Chapter 4

Dear Ben,

I pray that you are well. We all are here. Tis hard to believe that you have been in the army almost a year now, come October. You have been sorely missed.

Nothing really happens here. We of course hear about the war, but as of right now, it is quite a ways away from our everyday lives. Let's hope it stays that way. Around the house, my daily chores have increased considerably. I cook more, I clean more, I'm stuck with the laundry and mending more, I have to tend to the younger children, and I help at the store. Oh, and lessons are squeezed in there as well. And then I cook and clean and mend and tend some more. Don't get me wrong, Ben, I'm not complaining, I'm merely... very well, I'm complaining.

Business is still poor, and Father is seriously considering hiring another apprentice. Don't worry, though, I'll never let him replace you.

Please be careful, and by the time you receive this, it will probably be around your birthday, so... happy early birthday! Don't make it your last.

-Felicity

It was October now, nearing Ben's nineteenth birthday. One more year (if he made it that long) and he wouldn't be a teenager anymore. Back in the summer, Philadelphia, which had been in British control for a while, was taken out of their hands, much to many Patriots' relief. Slowly but surely, the tide of the war was turning. The civilians could most definitely see this. The actual soldiers, on the other hand, couldn't really tell; everyday was the same struggle for survival. Most days not even survival as much as something to do. Camp life was quite tedious, especially in the summer. The hot weather made them irritable, and because of this the silliest argument over a game of cards could easily become a full-blown fist fight. Actual battles were even worse. The weather was hot, and the fire of guns and smoke only made it that much hotter. And to top it all off, the mosquitoes were more ruthless than the British themselves. Luckily, the summer was over, and cooler weather started to set in. The months had crawled by, more battles and more deaths. Miraculously, Ben and his "comrades" were still alive. There were six of them now. A young boy that Matthew knew joined them. "This is Jacob," he said when the boy first came. "He's my great-aunt's second cousin's niece's nephew." Everyone cocked their head and stared at Matthew blankly. "He's a distant relative," he clarified.

"Ohhh," they all said. Jacob was only sixteen, and he was puny. He was short and skinny, pale with hair the color of milky tea. Ben guessed that he had been a sickly child. All of them realized quickly realized that they were going to have to look out for him, starting on his first day of basic training when the sergeant taught the new recruits how to fire a gun and after stating very clearly that they were not to actually shoot it, Jacob accidentally shot it. He didn't hurt anybody, thank goodness, but he was put on kitchen duty for about a month after that.

Jacob's first battle came a few months later, at the present month of October. Under the lead of George Rogers Clark (his name wasn't nearly as fun to say as Baron von Steuben), they were west of the Appalachian Mountains, not too terribly far north of the Ohio River, a remote area that Ben had never dreamed he would ever get to. He had never even dreamed that he would get west of Philadelphia, let alone the Ohio River. It was here that the worst fighting he had seen thus far occurred. The first battle wasn't too horrific, as far as battles go. At the very least, Ben had seen worse. For Jacob, on the other hand, it did not bode well. He had barely passed basic training anyway, and now he marched out of step. Things went from bad to worse. When the actual fighting started, and everyone slammed to the ground, he started crying out of sheer terror. "I th-thought I would make s-such a great s-soldier!" he blubbered.

"Well, so far so good," said Ben, his own heart pounding, though he had seen many of these already.

"No!" Jacob cried. "It's not!"

"Why not?" asked Ben, growing alarmed. "You're not wounded, are you?"

"No," said Jacob. "I wet myself!"

Had Ben not been in a life-or-death situation, he would have laughed until he wet himself. But this was not the time. "Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaimed. "Get up!"

"I can't!" Jacob protested. "Everyone will notice!"

"No one will notice, trust me," Ben snapped, wondering how on earth Jacob could be thinking about his dignity at a time like this. "Now get up and be a man!"

Jacob obeyed.

"And quit crying!" Ben added. "You're acting like a little girl!"

