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Samuel Garrison
We Have Been; Clan Bruce
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 Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2006 12:05 am Post subject: |
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| Old reply from 2005 - unimportant. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007
Last edited by Samuel Garrison on Sun Jul 23, 2006 9:58 pm; edited 1 time in total |
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Samuel Garrison
We Have Been; Clan Bruce
Master of the Forum
Gender:
Age: 27
Joined: 27 Sep 2005
Posts: 1700
Reviews: 301
Country: Native Vermonter.
300 Points
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| Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2006 12:54 am Post subject: |
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*
Since I first laid eyes on the two knives and hatchet, I wanted them. I've never seen a knife's handle carved from a deer's antler, and to me they were unique. I repeatedly asked father about the weapons but he always gave me the same gruff tone and responses such as, "Quit bothering me, son," or, "When you are older, than we will see." The remarks did little to pre say me to stop asking but instead they increased my curiosity, to the point where I was asking father about the knives and hatchet nearly every other day. After days of the constant prying and pestering, father surrendered and he shared stories about the weapons that I knew nothing about. I was surprised I was able to pry information from him but the stories he shared increased my fondness for the weapons.
Father said, before he lost his ability to walk properly, it was a beautiful sunny morning when he burst into the door after a hunting trip. I was about five, jumping and yelping with glee when I spotted the objects in his hands. He dropped two deer antlers by his rocking chair, walked briskly away, and then returned with a saw. Father mentioned, after he sawed some of the points off, the blades were wedged snugly inside holes he had cut and then father secured the blades by tying rope tightly around the antler handles to hold them in place. To think, my father was actually a craftsman before he lost his walking ability.
The other story concerned the hatchet. Interestingly, the hatchet belonged to my grandfather, and he passed it on to his son, my father. When he made any type of reference to his father, his voice immediately became hoarse and incredibly soft-spoken. I had to inch closer on my knees and cock my head to listen, while father was sitting in his rocking chair, speaking.
"I…," he coughed. "My Father…"
When he drifted off in mid-sentence again, I asked why it was so difficult for him to speak about his father and what was his name?
He arched an index finger and beckoned for me to move closer to him, so I stood and walked two inches closer. Father's broad kneecaps brushed up against mine, and without warning, he wrapped his arms around my neck, and squeezed me hard. He held me in his arms for several minutes and I did little to refuse this type of emotion. Inside the hug, his right hand was resting on the nape of my neck – it trembled, and the other hand had shifted towards the lower part, stroking my back. Apparently, he seemed uneasy, so I allowed this awkward display of affection in an effort to console him.
About five minutes passed and father finally released me. "Thank you, Samuel," he mumbled.
"Huh? What did you say?"
"I said, 'thank you,'" he said louder.
"What was your Father's name and why; did your Father do something?" I pressed.
I watched father gulp and nod slowly. "He did. In fact, he did several things I wish to not remember. If it alright with you, Samuel, please do not ask about my Father."
"Can you at least tell me his name? You have to tell me some day."
"No," he replied firmly.
I sighed and stamped a foot, irritably.
He perched his left hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted to hear about the hatchet or not?
"Yes," I replied sullenly.
"The hatchet is a family heirloom, Samuel. It has been passed down from father to son for over a century. The tradition is when the heir reaches a certain age; the son is in possession of the hatchet, thereby keeping the Garrison family alive for centuries. The hatchet, Samuel, has survived for almost a hundred and fifty years, although the wood used for the handle, I am sure, has been replaced through the generations but the blade is still intact."
Tension sharpened on my shoulder, as father dug his fingertips through the white, linen shirt. The pressure wasn't painful but it signaled to me that he was very serious as he explained the history.
"Are you listening to me, son?" he asked.
"Yes," I bluffed.
"I will not repeat myself later. Listen now, or forever hold you peace."
I nodded. "I'm listening."
He grunted and nodded also. "I know what I am about to reveal next will increase your fancy but I assume you are mature enough to accept it."
I licked my lips and flexed my fingers, eager to know more.
"I carried that hatchet and one of the daggers with me into war. The hatchet and dagger –"
"You did?!"
"Shush, Samuel," he said calmly. "As I was saying, the hatchet and dagger I carried with me into battle have seen the horrors of warfare as I have. They saw…-," father gulped. "The details are graphic, Samuel. Would you like for me to continue?"
