The Fighting Ground by Avi

Author:Avi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-11-29T16:00:00+00:00

April 4, 1778

* * *

12:30

While the Corporal and most of the other men began their preparations, the Frenchman sat near Jonathan. He had a bandage around his head that was stained with dark blood. Another man stood nearby and looked on.

“You feel poor, I think,” said the Frenchman. He spoke only a little above a whisper.

“Don’t take it so hard,” said the other man. “You did all right.”

“That Corporal,” continued the Frenchman, “he is one who believes in the struggle with all his heart. He believes, truly. I do not take an opposition to him.” He glanced up at the other man, who nodded his agreement. The Frenchman went on. “Yes, it is difficult. Hard, perhaps. Very much. But you must not take it badly to yourself, my young friend.”

“Happens all the time,” put in the other.

“Soldiers,” said the Frenchman, “they will get killed or they will do the killing. That is what happens.”

“He’s saying the truth,” said the man.

Jonathan nodded, but felt that he did not truly understand.

“No one’s going to blame you,” said the man. “Will they?” he said to the Frenchman.

The Frenchman shook his head no. Then he turned to the boy. “Et toi, mon beau,” he said. “Ça va?”

Startled, the boy looked up. His face cleared with unfolding relief. “Oh, monsieur,” he began, “mes parents . . .” His words came quickly, tumbling faster and faster, mixed increasingly with crying and great heaving sobs. Jonathan looked on, astonished.

“See?” said the man to Jonathan. “He talks plenty.”

The Frenchman listened to the boy intently, nodding, shaking his head, occasionally reaching out and touching the boy’s face, his hand, his arm. As the boy talked, the man who had been looking on yawned and turned away, but not before tapping Jonathan on the head and saying, “Don’t you worry none.” Then he was gone.

The boy continued to talk to the Frenchman. As he did so, he kept moving closer until when he was done, he had his head in the man’s lap. The Frenchman stroked his hair.

“Is that what happened?” asked Jonathan, his voice hushed. “Did the Corporal kill them?”

The Frenchman looked about before speaking.

“He and a few others,” he said, speaking quietly. “This ‘Committee.’ But he was in charge, as he is here. There was some . . . meeting. And, I believe, words. . . . You understand, an argument. . . . I don’t know. Perhaps that man who was just here . . .” He searched for him, but he was no longer in sight. “Well, I don’t know, then. . . .” He made an empty gesture with his free hand. “Well, his brother is—one hopes—safe, and somewhere.”

Jonathan slumped down, trying to piece it all together. Then, after a moment, he asked: “In the fighting on the hill, before, did any of our side get killed?”

“Well, yes, alas, one person,” said the Frenchman. “And another hurt badly on the shoulder. As for myself . . .” He put his fingers to his head. “I am almost not here.

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