Contrary to what had happened earlier, Ben was not a tough person. He wasn't exactly soft-hearted, but he had always been a laid back, easy going type of person. Either he was growing up, or the war was changing him. Maybe it was both. That night, he lay on the mat in the tent, lost in his thoughts, with Luke a few feet away, snoring up a storm. For some reason, he had never felt so far away from home. Perhaps it was because this part of the colonies (if it could even be called that) was inhabited by only a few white men and the Indians, whom he had heard many stories about but had never actually seen. He knew that the ones in the area were allied with the British, so he supposed he would see one sooner or later. The October wind howled furiously outside, and Ben curled up more under the itchy wool blanket. His mind drifted to the Indians. He had never really given them a second thought back home in civilization, but way out here, the thought of them was unnerving. They could be anywhere, lurking in the darkness, waiting for just the right moment to let out a war shriek and scalp them all. Ben didn't know about anyone else, but he rather liked his scalp on his head, thank you very much. The thought of this gave him chills all over. In the distance, a lone wolf howled, making him jump. He remembered when he was a little boy and his father told him about when he ran into an Indian way back when he was a young man fighting in the Seven Year's War. As he had only been seven when his father told the story, Ben didn't remember all the details, but he remembered that it had been a pretty frightening incident, involving near death until his father finally was able to kill the Indian. Ben hoped this would never happen to him. He'd sooner run into a redcoat than a native. He rolled over on his other side. For really the first time since he enlisted, he started to feel homesick. Here he was in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization, potential danger lurking around every corner. And the danger he was most concerned about didn't speak the same language as he did. He heard a noise outside. His first thought was, "The Indians! Oh God, this is it!" Then he thought, "Or the British!" but then he realized that they would most likely be asleep as well. Curiosity got the better of him, and he oh so gently opened the tent flap. Just barely, though, just enough to see who was out there. He squinted, and in the darkness he could see that it was one of their men. He lit a lantern and silently crawled out of the tent. And there, sitting by the leftover embers of the now extinguished campfire, sat Matthew. Ben frowned. What was he doing up? He approached him softly. "Matthew?" he whispered. Matthew whirled around. "Oh, Ben," he sighed when he saw who it was who had startled him. "Tis only you." Ben sat on the log next to him. "What are you doing out here?" he asked. Matthew pushed a hand through his hair. "Can't sleep," he answered. "Been thinking about home too much."

"Me too," agreed Ben. "Especially out here, miles from anywhere." The boys were quiet for a while. Then he added, "I'll bet you've been thinking about Rebecca."

Matthew nodded.

"You miss her an awful lot?"

"Like crazy," Matthew replied. "It's been a year since I've seen her."

"You'll be able to see her when our enlistment is up next month," pointed out Ben.

"It can't come fast enough," said Matthew. "Will you be heading home?"

"Until New Years," Ben answered. "To Yorktown. My sister is getting married at Christmas, and I want to be there. Then I'll reenlist."

"I will too," said Matthew. "They need soldiers desperately. I intend to stick around until they surrender, or at least until I am wounded or killed."

"Me too," agreed Ben. "Let's just hope the latter doesn't happen." Another silence. Then Matthew said, "I've never felt so homesick before. Right now, all I want more than anything is my Becky."

"You really love her, don't you?" Ben asked softly. Matthew nodded. "Aye," was his quiet answer. Ben paused, then asked hesitantly, "What's it like to be in love, Matthew? Is it really as great as everyone makes it sound?" A smile lit up Matthew's face. "Tis even better," he said. "I swear, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world. When she hugs you, kisses you, even just looks at you... well, it's hard to explain. This joy, this happiness, it fills you up like no other, you know what I mean? It's so simple, yet so complicated. It's too beautiful for words." Ben smiled a little. "It sounds nice," he said.

"Tis the nicest feeling in the world," said Matthew. "Just you wait and see, Davidson. There's some special girl out there, waiting for you to lift her up on your white horse and carry her off into the sunset." Ben blushed a little. "We'll see," was all he said. They then heard thunder in the distance. "Well," said Matthew, standing up. "You know what that means."

"Get back in the tents before we get drenched," said Ben. The two headed back to their tents. "Goodnight, Matthew."

"Goodnight, Ben."

As Ben settled back in under the blanket, he thought about what Matthew had said about being in love. Was it really that wonderful? Matthew had made it sound like Heaven. Ben wondered if there really was some beautiful girl out there, just waiting for him to come. Well, for now, no one would ever fall in love with him looking like this. He himself hadn't really seen himself in months, which probably wasn't such a bad thing. He probably would be the ugliest man she (whoever she was) had ever seen. He sighed. Though it sounded vain and silly, he was tired of feeling ugly and dirty all the time. He was ready to feel clean and handsome again. Maybe that would come again someday with a beautiful girl to come with it. Maybe someday...

The next morning was dreary, and a slight drizzle fell down on them. The storm last night had drenched everything, including their firewood, which they needed if they wanted something besides hardtack for breakfast. Somehow, Ben found himself with the job of finding dry kindling. This meant venturing off into the nearby woods, and who knew what lurked back there? "Aw, you'll be fine," said John when he brought this up. "Just grab some dry wood and come back."

"What, are you afraid that the ghosts of dead Brits are going to get you?" teased Matthew. Ben frowned. "I'd rather run into the ghost of a Brit than an actual Brit himself," he said. "Besides, don't ghosts do most of their haunting at night, genius?" Matthew shrugged. "Don't know," he said. "Never thought about it."

"Just get the wood and come back," said Daniel. "Even Jacob could do it."

"What do you mean 'even'?" demanded Jacob. Ben raised an eyebrow. "You want to go get it?" he asked. Jacob's eyes grew wide. "Not a chance," he said quickly. "I'm not going back there." Ben sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he promised.

"Don't let the ghosts get you!" called Matthew. "I won't!" Ben called back. "I'll send them after you instead!"

