I signed the letter home that I had just finished composing, and tucked my quill and ink back in between my clothing in my trunk. I clicked shut the gilded buckles and put the trunk back into the pack on my father's horse. It had been three months since we received the letter informing us of his passing. Three months in which I had finally finished the journey to New York City. I sat back onto the wooden bench that was still damp from last night's rain. I looked happily around the bustling city. There were likely as many people walking past my seat as I had met throughout my sheltered childhood on our farm.

I pulled out my journal and began to sketch the park that I was seated in the center of. I was in the shade of an enormous Weeping Willow tree, and light filtered softly through the branches, casting a soft glow on the morning dew. I did my very best to capture it in a drawing, but I could never have captured the feeling of excitement that coursed through my veins, nor the beauty of the people's passion showing through their faces as they passed. I could tell simply from their expressions that many of them were there for the same reason as I: to join the revolution. Their expressions were some that I recognized clearly from seeing them on my own face so many times throughout the past three months. Many of them were students, but not all. There were people ranging from under ten years of age up to those approaching their fifties.

One small trio of girls caught my eye. They were dressed in lavish gowns and had just exited their horse drawn carriage and were holding their dresses inches above the ground as they walked through the streets, taking in all the sights of the city. The first of the girls' eyes sparked with the same excitement as mine, and she was walking quickly around and pulling the other two behind her. The second looked generally excited to be in the city, where everything was happening, but she didn't appear to have a similar passion. She looked to be a bit younger than her the first, who I guessed was her sister, and about my age. My eyes traveled to the third and final girl, and I nearly laughed. Her attitude likely could not have contrasted more with her sisters'. She looked to be maybe two or three years younger than me, and she wore a worried pout. She seemed uncomfortable with the idea of being downtown. I shook my head at the trio and glanced back down to finish my sketch. I wrapped the leather cord attached to the cover around the book, binding it shut. I put the journal away with all of my other belongings and slid back into the saddle of my father's horse.

I led him back to the street and broke into a steady trot as I came closer to the training ground of General Washington's army. It took me at least an hour of riding before I reached the expanse of land on the edge of the island, or maybe it only felt that way because of the anticipation that filled every bit of my mind. I could hardly think straight, and the last bit of waiting before joining the army was weighing down my mind more than ever in the past three months. I stopped my horse in front of the first building down the path, assuming that it was where I would receive my barracks assignments. I opened the creaky door, which instantly gained the attention of the man sitting at the desk.

"How may I help you, miss?" he asked.

"I'm here to receive my barracks assignment," I said, trying not to grin with the excitement built up inside of me.

"You're here to receive your barracks assignment?" he repeated slowly, "Not to visit a husband or brother, maybe a father?"

"That's what I said," I said with a forced smile, slowly growing impatient.

"And you're going to fight in the war?" he asked.

"Yes, and if you don't give me my barracks assignment soon I'll have to take your papers and find it myself. And I don't think either of us would enjoy that much," I responded to his blatant sexism. He sighed.

"Name?" he asked.

"Meredith Legrand," I responded.

"You will be in barracks eight, it's the eighth down the road, and," he raised his eyebrows in surprise, his expression showing that he thought the next part must have been a mistake, "You're to see General Washington immediately."

After he finished speaking, I left immediately, not wanting to spend another moment listening to his comments. I rode down the road for a few more minutes until I reached my barracks. It was a long rectangle, I approximated that it was about the size for four, no, five beds with enough room to store supplies and walk between the beds.

I slid out of my saddle and opened the door to see that I was correct. Five beds. All but one had clothes strewn on then and around the floor near them along with a trunk and a few other odds and ends. One of the beds had whiskey along with several shot glasses. There were some shards of glass on the wood floor near it that I guessed were another glass that they had somehow shattered. I set my things down on the empty bed in the middle of the room and rode off to speak with the General.

He had a separate cabin near the camp entrance, so I rode back the way I came. I walked across his small porch and knocked on his door. No answer. He had asked for me to come, so I let myself into his unlocked cabin. I walked into a small hallway with just two rooms. The first I passed was his bedroom, which was empty, but I head raised voices coming from the next room. I slowly walked up, not sure if I should interrupt.

"But sir, if we attack from the north we will gain the element of surprise," the first man said in a deep American accent. I was still not accustomed to hearing people with American accents, even after my time traveling.

"But we will lose valuable time traveling," said the man whose voice I recognized as that of General Washington.

I walked up to the open doorway and knocked on the door frame, gaining both of their attention. General Washington's face broke into a slight smile.

"Meredith Legrand. Thank you for coming," he stood up to shake my hand and the man with him raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Je vous remercie for inviting me," I thanked him as well.

"As long as you're here, perhaps you can help us settle something," he said and I raised an eyebrow.

"The two of us," he gestured to the man who I did not yet know, "are debating on whether it would be smarter to attack the British forces from the north or the south. What do you think?"

I walked next to where he was standing and looked at the map he had spread out on the desk. I traced a few of the lines with my hands, deep in thought.

"Why not attack from the west?" I asked, "They're on the east coast of the island, north of us. They would be expecting an attack from the south. But, if we attacked from the north, we would not only lose valuable time but likely pass through the British camp, assuming that they are stationed mainly south of their camp. They would spot us and we would lose the element of surprise that we gained from coming north. But, attacking from the west would sustain the surprise in our attack without us having to lose as much time as if we attacked from the north."

They both stared at me for a moment, slightly astonished that I had come up with a solution so easily. Then they both looked back at the map.

"It could work," the man across the desk from us said.

"It most certainly could," General Washington said with a small smile.

"Leave us," he told the man who I still did not know.

"Have a seat," he told me. I pulled out the chair across his desk and sat, popping my knuckles in discomfort.

"I have known your family for a long time, Meredith," he began, "There have always been many brilliant minds throughout it. I can already tell that yours will be another to add to that list."

"Thank you monsieur," I replied, noticing how thick my accent seemed in comparison to his.

"Because of that, I would like you to assume the position of battle strategist for our army. We haven't had anyone good for a while," he offered and my eyes widened.

"Ce serait un honneur," I said, at first not realizing that I had reverted to French, and then translated, "It would be an honor."

"Thank you, you're free to go back to your barracks," he said, standing up with me and shaking my hand as I left.

I left and rode my father's horse to the stables near the center of camp and walked to my barracks. I opened the door, and somehow the room was still empty. The four men had likely gone drinking.

I sat cross-legged on my bed and pulled out my journal. I opened it to a page somewhere in the middle that contained my earlier sketch of New York City as well as a letter from my father. I pulled out the old paper and ran my hand across the words he had written to me. I didn't bother to read it; I'd memorized it. I just needed to see his writing. To have something that he had touched. I ran my hand across the edge of the weathered page.

I'll make you proud, Père.