Three days in and everything hurt. I couldn't move. Some of the men were heavy sleepers and outside forces were required to part them from their cots in the morning. I was a different case, entirely. The painful startle of having chilled water poured from a bucket and strewn across my body should have been enough to remove me. But this ruthless tactic was intended for sleeping men and I hadn't slept a wink since arriving. I remained flat on my back as five bucket's worth of dampness continued to seep into my bedclothes and sheets. If that wasn't uncomfortable enough, the slime of horse spit collected in thick, hideous layers on top of the fibers. The water's origin was from an outside trough and let me assure you, it was disgusting. But compared to everything else that occurred in the barracks, waking up covered with what was once in a horse's mouth was incredibly tame.

"Kill me." I begged in all seriousness to my bunkmate, Charlie Gibbons. "I want to die."

The chore of polishing his buttons was more important to Charlie than my plea. As the shiny boots on his feet swung side to side over the edge of the bunk, the thought of tugging violently at his leg and stealing his attention away crossed my mind. But I should remind you- I couldn't move. Occasional warnings about tardiness echoed through the stale-smelling wooden structure that I now called home. It wasn't so much that the men were looking out for my interests and was instead prompted by the growing concern that they would have to take the heat for not getting me out of bed on time.

I called for Charlie again. "If you aren't going to do it, I will. Just toss me a pistol and… out, out brief candle!" Again, any trace remorse for my impending "suicide" was eclipsed by a glistening brass button. Even my quick stab at Shakespeare, whose work Charlie was notably fond of, went unnoticed.

It had been foolish to think that living with others might be like having a family again. There was kinship between the men and yet, everyone was clearly looking out for their own interests- despite Banastre's half-witted testament to unity. The deeply strained muscles in my back, calves and forearms pulsated like tiny drums of pain. Each overwhelming beat took me further away from any desire to sit upright and gain back some control of myself and closer to crying out for help. It would have been easier to go through this on my property in New Jersey. At the very least, the isolated location of my home would serve as a valid excuse for my cries going unanswered.

I had never lived in a place so crowded and yet, I had never felt so alone. It wasn't the fact that I had marched over rough and cobbled alleyways until my feet looked like raw pieces of meat, it wasn't the strain in my arms from learning how to properly carry, load and shoot heavy firearms nor was it the fatigue from going days without giving my mind a moment's rest that caused a familiar scorching strangulation in my airways. It was my loneliness that was about to push me over the edge. This could only mean one thing- I was about to cry in front of everyone!

A sob, as faint and quiet as a droplet in a misty sheet of rain, passed through my lips. I could lay there all day and complain about my aches and pains at the top of my lungs and render not a single reaction from those around me. But the sight of my tears was noticed immediately and treated like a toxin. I could see Banastre craning his neck from several bunks over and expected that he would tease me, but he didn't. He hurdled towards me, threw his hands on my shoulders and proceeded to give the other boys a show and myself, a terrible first demonstration of his strength.

It wasn't until the first time that I rode into battle with Banastre that I realized how exemplary of a soldier he was. Nor was it until he dragged me, soaking long johns and all, from the barracks, down the dusty pathway and headfirst into the ice-laden trough by the stables that I understood his strength and ruthlessness. He was much smaller than me and everyone flocked in to fully enjoy the spectacle. True, humiliation was becoming a trademark of mine, but it was not my first response as my back hit the bottom of the deep, stone vessel. I had been granted my wish, that self-fulfilling prophecy and for a good minute and a half, I remained fully submerged. The water settled and the thin assembly of ice that I had fractured when I fell through clustered together and blocked out the light. The space, the silence, the sloping sides of the trough that cradled me like a coffin granted me the solemn serenity that I had craved- but was not yet ready to experience.

Most of the pain had been numbed by the cold waters. All other aches were bone-deep. They begged me to ignore my primitive resistance to drowning. But a sound- or rather, a memory of a sound took precedence over that internalized battle. The soft, agonizing string of notes that boisterous little Sylvia had written and played for me on her violin sounded identical to drowning. I thought of her alone in her dark estate, hidden away on a shelf by her father in the same protective way as she had concealed her love for song. How might she or her music change if she learned that her only friend in all the world had abandoned her to be a soldier only to drown in an unwinterized trough? More tragically, how could I allow this to come to pass when I wanted nothing more than to free her from those chains and provide for her a happy home where her talent would be celebrated and endorsed? With this thought in mind, I called upon every ounce of strength that I still had within me, felt the harrowing pain and exhaustion fragment and fall away like pressurized ice and rose to the surface a new man.