I nodded my head eagerly. "Yes! Please, tell me, Father."
"I was afraid you would say that," he sighed. "It is unfortunate your mother is outdoors this morning. She would certainly swat my shoulders for mentioning details, but perhaps Samuel, if I further reveal information you will gain a stronger appreciation for the hatchet, especially when it will be in your hands and your responsibility to maintain the tradition."
"Are you stalling? What did you see in the war?" I asked impatiently.
"No, I am not stalling. I am making a point. What say you pipe down and listen for once in your life," he said sternly. I watched him inhale and exhale slowly, and then he scratched underneath his nose. I stood, waiting as patiently as I was able. "Allow me to recollect myself, son. The memories, well they… I have not reminisced about -"
"What does remin – How do you pronounce it?"
"My dear inquisitive, son. You are mighty curious, which is the meaning of inquisitive and to reminisce means thinking deeply about one's past; to remember. Now, may I continue, or would you prefer for me to school you instead?"
"Continue," I said quietly.
I watched him swallow, and then lick his lips. "Let me be perfectly clear on one thing, son. If I had the opportunity to avoid further explanations, I would have never spoken about my past today but there are two factors I must accept. One, your age; soon it will be the correct time, and two, I hope if you know the hatchet's history mixed with my own, you will indeed take special care of it and pass it down someday to your son. The hatchet is a link to our family's past. Each person that has held it, their spirit is held within the delicate balance in it. Someday, when you are able to study it more thoroughly, you will notice on the blade there are initials. Every Father and son that had it etched their initials, although there is no space left for me or you to continue with that particular tradition. However, on the hatchet's handle, there are claw-like marks, towards the center, which brings me back in full circle with my past." Father coughed and then swallowed. "Would you mind sitting next to me on the bench? I can already feel my throat tightening on me. You are not your mother, but your support would be appreciated."
I obeyed and sat on the bench. He rested his left hand on my thigh and began speaking to a wall, or possibly a picture frame. Father repeated a few things, such as how old the hatchet was and the father-son tradition, which didn't bother me. I listened and waited for further information. To learn about the weapons was more than I could have hoped for. To think, my family has this ancient hatchet and a tradition! I cannot wait until father gives it to me, I thought excitedly.
I returned my full attention when I heard father say, "Battle."
"…In my two hands, I held the hatchet and dagger. There was a line of bodies, Samuel, and behind me, a Serjeant waited for me to carry out his order. Son, there is nothing more rank or horrendous then stale blood and decaying flesh."
His hand moved, and then I felt it clasp my shoulder. I shuddered a little, thinking about dead bodies.
"The bodies - Are you sure you want me to carry on?"
It was my turn to gulp and I nodded slowly.
A loud sigh echoed through my eardrums, and then father's hand moved again. This time he wrapped it around my neck and yanked me. The side of my body was leaning against him. His hand patted my shoulder and then the rhythm changed so that a hand was rubbing it in circles as father continued to speak.
"The bodies were in a straight line in front of my feet. I will never forget their eyes, well; at least the ones that still had a head intact. I remember gazing down the dozen or so men, staring blankly. Two of the men had drops and puddles of blood still dripping off tendons where their legs should have been. One man was missing the center of his chest, no doubt from a cannon ball. A couple of faces were charred and wrinkled. Their faces were burnt so poorly that there was nothing left but curled lips, nose cavities, and missing eyeballs. Although, there were some singed hairs on their scalp, but their cause of death was more than likely being shot from close range. At the end, to the far right, and directly in front of my boots, there was one man barely alive. He was clothed but his pride had to have been stripped, the way his uniform was stripped from him."
Father moaned. "To be stripped of the very object that symbolizes your country is indeed shameful and frowned upon by your countrymen."
I slid closer to him, not because of interest but because I was starting to feel uneasy. The image had grown more grisly. I pictured corpses rising, groaning and limping by dragging a foot behind them. I didn't want father knowing I was starting to become frightened. If he had a slight hint, father might refuse revealing information, and I'd never find about the weapons, until I was old and gray, like him. So, I listened and I was grateful that he had his arm around my neck; it comforted me.
["My order from the Serjeant was to, in his words, 'Make ready and cut cleanly and efficiently.' Have you ever seen a grown man in his forties quiver?"] (Inaccurate/revise)
I shook my head, and continued studying his grim expression, as father continued to speak.
