Carrying Independence by Karen Chase

Author:Karen Chase
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Military/War Fiction, Historical Fiction, American History, American Revolution
Publisher: 224Pages via Indie Author Project
Published: 2019-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“SUSANNAH AND I HAVE been worried.” Arthur offered a chair at a desk in the corner, his broken tooth making his smile awkward, lopsided. “Where have you been?”

Nathaniel warmed at the mention of Susannah’s name, but his head spun over the events of the day.

“First, explain to me what I saw today.” Nathaniel said. “I walked through the army camp. Never did I imagine… How did things get so bad?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Arthur shrugged bony shoulders that looked as if they could tear his shirt seams wide open. Nathaniel felt gluttonous over his earlier longing for his breakfast remnants. He reached into his bag, and handed the pork and biscuit to his friend.

Arthur licked his lips, but immediately left the tent with it. Nathaniel watched from the flap as his friend divided it into equal bites for more than a dozen men. They’d devoured the minuscule portions before Arthur returned with only a small piece of the biscuit in his hand.

Inside, Arthur sank into a chair, admired his morsel a moment before placing it on his tongue. Nathaniel was wrestling with what to say, when Arthur choked on the floury crumb. Nathaniel pulled out a flask of whisky Blythe had given him.

“This is just for you.”

Arthur took a long drink and stared at the flask, as if waiting for the liquid to unlock memories he’d suppressed. Then the words poured out of him. A boat to New York. Incredibly seasick. Digging trenches. Marching.

“I never thought I would walk that much in my lifetime, let alone in a month.” Arthur stared at his feet, at the hole in the heel of his left boot. “And then we went to Brooklyn.”

As Arthur relayed the fateful news of their Berks County friends, Nathaniel felt the weight of all the losses. At all Arthur had endured. But while Nathaniel wiped at his own tears with the back of a muddied hand, Arthur remained dry-eyed. He stared at a nonexistent distant spot. His tone flat, almost sterile. Were it not for the Irish inflection and the hat on his desk—the cream-colored stitching now stained by blood and dirt—Nathaniel would have sworn a different man sat before him.

“Since then, the British know where we are weak. Somehow, they just know it.” Arthur cast a sideways glance at the officers in the tent. His lowered voice grew hard. “As for our supplies, the quartermaster Moylan… everyone distrusts him even when he’s sober. Our requests are sometimes less than half what they should be. And here, to men who are deprived like dogs, distrust is like typhoid. Compassion shifts. Most won’t admit it… we’re almost grateful when a body comes back from a battle; there is one less mouth to feed and sometime the clothes are better than our own. Then today, we lost Knowlton, a remarkable officer, skilled in intelligence. Knocked from his horse by a bloody sniper.”

Nathaniel swallowed thickly, now knowing the name of the man killed by the boy he had shot.

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