None of the others had any interest in my miraculous recovery. For all they cared, I would have stayed at the bottom until the Spring or until one of them was called to investigate why the horses were refusing their water. Even Banastre had vanished before he was able to witness my little "walk of shame", but he did get a fair laugh when I stepped back inside, a damp and shivering mess, and thus prepared myself for the day without a word.

"Morton!" Charlie hissed from the top bunk as I plowed through my trunk for my dry, warm uniform. "What the hell are you doing?"

I groaned and retreated into a private corner to change. My coat had arrived from New Jersey only yesterday and it would be incredibly refreshing to finally report in the morning in the proper attire instead of getting all kinds of hell from my officers and having to explain to them why I was so underdressed.

"What does it look like I'm doing?!" I very nearly whispered, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. I considered telling him for the umpteenth time that 'Morton' was not my name, but my rashness back at the Ballard Estate with Banastre humbled me. Who knows? What if Charlie was trying to warn me that I was neglecting the dress code? I'd seen men drilled for so much as a buckle that was slightly askew. Instead of offering help, Charlie snidely pointed out that I was sopping wet before retuning to his buttons. "Thank you for your astute observation, Gibbons. I suppose that is a bridge that I shall have to cross with General Howe when he arrives."

Banastre must have been listening from the outside because he popped his brown, curly head into the space moments later. He leaned his back against the doorframe in a manner so informal, nobody would have suspected what he was about to say. "General Howe has business in Boston today, Gentlemen. Which means that not only I will be performing your inspection," everyone in the long row of bunks stuck their heads around the corner to listen. Their sluggishness must have irritated Banastre because he abandoned his thought, launched himself from the doorway and commanded their attention by reiterating the word, "Inspection," with a frightening shout.

All assembled and he worked forward from the back of the room. Usually, General Howe started at the drafty bunks near the entryway where Charlie and I were situated. Was Banastre was being merciful by waiting to address me last? Doubtful. Still, I listened to his commentary and tried to correct my appearance accordingly.

"It is to my understanding that you men are being granted a shining opportunity," said Banastre as he nonchalantly passed from one soldier to the other. "But every silver lining has a cloud, don't you think?" Charlie, the one fellow in the bunch who was truly a literary man let out a quick chuckle. Banastre's sternness melted away and he gave a quick bow. Perhaps I could use his lust for praise to my advantage. That was the only thought on my mind. But as he continued everyone, myself included, grew concerned with what was being said. "As it stands right now, you are not ready for combat. You are piss poor shots and can't follow orders to save your lives. Thankfully, you will be under my nurturing watch over the coming week. I put in a good word for you with General Howe and he has generously agreed to grant you next weekend to get your affairs in order before you are marched East and into hostile territory." His footsteps grew louder and before I knew it, I saw the tips of his tiny fingers as he waved them in my face. "Yoohoo! Morton! This involves you, too! Actually," he took several steps backwards and scanned me over, "I'd like to use our dear friend Morris Morton as an example. Instead of polishing his buttons for inspection this morning, he took a nap and had a swim! Now, he is going to miss preparatory training that would otherwise save his miserable life because he has been ordered to polish floorboards instead! Do you know the circumference of a button, Morton?"

I might have found my strength earlier, but my voice was still missing. "No, Sir." I managed to mumble.

Banastre assumed his usual position on the tips of his toes, flung his skinny arm around my shoulder and spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to someone who was either very young or very old, "Well… to begin… a button… is smaller than a floorboard!" As the other boys feigned the laughter that Banastre so clearly craved, he clapped his hands like a joyous child. "Now you know for next time!" He beamed, wiping several happy tears that had fallen from his large, brown eyes.

I drew in a deep breath of air and endured the overflow of instructions that he gave me on how to undergo my new task. It was a fairly straightforward process that involved the complete removal of every trunk and every bed from the barracks. At least, in Banastre's rendition. Fortunately for me, a passing officer stopped me halfway through the evacuation of these items and ensured me that I need only polish the floors. My arms and back didn't thank me. Still, this task gave me time to come up with what I might tell Sylvia in my first letter to her. The floorboards beneath my fingers brought back the memory of those few, precious moments that we had shared in her home's kitchen. By sundown I had written the perfect letter for her in my mind and was eager to put it to paper, but not before paying a quick visit to the music shop.

