The Immortal American

What the hell was he doing here? I stole behind the Joneses house, let my rifle lean against the wall, and peeked around the corner. I couldn’t see the horse or the rider. Could I have imagined him?

  I couldn’t see much from my disadvantaged viewpoint, save for the approaching redcoats on the highway. I needed to get to higher ground, but I knew that of the hills behind the farm, specifically Punkatasset Hill, were littered with militia members. Damn, I had to chance it.

  I had grabbed my father’s wide brimmed hat as I’d left the house, and pulled it down low. Then clutching my rifle, I jogged through my freshly plowed field. It was a perfect day for planting, I realized.

  I rushed through the copse and quieted my step to listen for any militiaman that might be roaming through the woods. Or Regulars. I couldn’t sense any person near, so I decided to make a run for the other side of the Concord River. I blinked. That was all it took for me to remember the iron feel of his wide shoulders, how silky his midnight blue hair was, as Jacque had nestled with me, whispering sweet love poems in French. I jolted as I opened my eyes, recalling too well Jacque poisoning me.

  Ass! Lunatic ass.

  Gritting my teeth as I ran to the river to where I knew a fallen oak provided a bridge so I could cross the full river and be on the same side as my husband and his militia, a few rods from where they stood. And Jacque too. The gall of the man! As I crossed the tree bridge, the river murmured and sputtered. Impregnated by the spring showers and the gradual melting of snow, it was huge, brown, and alive. I didn’t blame the river for my sister’s death . . . sometimes. My sister was in more pain than she could explain, more pain than she could endure. I knew it and had wrestled with her agony, tried to force her to live for me. But all the while, I knew she hadn’t truly survived. She had told me herself of her own murder.

  I found a thick and wide weeping willow to hide under that provided me safeguard from most eyes, I hoped, as I scanned in front of me through the crowd of Provincial men for my husband and that damned Jacque. The willow’s budding leaves were like green flowers surrounding me. Those tiny green blossoms floated around, sometimes shyly tickling me, sometimes angrily whipping me if the wind picked up. I hung on to one small branch, like I would my sister’s hand, and watched my husband talk to my phantom, Jacque.

  Oh yes, he was there. I hadn’t imagined him.

  What was he doing here?

  Behind the rock and earthen wall that stood on the eastern side of the North Bridge, Jacque said something that made Mathew laugh so hard that he had to tilt his head back. The sun shone at that moment through the gray clouds and glistened off my husband’s blond hair, presenting him again to be angelic—Gabriel of the most high, the greatest of the sacred warriors. He laughed once more as Jacque made another statement, and I saw that Jacque held a tight small smile himself. They both were on horseback while the militia that surrounded them were on foot, muskets at the ready.

  Then I saw in my periphery the approaching Regulars. I jumped on a three-foot tall boulder and saw the red worm of men marching closer and closer to the Old North Bridge. I could clearly see the vibrant flare of golden feathers atop a red uniform, Captain Parsons.

  The odd thought suddenly occurred to me that I saw them all rather well. They were more than a hundred feet from me, but I saw them as if I had a spyglass. Strange. Can one’s vision improve with age? Perhaps it was because I was in a stressful situation, and I just thought I saw things more clearly.

  Further I could have sworn I heard Captain Parsons give orders to slow his troops. Over the distance and the loud river there was no possible way for me to hear that. But no matter.

  I jumped down from my perch and, while crouching, raced closer to my husband, looking for a vantage point to take aim at any man that might target Mathew. Was that the reason Jacque had shown up? My stomach dropped and hollowed. I fell to a knee, yet stared at Jacque. His back was to me, so I couldn’t read his face.

  I panicked and tried to stand, but floundered all the more, until I was on a hand too, crouched low, staring at the black back of the man I had thought I’d love so well. Another cursory glance at the Regulars let me know that they were now close to the front of my drive. Captain Parsons found the boys I’d left on the road and conferred for a moment, but then gave orders for some of his troops to collect the man that was still unconscious. Other injured red coated men seemed to come out of the very woodwork of barns or houses and were ushered close, safe. Then the captain’s gaze lay upon the dead on the highway. There were only a handful really, but one redcoat had been axed through his face. I had seen the brutalized dead man earlier when I’d instructed the boys to stay and wait for their officer to come for them. It was something I wanted to forget I had ever seen. Yet couldn’t stop envisioning the hollow space where a face should have been on a bloody head. The captain shook his head and spat in the opposite direction of the body.

  Then my husband gave a quiet order. In one flowing unit more than two hundred men stepped from the rock wall to let themselves be seen.

  Parsons’ breath hitched.

  The world quit spinning. Or God closed his eyes.

