'In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons'— Croesus
1781, Yorktown
Morning crept across the field, setting the night on fire. Every now and then, the groans of the fallen and damned rose up to break the silence. A coppery stench clung to the moist earth, mixing with the musty, sulfuric stench of black powder, sweat, pus, and horse shit. It was a grisly, gruesome scene that would remain firmly fixed in the minds of those who managed to escape the cold hands of that black-cloaked, scythe-wielding, pale horse riding horseman named Death.
Major Benjamin Tallmadge stood at the edge of the battlefield, surveying the aftermath with a heavy heart and an even heavier mind. In the distance, the white sails of the ships rose towards a sky stained the color of blood. Was what we paid for our freedom and independence worth it? he found himself wondering as a breeze stirred the hair clubbed at his nape.
Was the price they paid to secure their freedom and independence from British rule worth all the lives that were ultimately lost? Many of his fellow Patriots would say aye, it was. Securing victory over the British was worth all the sacrifices made. Half of Ben wanted to agree with them. He fought long and hard to see his country freed from the bondage placed upon it by the Crown. Freedom from tyranny was worth whatever price demanded.
However, another part of him, the one changed not only by the events of this war, but everything leading up to it believed they paid a price that was far higher than the actual cost of their freedom and independence. How is one supposed to assign a value to human life that makes death an acceptable form of payment? It wasn't a question he had an answer for. He doubted even General Washington could answer that question should he pose it to him. The personal losses suffered by so many were not ones that either time or freedom could ever erase. Abraham's father and brother, Caleb's uncle, his own brother, Nathan Hale, Nathaniel Sackett. They died for their cause. Their country. Their homes.
Their family.
Others, like Sarah Livingston, chose to die for their beliefs rather than someone else's.
Waves of sadness, exhaustion, and hunger rose up to assault him. With the battle now over, he could no longer ignore his own physical state. Sleep and food could wait for a bit longer, however. There was still one more task set him before he could worry about his own needs. He turned, about to make his way back to headquarters when a sound, much like the rustling of cloth, broke the silence that had again fallen over the battlefield. Ben turned, hand going to the hilt of his sword but froze when a woman emerged from the trees at the edge of the battlefield. Wrapped in a full-length cloak, she met his gaze, direct and bold, yet also warm and gentle.
She was an older woman, her face heavily lined but not unattractively so. She measured him with eyes a rich shade of brown. Ben found himself thinking of his mother, of her warm eyes and gentle smile. He imagined if he closed his eyes he would feel her brush the hair from his face and hear her as she assured him everything would be alright in her soft, lilting voice.
The woman turned and made her way along the edge of the field, her pace unfaltering, spine stiff.
Her simple linen gown, petticoat, and cloak said she was not the wife of an officer. A frown knit his brow as he tried to puzzle out who she was and why she was there. He was about to call out to her, to tell her that this was no place for a lady when she stopped next to a mound of dirt and began to speak.
"'And I looked, and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sate on him was Death, and hell followed with him.'"
It was Revelations, Benjamin realized with some surprise. Passage eight. A fitting choice given the numbers of lives claimed by Death on this field, he thought as he crossed the dewy ground to where the woman stood, head bowed, still reciting.
"'And power was given onto them, over the fourth part of the earth to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasties of the earth.'"
Ben did not wish to interrupt her while she recited from the Bible, but he worried her presence on the field would be misinterpreted by one of the men wandering about. Just because the war between them and the British ceased did not mean the hostility towards sympathizers had gone away. Healing the wounds inflicted by this war would take years. He heaved a weary sigh and straightened his jacket before calling out to her.
"Ma'am?"
"What is it, young man?"
"Might I ask what you're doing here?"
"I am merely here to pay my respects to those Death has taken from us." She half-turned towards him. "I shall not be long."
"Did you..." Ben had to pause and take a calming breath before continuing. "Did you lose someone in the battle then?"
"My son," she replied in a voice as soft as a midsummer rain. "And my husband."
Guilt settled like a lead ball in Ben's belly. He went to speak but found his tongue swollen and dry as sand. He wished for a pint of ale or a sip of water to moisten his parched throat, but there was none available at that moment. He finally worked up enough spit to dampen his mouth.
"What were their names?"
"Eli was my husband," she said as she crouched to set some wildflowers she had hidden beneath her cloak atop the mound. "And our boy was Elijah."
Ben faintly remembered a dark-haired boy named Elijah getting run through by the bayonet of a British soldier in the early parts of the battle. An older man had left his cover to race to the fallen boy's side, only to get caught by the same bayonet that felled the boy. That lead ball doubled in size.
"I'm sorry."
And he meant it. He was sorry. He was sorry that so many lives were given to secure their freedom and independence from the British.
"In war, young man, women bury their husbands," she said as she slowly rose to her feet. "And mourn their sons."
She then turned and slowly made her way from the field. Ben stood there a moment, staring at the flowers she placed upon the grave, his heart aching for the father and son buried beneath that dirt mound. And for the woman who has to live now without them. As dawn's early light turned the world all golden, Ben turned and made his way from the field.
A/N: Hello, all, and welcome! This piece was inspired by watching the series finale of Turn and reading a prompt on Pinterest that said Morning crept across the parking lot, setting the night on fire. I changed it a little and came up with this. Hopefully, you all enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
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