tent.



Sitting by the fire.

“Beautiful night,” I remarked, casting my vision across the sky.

“Quite nice,” Doctor Warren agreed.

He nudged my left shoulder.

I turned in his direction. “Yes?”

“Your feet, Mister Garrison,” he said pointing to the bare souls.

“Please,” I said with a pained grin, “call me Samuel.”

“Regardless, your feet need attention,” he interjected.

I sighed. “They are a little cut up.”

“A little?” Doctor Warren huffed.

“They will be fine,” I grumbled.

“Sure, sure. Of course, what do I know? I am a man of medicine, but obviously to the likes of a young man, I am incompetent.”

“No, I mean, I apologize.”

“Humph.”

“Do you forgive me?” I asked.

“Take a good look. A long one at that.”

“At what?”

“Your toes, Mister Garrison.”

“Oh,” I mumbled to the dirt.

“Indeed.”

I wiggled the two digits remaining on my left foot. The others had been amputated by Doctor Warren so long ago. Yet, the memory flared. I managed to save my good friend, Paul, when we were shot at my a lone redcoat guarding the Custom’s House’s entrance. The decision by me was to remove my shoes and wrap the souls with layers of wool to protect them. This way I could pad silently through the snow. I slipped by undetected to an aging barn in the outskirts of a field. Inside, it was luck to find a carriage. The problem was, I did not know how to guide a horse, but to have a carriage with a healthy horse… The conclusion, while guiding the carriage rather randomly, reins in hand, Paul sprung out from behind the bush where he hid. The gunshots erupted. He shoved me roughly to the other side, and snatched the reins. Of course we survived but after deserting the stolen carriage, both feet ached terribly. Certainly discolored, every toe. We stopped, keeping to the allies or cemeteries, hiding. On Holy Ground, we were mostly positive no soldier would dare spill blood of the deceased. Paul stopped every so often to tend to my feet by removing the wool, and squeezing the access water out. Eventually, he resigned to carrying me like a sack over his shoulder. Paul brought me to Doctor Warren’s facility, where he tended to my feet, free of charge, simply because I was a ardent Patriot, and a Son of Liberty.

“You could bandage them, or do something, like before?”

“I am a soldier now, Mister Garrison, as you are.”

“But?”

“Shall we change the subject then?” Doctor Warren asked.

“I will rub some soil in the cracks on the bottom of my feet.”

“Do however, shall you please. I merely was concerned, not as a Physician, but as a friend- Samuel.”

Feeling much like a lame horse, I dropped the subject, and followed suit with his suggestion. I changed the subject.

“How have you been since arriving here?” I asked.

“Decent enough I suppose. Unlike the others, I have remained sober and intend on staying that way.”

I laughed.

“You think this to be amusing?”

“Yes,” I smirked.

Doctor Warren crossed both arms against his chest and lifted his left leg and draped it over his right. “Well, I suppose it is mildly amusing.” I noticed his bottom lip twitched.

“Go on, laugh,” I teased.

“How is your tent mate?” he asked instead.

“Garrick?”

“If that is his name, than yes. If I recall, there was some quarrel between you two before.”

“I like him so far. He kept me warm last night.”

“How good of him.”

“You are certainly very serious tonight,” I noted.

“Perhaps.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

Doctor Warren sighed deeply and released a tiny groan. Uncrossing his legs, he hunched over the fire.

“What is it?”

“I have received word, we march in two days,” he deadpanned.

“Would you want to meet Garrick?” I asked.

He looked at me, frowning. “You as well?”

“Hmm?”

“The prospect of dieing soon.”

“Do the men know?”

“I have been sworn to secrecy.”

“But you told me?”

“I simply trust you, as a close friend. And friendship is a minor commodity these days. So few and in between.”

“I am touched,” I smiled.

“Foolish. You not need to be. Have we both not felt our own share? Tears and gloom?”

“Absolutely.” My smile melted.

“Fetch your tent mate. Let us, the three of us talk. Perhaps he can alter this melancholy atmosphere.”

Not likely, I thought to myself. If anything, Garrick might increase it. I shrugged, and glanced over my shoulder. As usual, there he sat, a few inches from our tent. He was not doing much, just plucking grass and tossing them about.