  The biting cold wind stopped. All men stood still, not even breathing as they stared at each other. I doubt the Regulars ever imagined that the militia could have mustered more than two hundred men to guard the bridge. I wondered if the Regulars thought all those men with muskets were just apparitions—two hundred ghosts.

  Then the oddest thing happened, something I couldn’t have even imagined, it was so utterly ridiculous. Elias Brown, a man who talked to himself and urinated publicly in the Concord Common, suddenly appeared and shambled ‘round the Regulars with a pot and sipping cup, asking if anyone wanted a drink of some questionable cider. Surprising me all the more, some Regular soldiers took out their billfolds and offered money for the brew. A few minutes later, Elias proceeded on to the militia, offering said cider to those men too.

  What offhand madness in the midst of the tense stare-off between militia and Regulars. Elias mayhap saw no sides, only men, who wanted a drink and to forget their death-defying worries. Perhaps Elias wasn’t as crazy as I thought. Or perhaps I was just as farcical, since some part of me understood, too, that ultimately there were no sides, just worries. But of those worries there was only one that mattered: Love.

  I had to keep my husband safe.

  Captain Parsons flicked his gaze sideways then back. Then I spotted Jacque’s head moving to look at me. From such a distance, he might think he could make out a frame of a human, but I could have sworn he shook his head and rubbed over his heart. Could he see me? I knew I blended well into my surroundings. Daganawida had taught me how to camouflage myself.

  But my eyes diverted back to Captain Parsons and his men. My husband gave another quiet order, and the militia moved to the side of the highway, making room for their hundred counterparts. Captain Parsons gave a curt nod, then with just a flick of his wrist his men moved eastward, carrying their wounded or helping the limping.

  One of the scarlet privates bellowed at the militiamen some kind of insult as he passed. The militia straightened their backs and squared their shoulders at the Regulars. A few more screams were issued from some other Regular privates. Then I saw Captain Parsons trod his horse closer to the Regulars that were yelling. He pointed a finger to Concord; the troops began to march quietly.

  I looked again at my husband and Jacque, but in that small gap of time Jacque had disappeared. Quietly gasping, I circled, looking for the man in black. He was nowhere to be seen.

  The militiamen that had been on the hill behind my house suddenly floated into view and caught up with their comrades on the east side of the North Bridge. The crowd was enormous. Colonel Barrett talked with the other officers. A decision was made.

  A militia captain talked to my husband and other lieutenants, the lieutenants barked something and the huge group of men started to follow the Regulars from a safe distance. Many militiamen were joggin
g through fields and began to vanish as they merged into the woods. If I were to guess these men were there for periphery support for the militia that followed the Regulars on the highway. Both Regulars and militiamen walked east toward Concord.

  My husband began to trot with Cherry toward the east as well, and I decided to follow him. Maybe Jacque had disappeared for good.

  Mathew drove Cherry off the highway and through a small plowed field then into the forest himself. I gave chase, knowing I could never keep the pace with Cherry, but still I would try.

  Surprising me all the more, I caught up with my husband in a matter of minutes. I had to run through the outer circle of the forest, so as to not be detected, but even with all the mud, the few bogs, fallen trees, or overgrown blueberry or juniper bushes I somehow ran faster and jumped farther than I ever had before.

  No, no, Mathew had probably paused a few times to watch over his militiamen that were cutting through the trail that paralleled the highway to Concord. That was more than likely the reason for my catching up with him.

  I crept close enough to Mathew to hear him get the order to speed ahead to Concord to gather intelligence as to what the Regulars were doing. Mathew took a wide game’s trail that ventured close enough to Concord to spy the Commons. I was on a less traveled game’s path that paralleled my husband’s. I could just make out that the redcoats were sitting, supping, or treating the wounded, but most were napping. Napping!

  How they could do such a thing on a day like today? Well, they must have been exhausted. And I recollected that when terrified or completely overwhelmed, my body would shut down too, and beg for sleep. Such an odd thing, the human body, for it was constantly striving to survive.

  Mathew cocked his head up then squinted his eyes. I wondered what he was looking for, but then he sighed and pulled on Cherry’s reins, digging his heels into the sides of his red horse and began to gallop through the trail. He was probably looking for another position for his reconnaissance, and I decided to run alongside him, as best as I could. I kept my eyes on my husband, whose form was beginning to get smaller and smaller. Gripping my rifle, I put more effort into my legs. They pumped quickly and almost easily. So I decided to try to run even faster. Then faster. And faster. I was actually catching up again to the galloping Cherry when suddenly a thick black tree branch reached across my chest, and I thudded to the ground on my back, struggling for air.

  Rocking from side to side in my agony, I clutched at where the branch had struck, feeling the phantom clamp surround my ribs, making me feel as if every bone was broken around my lungs. I heard the very distinct French accented voice say, “It will heal soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Shuffled Off This Mortal Coil