"Well, I did. It was seventeen hundred and fifty-six, the first year I served in the army, and I was frightened. I cannot begin to describe how much my right hand shook. I was certain the hatchet would slip from my grasp. It is one thing to kill in the heat of battle, but my commanding officer wanted me to abruptly end a life. I stepped forward. I… I… My victim's eyes blinked when I knelt beside him. I lifted the hatchet high over my head, and stopped. I pleaded with the Serjeant that there had to have been another solution. I asked if a proper fire squad was organized, would not musketry suffice? The Serjeant insisted beheading was the proper punishment for treason and he handed me a strip of cloth. I reached with my right, and held it tightly in my palm. (inaccurate/revise; beheading inaccurate)
After decades, I still remember the Serjeant's words. 'In which the criminal act, that hallow be our brother, has committed, he shall receive one mercy under God, and not endure the penalty of gaping into his own defiance, such as death.' My commanding officer was a fair but strict gentleman.
Samuel, the man I was about… I was about… Well, my victim was a British spy; a soldier fighting on our side, but he was secretly discussing plans with the French. He had suffered a tremendous amount of abuse already but I was ordered to carry out the Serjeant's command. Whilst I was kneeling and my arm still raised, I looked into the man's perfect eyes, and said a silent prayer, for even in War, Samuel, no person should have to endure staring into Death's Eyes. Tears…," father gulped. "A few tears dripped from the only part of his body that had not been beaten and battered. My hand was suspended, and I heard the Serjeant's shouts to obey orders or I would be branded next as a traitor. With my right hand, I fingered the cloth into a blindfold, and placed it over his eyes. Without thinking, I slammed the blade down. My countrymen's head rolled and I watched another stare blankly." (revise)
Father moaned again and brought his right hand to his forehead, rubbing it and shaking his head.
"Are you going to cry, Father?"
"I am very close. I am a murderer," he muttered.
I shook my head fiercely, and stood in front of him. I pointed a finger and said, "You’re not a murderer! You obeyed orders. It's not your fault. Do not say that!" I hollered, and stamped a foot angrily.
"Sit your bum down," he sighed.
I sat on the bench again.
"My thanks, Samuel," was all father said. "Whilst bringing up my past, it had a purpose – the hatchet's and a dagger's history. Someday, it will be your sole responsibility and now you know how important the weapons are in our family."
"I'll take special care of all three; don't worry. Can I ask a question?"
"Yes, I suppose you have a million questions bursting inside."
"Can you explain the claw marks? Where did they come from?"
"Oh, those. They are actually fingernail marks."
I raised an eyebrow. "Fingernail marks?"
"Yes," father swallowed. "The carved lines are my own."
"Your own? Oh, did you carve lines and such to remind you of the deaths like the powderhorn?"
"No, the wood deteriorated; gave away, from grinding my nails against the handle. It was a nervous habit, I suppose, but whenever I felt anxiety or fear, I scraped my nails against the wood. You will see. There are several vertical and diagonal indents, and slices. I cannot say chipping a few fingernails in the process was appealing."
"Does Mum know of your past?"
"She knows I took her as my wife," he said seriously. "But no, I hardly speak about my time in war or -"
"About your Father," I interrupted and immediately cupped my mouth.
Father turned and glared but his cheeks were slightly pale. "You really do wish to see me cry, yes?"
Removing my hands from my mouth, I shook my head.
"His initials – A.G. are etched in the hatchet's blade. I often wished I could erase the name but that would be breaking tradition. He does not deserve to be apart of our family," father said bitterly.
I wanted to press him for further information about his father but judging from a soft tone, I decided it would be a poor idea. Besides, father admitted he was upset and I didn't want to see him suffer by crying.
"I have a question for you, son."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Are you pleased?"
"Proud. I had no idea how far our family traced back."
"It is good you feel that way. To me, it means you will continue with the tradition."
"I'm more proud that you held the weapons in battle. When I have the hatchet in my possession, I'll be carrying you around wherever I go."
"And my spirit, as well as generations before us."
I leaned inwards and kissed his left cheek.
"Thank you, Samuel. I love you too, very much."
I pulled off my shirt and dropped it in his lap. "For you."
He lifted the shirt, fiddled with the folds and dropped it in his lap again. "What is this for?" father asked, pointing to it.