“Just a moment,” I said, excusing myself.

Doctor Warren nodded.

I strode quickly to him. He never looked or acknowledge my presence. I tapped Garrick’s shoulder.

“Yus?” he asked, never offering eye contact.

“My friend, the Good Doctor, has requested you.”

“No.”

“No?” I asked confusedly.

“No, I wull not go.”

“Oh. Shy? I understand.”

“No.”

“Then what?” I asked, growing impatient with Garrick’s antics.

“He wull luff.”

“What is ‘luff?’”

“Hurt.” Garrick pointed to his breastbone.

I sort of comprehended. I think he was worried that Doctor Warren would make some crude comment or mock him.

“Just a moment. I will be right back. Wait here.” I jogged before Garrick could utter a word.

“Well, is he coming?” Doctor Warren asked, as I stepped up behind him.

I tugged his waistcoat in response. “Come. He is shy,” I lied.

Doctor Warren followed behind. When Garrick saw us approaching, he stood in an instant. I waved to him, to show we meant no harm. To my relief, Garrick did not flee.

“This is Doctor Joseph Warren. He is a close mate of mine, and the finest doctor in Boston!”

“Flattery will get you no where, Samuel. Tend to those feet promptly. Please to meet you, sir,” Doctor Warren said.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“But thanks,” Doctor Warren said.

I grinned. “Welcome.”

“May I inquire your first name, sir?” Doctor Warren asked.

Garrick tilted his head.

“This is Garrick,” I responded before he, sensing Garrick’s confusion.

“How do you like sleeping with Samuel?”

“He likes it fine,” I answered.

“Will you stop answering for him!” Doctor Warren suddenly roared. I leapt a little in the air. “He has a mouth, let him speak for himself.”

“Sorry,” I said quietly.

“Garrick,” he asked gently, toning down his voice a notch, “can you talk?”

Garrick grunted.

“Good.”

“I never said yus,” Garrick replied.

“No, I suppose not, but you are now. Samuel and I would like for you to join us by the fire. Do you accept?”

I leaned over, and whispered in Garrick’s ear. One thing I have noticed, the man does not want to speak, unless he must. “You do not have too. I will still be your mate, um, friend.”

“Yes or no? I will be turning in soon.”

Garrick put his left foot outwards, then ever slowly, the other. Then, when I thought he made his choice to join us, he squatted and crawled inside the tent, leaving the two of us outdoors.

“Quite rude, indeed!” Doctor Warren huffed.

“No,” I disagreed. “He has had an arduous life.”

“Pah. Who has not, Samuel? We are at war, for sakes!”

“One night, he woke me up. He had a noose. He was contemplating suicide.”

“Oh,” Doctor Warren said, lowering his voice.

“Yes,” I said sadly. “Thus far, I only see the good in him. Garrick means well. He just…,” I groaned. “I do not think he knows how to trust. He had a wife you know. He knows of love and closeness but I sense too, he has been betrayed terribly by someone in his family. I will not go into details. I wish to respect his privacy.”

“Seems as though you speak highly of this man.”

“I trust Garrick,” I said firmly.

“If you do, than I shall as well.”

“I should go see if he is all right.”

“You do that, Samuel, but I am going to sleep.”

“I shall wrap my feet, keep them safe.”

“Good. Sweet dreams, young Garrison. Enjoy them, for in a few days, all we hold dear could very well be taken upon the field.”

“You have been a great mate, I mean, friend, Joseph.”

“As you have as well, Master Garrison.” He walked away, yawning, in the direction of his tent. I smiled, but I felt tears well up on the rims of my eyes. My father, my second father, Sam Adams, addressed me, always by the title of, ‘Master Garrison.’ I indeed missed him, but my immediate family as well. The emptiness I am feeling now is not because of homesickness or as such, but the realization: I might not see anyone again if I am killed. Or, desperately watch the blood flow if…

“Bah…” I said, pushing such morbid thoughts from my mind.

One thing I knew I had to do was find a damn pen and write my family. I crawled inside the tent too, and tied the strings, closing the entrance. Best to keep most of the mosquitoes out.