He hadn't intended to go very far into the woods, but somehow he made his way deeper and deeper, not realizing how far from camp he was. He didn't think of it until he looked behind his shoulder. "Hm," he thought. "I must've gone farther than I thought. Oh well." He looked down at the kindling he was holding. That should be enough. He turned to head back, and he came face to face with an Indian. His heart jumped to his throat. An Indian, standing inches in front of him. He held his breath. It was a woman, a beautiful, tall woman with long black hair and dark eyes. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but was really only a few seconds. Ben's heart raced. What was she going to do? Was she going to hurt him? Was she going to speak? Her brown eyes were wide and curious. Slowly and shyly, she reached out and touched his face. Her touch was gentle and seemed frightened, and her face was full of fear. That's when he realized that she was just as frightened as he was. Finally, he spoke. "It's all right," he said in a low voice. "I'm not going to hurt you." She quickly pulled her hand away. "It's all right," he said again. "I won't hurt you if you won't hurt me." She cocked her head at him, as if trying to understand what this white man was saying to her. She then said something in a strange liquid language, bearing no resemblance to English or Spanish or French or probably even Chinese. However, the way she spoke was very gentle. She then pointed to the bundle of biscuits he had brought along (it never hurt to be prepared, and besides, he was always hungry). Her eyes met his, and, understanding what she meant, he quickly gave them to her. She said nothing, didn't even offer a smile of thanks. She devoured those hard, dry biscuits as if they were the best thing she had ever tasted. Ben frowned. He may have needed those! And now he had stupidly given them away. Then, as if reading his thoughts, the woman took out the string of beautifully hand-painted beads out of her thick dark hair and pressed them into his palm. He looked down at them. They were beautiful. They had many wonderful designs on them, and no two beads were alike. The colors alternated between a light blue and yellow. She spoke again, and Ben could tell that this was a gift for him in return for the food. He gently fingered them. While they were no significance to him, they would make a nice souvenir for Felicity. He looked at the woman and smiled. "Thank you," he said. The woman warmly smiled back and responded in her language. Then she was gone. Ben stood there a while. He had met an Indian. And lived to tell about it. The woman hasn't been savage, as most said that natives were. She had had a very kind, gentle way about her, one that had made him feel at ease. Perhaps the natives weren't necessarily a people to be feared. Perhaps deep down and aside from culture, they were just like white men.

Battles continued, the bloodiest ones Ben had seen yet. His nineteenth birthday passed with little recognition, just a few "happy birthday"s from his friends and some others. It was also on this day that he saw his first branding. Not his own, thank goodness; another soldier, one he had never really associated with, but who had always seemed like a nice sort of fellow. A few days before, he had run away from battle and was caught. Enough said. Everyone was forced to gather in a square around the post where the convicted was tied with his hands around the post. The poor boy seemed scared to death. His sentence was read: Charles Whitcomb, age seventeen, for running away during battle, was to be branded as a coward and dismissed from the army. "You'd think they were burning him at the stake, the way they're carrying on," Ben whispered to John. "He's getting his just punishment," John whispered back. "Now hush." A drumroll started as if poor Charles was to be executed, and his head was tied against the post so he wouldn't squirm and they wouldn't end up burning his eye or anything. The brander took the stake with the "C" on it out of the red-hot coals. Poor Charles was shaking, and his face was sweating. The brander brought the stake to the victim's cheek, and almost instantly there came the sickly-sweet odor of burning flesh. "Oh God!" cried poor Charles. "No, please! oh God!" Ben's stomach flipped, and he cringed. It wasn't as bad as seeing an execution, and it wasn't as bad as torture back in medieval times, but it still was sickening to watch. Jacob clung to his arm until he pried him off. The scene didn't last long, only a few seconds. Charles then fainted from the pain. "Let this serve as a warning to all of you,"said the captain forebodingly. "You are dismissed." All of the men departed, sobered by this horrific scene, another terrible aspect of daily life in the army.

That evening, Ben penned another letter to Felicity:

Dear Felicity,

We are all well here, as I hope you and your family are. The weather is growing colder, but for right now, that's a bit of a relief because battle in the heat of summer is almost worse than winter. I cannot tell you our whereabouts, in case this gets in the hands of the British, but I can tell you that it is the farthest from home I have ever been. Tis lonely out here, and I find myself homesick occasionally. This has been some of the worst fighting I've seen yet. Thankfully, I haven't lost any of my close friends yet, but it's always heartbreaking to see someone you were friendly with lose his leg or worse, his life.

On a happier note, my sister is to be married at Christmas! If you ask me, tis about time; she is twenty two! Our parents tried to set her up with many suitors, and evened threatened to arrange a marriage for her, but she said she was waiting for "just the right one". I suppose I can't say I blame her. Anyway, my enlistment will be up by then, so I will be able to go home for the wedding. Then I'll reenlist. I won't have time to come to Williamsburg, unfortunately, but just remember this Christmas that I am not far from you and safe and warm. I know you don't want me to reenlist, but I have to, Lissie. I intend to stick around as long as I can.

All of you are and remain in my prayers. Please keep us in yours; we need them more than anybody!

-Ben