"Your voice is very soft-spoken and the colours of your cheeks are still pale. I have to use the privy. The shirt is there if you need it. That is, if you start crying and I'm not around for support, you have something to dry your eyes."
I watched his lower lip tremble and father waved a hand. I nodded and walked briskly from the sitting room, towards my parent's quarters, opened their door, and used the privy. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007
Last edited by Samuel Garrison on Mon Jul 14, 2008 4:06 am; edited 14 times in total |
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Jiggity
The Sinister Jigster
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| Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2006 4:05 am Post subject: |
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Okay, so, like before I noticed some small grammatical errors. The nasty little buggers that you dont notice whilst writing and are surprised to see later on.
Here we go.
There's a discrepancy there. One is fromal and the other not so, is that deliberate? If not it should read: Mother and Father, or dad and mum.
| Quote: |
| Its rays shown brightly through one of the windows in the sitting room and caused me to remove my shirt,so I was sitting on the floor in gray breeches and wearing buckskin slippers mum sewed for me. |
Its rays shone brightly through one of the windows in the sitting room; heating it and causing me to remove my shirt, so I sat there on the floor, in grey breeches and buckskin slippers mum had sewed for me.
In the article, it should say say: He retained not only his position as lieutenet governor, but also a seat on the Governor's Council in which he had an active role.
Sound effects should really be reconsidered. Use description instead, unless you think the immediacy of "Thwack" is necessary.
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| Her expression was a blank |
was blank.
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| A small flutter of realization tapped my brain |
that needs to be reconsidered. Maybe: entered my brain or maybe something entirely different. Doesnt sound right.
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| My insides feel that their entangled |
feel like their entangled.
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| I reached for the article and crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the pit. |
I reached for the article, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the the pit.
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| I lurched foreword, gripping my waist and coughed. |
I lurched forward, gripping my waist as I coughed.
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| I started to realize how fierce and powerful they became |
This is occuring frequently!! Your in the present and yet you speak in past tense.'' I started to realize how fierce and powerful they've become.
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| When I finally understood their actions were a direct impact of me and us, though I was not apart of the raid, I played a part in the burning of Mister Hutchison's home and the hanging of Mister Oliver, for simply being a member of the group. That is when an illness struck my stomach |
This sentence needs to be revised. Too many commars. A suggestion (and that's all it is): When I finally understood their actions were a direct impact of me and us, an illness struck my stomach. Even though I was not apart of the raid, I played a part in the burning of Mister Hutchinson's home and the hanging of Mister Oliver by simply being a member of the group.''
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| He reached foreword |
forward.
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| "I would be a trader |
not entirely sure but should that be: 'traitor'
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| She nodded in the brightly lit room by the sun's rays |
She nodded in the room, lit brightly by the sun's rays. (simple sentence restructuring)
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| "Heis covered, Welcome |
He is covered
And that ends an epic editing session. One I hope to never repeat. Your doing well (apart from the tiny things) so by all means continue and finish your tale. |
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Samuel Garrison
We Have Been; Clan Bruce
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| Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2006 8:18 am Post subject: |
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Hiya, Jig.  I corrected the mistakes, thank you. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007 |
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Samuel Garrison
We Have Been; Clan Bruce
Master of the Forum
Gender:
Age: 27
Joined: 27 Sep 2005
Posts: 1700
Reviews: 301
Country: Native Vermonter.
300 Points
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| Posted: Mon Jan 30, 2006 3:33 pm Post subject: |
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Five months passed and on August fifth, I turned seventeen. I became noticeably broader, because of the hunting trips. My abdomens flattened and tightened. The triceps slightly bulged when I flexed, and thick veins pushed through my skin. My calves and forearms also grew stronger. I was able to haul heavier loads on my shoulders, without having to relax every couple of minutes.
Father finally taught me how to load and reload his musket. He had also taught the importance of reloading quickly; though I assume this was an old habit from his warring days. Father said it was time I help provide for the family, and that I would need to learn the proper way in defending myself if my life were at risk. Needless to say, after much practice, I became skilled enough to reload in thirty seconds. When I hunted, deer and pheasants were my new and primary target; no more need to accept meats from neighboring farms, although we still received vegetables from the wealthier families whom graciously shared their generosity.