Garrick had the Bible in his lap, but he discarded his shirt. Difficult to see, what without adjusting to the dark yet, but it appeared that he was stroking his chest. I crawled closer to him and observed.

I reached out and touched his hairy chest. He allowed this act of touching, never shrinking away. Suddenly, I felt his hand grip my wrist, and it was guided to a part of his shoulder. Holding my finger tightly, he brought it up slowly, than down. I knew now what was happening. That scar by his shoulder blade, the only patch of flesh where the hair did not invade. It was rough, stiff and jagged, but fairly long. Than, Garrick released.

“I hard what you and he sud ‘bout me.”

“And?”

“I like him too.”

“Doctor Warren is a good man,” I said, feeling the emptiness consume me again.

“Papa stubbed me, here. Drugged the knife down.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“Tried to kill me. Missed the heart.”

“And that is how you got that scar?”

“Yus.” There was a pause. “I trust you too,” Garrick said.

“We go to battle in two days.”

“Teach me?” He pointed to the cover.

“To read?”

Garrick nodded.

I sighed. “I will try but it will be difficult in two days.”

He threw the Bible at me in disgust.

“I never said, ‘No,’ Garrick. I will do my absolute best though.”

“Th- Thunk- I-”

“Sound it out. Slowly. Thanks. Th. Anks.”

“Th!”

“Good. Now say, ‘Anks.”

“Anks.”

“Now say the two together.”

“Tha-anks. Tha… Anks. Thanks.”

“Quick learner,” I complimented Garrick, and I genuinely meant it.

“Thanks.”

I laughed, happy to feel some joy once more. I yawned. “We will talk some more tomorrow. Time for bed.”

“Sum?”

I rolled over to face him again. “Sam, if you like. Sa. Am.”

“Sa. Am?”

“What is on your mind, Garrick?” I yawned deeply.



The memories collided and dispersed in disjointed directions. Garrick closed his eyes, and released a low moan.




[i]Running madly to his broken body. Screaming. Garrick and a few others holding me back. I wretched forward, arm outstretched, shouting, cursing, raving…

I elbowed one man in the ribs. He fell to the ground. I tried sprinting to the body but Garrick intervened by stepping in front, and seized my throat. I gagged slightly but ducked under Garrick’s armpit and attempted to elbow him as well. Did not work. He saw the move and slapped my wrist down. In doing so, he shoved me hard and I fell heavily on the battlefield.

“Ow,” was all I said.

“Them. They keel you,” Garrick shouted. Then as soon as he finished his sentence, another cannon went off, and the world all around us vibrated, the air too.

“I killed one! I will kill them all!” Then I jumped to my feet. The adrenaline was most certainty flowing through every muscle and vein.

“Sum. Too many.”

“No! I want- He, oh, get out of my way!” I snarled at Garrick.

Then, it felt as if my stomach was punched inside-out. I fell once more. My eyes fluttered a bit, and shortly, unconscious.



~~~~



“I had to suv- save him.”



~~~~



“Teach me more?” Garrick asked softly.

“Maybe later,” I sniffed. I rolled over on my back in the tent, studying the canvas unhappily.



~~~~



I awoke, and groaned, but my last clear thought lingered, and I blurted, “Where is he?”

“Dead,” Garrick answered.

“Dead? But?”

“Dead,” he said.

I blinked. My breathe was caught in my throat.

“Sleep.”

I nodded.

“Sleep.”

I lied down on my left side, wide-eyed, thinking carefully.



~~~~



In the tent, Garrick had asked if I would teach him more on literature, how to read, to be more precise, but I instead continued staring blankly at canvas.




~~~~




The battle on Breed’s Hill concluded. I survived, but incredibly sore. My bare feet were lacerated- sliced and a few toes were likely bruised. My entire body commanded to rest and the wounds hollered for relief. I ignored their pleas. I watched every step of our men finally able to retrieve his body now that the redcoats moved on. My kneecaps buckled a little. I reached for my canteen and drank deeply from it. Wiping sweat off my forehead and everywhere else on my face, the body was being carried in the direction of our camp. I wanted to run, and see his face, but like a coward, I stayed where I was.

“Is this what you felt when your wife-” I stopped, and just continued watching Doctor Warren’s body.

“Say it,” Garrick commanded.

I shook my head.

“Say it,” he said louder.

“Is this what you felt when your wife died?” I blurted, barely able to control
the speed in which the words popped out of my mouth.

He looked yonder, I suspect at Doctor… I sniffed, fiddling with my nose.




_____



“Get out!” Garrick roared, hitting his left ear, palm flat. The next few memories did not wish to comply with their master. He could have very well fled this Christmas evening in the cemetery, but no, Garrick stood erect. Firm. “Go, please,” he whimpered.