Although my humble ration of a first earning was intended for food, I had set some money aside for the rosin and strings. I even purchased extras in advance, just in case finding a music shop during my first march to battle proved fruitless. The owner was no draper and therefore, was not likely to know who Sylvia Ballard was. My desire to speak with her again would not be fulfilled for a while, but perhaps talking directly with someone who knew her enough to sneak the tools of her craft in her dress and hat boxes since childhood would give me a fraction of the comfort that I was longing for. As I was making for the door, I felt inspired to ask the old man who knew so much about the maintenance and anatomy of the violin, if he was familiar with any drapers who also sold such items.

"You shouldn't ask a shopkeep to direct you to their competition, young man," he replied, restocking the selection of strings with his veiny, spiderlike fingers. I was about to give up and head out into the street when he cleared his throat, "Lars closes shop earlier than I do. But his cousin is a less-fortunate chap. A vendor. He sells unpopular music beneath the Seventh Street Bridge. He will be able provide you with whatever answers you seek. My face lit up. This vendor, whoever he was, sounded almost exactly like the man who sold Sylvia's music!

I roamed around, counting down the street signs until I finally found a middle-aged, redheaded man in tattered clothes standing behind a cart. He appeared to be a salesman of newspapers, secondhand books and, as promised, a stack of music that was nearly untouched in comparison to the rest of his wares.

"I am in search of a composition!" I boldly stated once I caught sight of the man's slender face. As I neared him, I noticed that he had unusual eyes, one brown and one blue with thick cataracts over each pupil. Though he followed the sound of my voice, they never seemed to align with my own.

"A composition, you say?" He bobbed his head and grinned, dragging his hands across the "countertop" of his cart and towards the fat pile of parchment. "You'll need to be more specific. I have over 500 different titles in stock." At the very least, the blind man was unable to see the disappointment in my face. But he seemed to sense it. "Local composer?"

My eyes dropped to the gloves on his trembling hands, yet another image that inadvertently reminded me of her. "No, Sir," said I, "an anonymous composer of New Jersey."

He grinned sourly, exposing the blackness of his teeth. "You don't mean… The Sylph? The Airy Spirit? We have been out of its music for weeks! If it were to drop a new title tomorrow morning and you slept beside my cart all night, you'd still have to scramble to receive a copy!"

Though I truly was disappointed to hear this, my heart swelled with pride. What few miraculous measures of music that she had performed for me were worthy of being played before all the angels in heaven. Still, to know that I was courting this mysterious Sylph, this Airy Spirit who was actively touching the lives and hearts of so many people, elevated me high above the petty drama that I was going through with Banastre. "Thank you, anyway, kind sir," I said with a smile that I knew the man would not receive.

He held his forefinger in the air, begging me to remain still for just a minute longer. His fluffy red head ducked behind the counter and he emerged not a second later with an elderly fiddle that could have been the sibling of the one Sylvia kept stowed beneath the ground. He produced a bow next and as he placed it upon the strings, the same mournful melody that she had shared with me filled the vacant alleyway. The song started with a simple and sweet combination of sounds, but gradually packed on layers of complexity. Within each phrase, I heard the recognizable dips and dives of an aching human heart. I returned that night, prepared to share my fears with her and confident that she would understand the peril that my soul was in. So, I wrote:

Dearest Sylvia,

The written word seats itself more elegantly on my tongue than the noise of speech. Yet, even now with miles of land between us, I find myself struggling with how to arrange these words for you. After only one week of training, I have been strategically placed as a pawn amongst pawns. A brick in a large and sacrificial wall. In my fantasies, I would write home to you, boasting of my courage. Instead, I am admitting to loneliness and fear.

I am to return to New Jersey next weekend. My visit will be brief and followed immediately by my first encounter with combat. You are not required to see me. You are not required to do anything. To use your words exactly, Sylvia, you owe me nothing. It would be easier to stay here in New York and await whatever terrors are about to unfold. But leaving for battle with the knowledge that I was honest with you and allowed you to see the contents of my soul would very nearly be the equivalent of a long and happy life.

Enclosed you will find your rosin and strings. I spoke with your vendor about our situation and he has agreed to provide you with anything that you might need if worse comes to worse. Should this letter be our final contact, please know that it is my fondest hope for you to never abandon your music. Courage is a complex idea. While I cling to silence and secrecy, you lay your soul bare for the world to see. You take pain and make it beautiful. While even the bravest of warriors are inherently limited to taking their pain and inflicting it on others.

I will call on you next Saturday. Until then, I will continue to marvel at your courage and adore you from afar as I always have and always will.

Yours,

Boris Bordon