~~~~~



The hanging was to commence. There was no escaping.



~~~~~



“Please,” and then Garrick dropped onto his right knee.



~~~~~




He was under a thick branch. A redcoat slipped the noose over his neck and pulled the knot taut. The prisoner gagged a little. His Adam’s Apple stung now. Standing on top of a wood box, the first thought, seconds before his execution: “Father was correct.” He wiggled his bare feet. There were three toes missing on the prisoner’s left foot.

An Officer gave a nod. The soldier kicked the box from underneath. The noose did not break the neck as was the purpose of the Stretch Neck. Instead, the prisoner withered. His feet were flailing wildly. Reaching for the rope, he tried to pull himself up to release the tension. Energy declined swiftly. The man departed his life ever slowly.




~~~~~



Both palms concealed Garrick’s features but never the noise in a place where silence is all but the spirits resting eternally. He wept. Tears dribbled across Garrick’s cheeks. He made no attempt to cry silently but made as much of a ruckus as he wanted.

“I wish I was there,” he mumbled. Removing this hands from his face, Garrick held his balance by planting his right fist in the snow and looked at his wife’s headstone, watching the letters blur. “I’d save…” Snot, clumps of it, fell to the ground. It hurt, knowing full well there wasn’t any heroic actions to be done. How could he? Garrick was in camp, asleep, when his dear friend decided sneaking into the enemy lines to steal shoes under the moon was the optimal choice, how could he possibly foresee the punishment?

He learned of the death through word-of-mouth a day later. Awaking a few hours before dawn, he had planned to chop wood and begin the morning fire for breakfast but his friend went amiss. Garrick remembered shrugging his shoulders, thinking nothing of the situation and crawled out of the tent. His friend occasionally went on walks alone in the Morn’ and returned to scrounge up what was left to eat.

He sniffed, trying to remember happier things.




_____


“First the A, and now the B… Good, good. And the C… Yes, nicely done. Have you done this before?” I asked, glancing at Garrick.

He shrugged.

I tilted my head questionably.

“Yus,” he answered.

“Y-ES,” I corrected him.

“Y-US.”

I smiled. “We will work on your pronunciation later.” I pulled the letter from under my thigh, glanced at him briefly, than to the scrawled writing. One day more ‘til we assemble upon the battlefield, near Bunker. I beckoned to Garrick to come closer. Without hesitation, he crawled to and sat on my right side. He sat up a bit, and stretched his shoulders. “I know you cannot read this much yet, so I shall read it to you, line-by-line. Follow my finger. This will help train your mind too, by recognizing the words. Ready?”

“Ye, ya, uh… Yus.”

“No worries Garrick. It is not your fault.”

“No?”

“If no one taught you, the fault is not yours.”

“But I was.”

“So you have mentioned. Watch my finger. We will start from the beginning:

Dear Mum and Father,

15th, June, 1775


My Regiment marches the day after of this day. Doctor Warren is with us as well. I cannot express- It is decent enough to have one old mate I can call upon for conversation or council. As such, if Sam sends word at all, I would be much obliged to know what the ol’ scoundrel has been up too in Philadelphia.

Encamped in this spot for ten days. Very little drilling. Most of the men seem more content lying around and drinking themselves asleep. I would like to report, I seem to have another mate. He is with me now. His name is Mister Garrick Soutwick. Remember how burly Paul [Revere] was? Not to say he is not still, but Garrick puts Paul’s physique to absolute shame! Garrick is a large, sturdy fellow. His muscles certainly has impressed this soldier, no doubt.

It pains me to say, I have to close- running low on ink. I hope this letter will offer some comfort of my safety.



Your Most Dear Son,
Pvt. Samuel Garrison

…”

I tucked the letter in its proper place, under my knee. My vision cast towards the flattened areas of grass- areas where Garrick and I slept. Death comes to us all. That is where my thoughts dwelled after reading the page to him. If I am killed in combat, my father, Mum, Sam and Paul; they shall never know or see- what would my sacrifice be for? Patriotism? Freedom of tyranny? I shook my head, and groaned. Out of the corner of my right eye, I watched Garrick move more in front of me now. There was a time in my life where I, myself, took part in stirring the minds, causing chaos in Boston’s streets if it meant the people would align their loyalties with the Sons of Liberty- to our beliefs. Ardent Patriot I was then, a convict concealed, hiding their crime at present. Only one in the ranks knows of the truth, and he has not, to my knowledge, as I am breathing, betrayed and told my secret. If the truth should surface, death certainly. The crime for murder is not to be treated lightly of course, but how one interprets justice, an Officer would judge precisely how I go about-

“Bah…,” I grumbled. “You do not speak much, do you?”

Garrick snorted and raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me one thing that has brought you such unhappiness, a grief that cannot be
spoken of.” If I am to dwell on elements of the past, regrets that cannot be undone, he shall suffer right along with me, by God!

He pushed me hard in the shoulder. Upon instinct, I lashed out, and hit Garrick’s nose, full force, right palm flat. The pain was minimal; the way Father revealed as he was training a foolish adolescent- a blood-thirty child who with all his might, willed desperately in his future to become a soldier and fight in adventures. Alas, I won my desire by slaying a redcoat. Father taught me well, as brief as his teachings were for defense. I immediately capitalized and practiced stealth. I learned bare feet allowed me to creep and slither among the streets and forest quietly. Breathing through my nose, further allowed to sneak and tip-toe amongst the people. I learned knife-throwing in close quarters, and, developed the over-powering sense of duty when family becomes in danger, because of Father. My reaction, slaying, was far too rash. Idiotic.

The whole time while thinking, I intently followed his every movement. I fully anticipated retaliation, for Garrick’s nose did not look too well. A few tears trickled across his cheeks, no doubt from pain.

“I hat’ you!” he roared.

“I simply was defending myself,” I responded calmly. “You attacked me, by shoving. May I remind you the amount of instances you have attacked me, and yet, I did nothing? I can fight too, Garrick.”

“I knaw it!”

“Your blood is staining our bed.”

“You hat’ me,” he said, and I immediately, for some unknown reason, felt sympathetic. Perhaps it was the damage to his nose, or just, quiet possibly the pathetic whimper escaping his red lips, caused a certain awareness. He curled into a ball of sorts.

“Do as you want,” I said, waving him off, losing interest.

“My ta, ta-unge-”

“Sound the word out-” I interrupted.

“My tar-ung-”

“Speak up-” I interrupted again.

“My ton-ung,” he said louder.

“Hmm?”

“…I huv tar-ruble talking.”

“Yes, the slits are rather odd.”

He shot his head up, whirled around and gawked for a few seconds before speaking. “It, dun’t bother you?”

“Why should a deformed tongue do so?”

“They run. Dun’t like it or how I look.”

“Well, you are indeed no prize of beauty,” I smirked, “and typically smell ghastly but I suppose I do not deliver the aroma of roses either.”

“No, you dun’t,” he shook his head in approval.

I jerked my left foot, and only two toes wiggled. The others are nonexistent.

“Well, my dear fellow, you are not alone with deformities.”

“How?”

“Ah! So you know the definition of ‘deformities?’”

“Yes?”

“Huzzah! And you said, ‘Yes,’ not ‘Yus,’”

“I-”

“Stop,” I halted. “Do you see my left foot?”

Garrick leaned forward. “Ya-Es.”

I smirked. (At least he was learning). “How many toes do you see?”

“Three are not thar‘,”

“Exactly. Doctor Warren amputated the digits. The frost claimed them.”

He shrugged.

“You lack faith in the human heart, and most rightfully so. I know enough about you, at least as much as you have let me in, to conclude your life has been ridged, harsh.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. That is the second time your pronounced the word correctly. Is that a- oh my, Garrick Soutwick is actually smiling!”

“Shut it.”

“And blushing!”

“I-”

I laughed, relieved my dark thoughts earlier, began to drain.

“Why luff?”

“Laughter is God’s medicine for sorrow,” I retorted and then grinned afterwards.

“’Ard for me to say this.”

“Go on,” I said, and dropped the expression, honing in on the message.

He inhaled and exhaled. “My wuf, Sum, told me I shud look fur the good in them. If I found one kund sull, I shud love them. She told me trust is not to be bott-tard or left behun… Behun… How do I say it?”

“I am not entirely positive I understand all your pronunciations. Perhaps an example?”

He sighed unhappily instead. “Trust is importint.”

“Im-Por, like pouring a glass of water, and, Tent, where we are now. Sound it out slowly.”

“Important.”

“My, that was quick.”

“Sum…”

“Hmm?”

“I-”

“Out with it.”

“…love you.”

My jaw dropped here, likely until next Tuesday.

“Samuel?” Rapping on the outside of canvas. “Samuel?”

“Come in,” I shouted over my shoulder.

The knots were untied and he crawled in. “Do you wish to have them retied?”

“No, it is fine. What are you doing, Joseph?”

“Why, sleeping with you tonight, and Mister Soutwick. The snoring is dreadful over there. It is a wonder - Well, I will snooze in between you too. Any blankets around?”

“The grass.”

Doctor Warren crinkled his nose in disapproval.

“At least you and I have a tent,” I huffed.

“True enough. What is the topic of discussion this evening?”

“Ask Garrick.” I crawled outdoors, still taken aback by having a man, a stranger for the most part, love me. “I may return.”

“Fair enough, Samuel. Good night.”

I did not answer and exited.


_____



“So, Mister Soutwick, how are you on this glorious evening?”

“Garrick,” he corrected.

“Quite. Apologies, sir,” I said. I rolled over on my side in hopes to engage in decent conversation with Samuel’s friend. He is content in not wearing shirts, and even with the soft glow of the campfires, there is a most ghastly scar by his shoulder. Poor fellow. With an incision as deep as I would presume it to be, the bleeding, likely intense as well as the sheer discomfort. Nevertheless, with my line of profession, I witnessed worse, especially during the wee hours of the Bloody Massacre the following morning.

The man, Garrick, changed his position and preferred sitting erect. Unfortunately, the motion allowed a most melancholy view of the many, many jagged lines strewn in an abundance of angles, much similar to the cobwebs of a spider. I can foresee the reasoning for Samuel to befriend him. This fellow has suffered some catastrophe early on in his years.

“I like Sam.”

“As I do. I cannot understand how he is able to function every single day.”

“I told him, I love him.”

“So that is why he ran off abruptly,” I grinned. “Tell me Garrick, what is your reason for enlistment?”

“Revenge,” he deadpanned.

“Oh?” I scooted a few inches closer to his body, wanting to study his face for any noticeable signs of deception. I glanced at the terrain, looking for anything to defend myself. Though, I highly doubt Garrick was sent into our camp as a spy after a near week and a half, but trust is not to be taken lightly as of now. My body tensed. Surely, my poor shoulders ached by the strain. Ready to strike if need be.

Garrick nodded.

I relaxed a little, taking note how the corners of his lips sagged. “Would you be able to further elaborate? Please?”

“My wuf - wife - was murdered.”

“My word! My goodness, who would dare?”

“Soldier.”

“Was he dressed in red clad?” I breathed.

“Clad?”

“Redcoat.”

Garrick nodded. “Ya - uh, yes.

I thought over Garrick’s revelation for a moment before asking the one question dripping off my tongue. “Has Samuel mentioned the terms of his enlistment?”

“No.”

“I see,” I nodded. “If I may be so forward, I should think it would be nice to tell him the reason of your enlistment, Garrick. If you are as fond of him as you say.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I asked in some confusion. “We do not keep things from each other if such a thing is causing grief or a grim atmosphere.”

“Why?” Garrick asked once more.

“Because. It is just not done.”