I was standing outside on our property, polishing the muzzle and trigger with a tattered shirt. I was so focused on the musket, I never noticed father approaching me. I would have not noticed his presence at all, if he had not called for me.
Lifting my head, I brushed dark brown locks backwards behind my ears. I stared at father questionably as he limped closer. In his right, he had his walking stick, but his left hand was hidden behind his back. Holding the musket, so that the muzzle was aiming towards the sky, I walked towards father to spare him from spending energy and the discomfort he must be experiencing. While I was less than a foot in front of him, I tried leaning to the right and catch a glimpse of what father was hiding.
He shook his head and smiled. "Patience is a virtue, son," he said cheerfully. "August fifth, seventeen hundred and forty-nine, you were born today."
I smiled in return and nodded. "And you were born in seventeen hundred and six. Boy, did you grow old quick," I joked, and my grin grew broader.
"We will see how well you maneuver yourself when you reach my age," father laughed. He beckoned for me to step closer.
I wiped sweat away from my forehead and unbuttoned my shirt, displaying a bare chest. Praying the heat and humidity would pass, I walked closer, smiling from ear to ear.
"How has your day been so far, son?" father smirked.
"Grand! I'm so happy to finally hold your musket, and I'm happier that you've taught me how to use it today. Don't worry though, Father. I will be responsible and not misuse the firearm or think about wars. I understand its purpose – self-defense or using it for hunting."
"I am glad you feel that way because behind my back, I have two gifts for you."
Gifts? What possibly would he give me now? He already trusted me with his musket, and as far as I'm concerned, that is the greatest gift I've ever received.
"Drop the musket, hold your hands outwards and close your eyes, please."
I laid the musket gently on the earth, and looked at father's expression one more time. I peered into two eyes that appeared to be studying me. He was not only grinning but it was as if father had aged backwards. Perhaps, it was the intense sunlight reflecting a false image upon his face, but father's eyes sparkled with excitement, as if he was a young boy again.
"Go on, shut your eyes," father urged eagerly.
I brought my hands forward, closed my eyes, and waiting. I heard ruffling and then I felt a chill as an object was placed in my palms.
"Open them," father said.
At first, I disobeyed and kept my eyes shut. I hadn't a clue what were in my hands but the weight was decent and there was metal mixed with something coarse and pointy. At first, I tried guessing what were in my palms. More bullets? No, that cannot be, I said to myself. Bullets are not this heavy. Perhaps, it's a saw? That would explain the metal and wood in my hands but why on Earth would father be excited about a saw? The suspense had beaten my curiosity and I opened one eyelid. My jaw dropped, and I opened the other.
I heard a deep and bellowing laugh, and a hand clasped my right shoulder, as I gaped at the two objects in my hands.
"I leave with you, son, the family tradition. Happy Day of Birth, Samuel."
Father honored me with two gifts: one of the knives and his hatchet. I stared at the objects for a few more seconds, and then lifted my head, grinning. "I love you, Father! Thank you, thank you!" I yelled happily.
"You are very welcome, son. The dagger in your hands is the same I carried with me in the war. Look at the hatchet, Samuel. Notice all signatures?"
My heart might as well have exploded by the way I was feeling. I had hugged father at least six times when he taught me how to use the musket today, but now I felt as if I could grow wings and fly away. I fiddled with the hatchet at first, twisting and rotating it. Then I rubbed an index finger from the top of the handle all the way down. I turned the hatchet in circles once more, and then stroked the lines carved in the handle with my fingernails. This is where father dug his nails, and scraped away the wood, I thought. There were several fingernail marks, at least twenty-five. Some were very small and hardly noticeable unless the handle was close in view. Others were long, jagged and scrawled like father mentioned; vertical and diagonally.
I then looked at the initials of my ancestors etched into the blade. Some of my family had etched their full signatures upon the blade and the names were unusual, like father's name. I liked them, and smiled again.
"Look at this name, Father. I've never heard of it before."
Father limped closer and leaned forward. "Which one, son?"
I pointed to it. "That one. I always admired your first name because it is unique but this one is unusual," I said.
"That is the interesting aspect of the hatchet," he laughed. "You could stare at it all day and find something that catches your fancy."
"How do you pronounce the name?" I asked eagerly.
"I am not exactly sure myself but I suspect it is pronounced Syl-van-us; Sylvanus Garrison."
"Look! Here's another one! How would I pronounce this?"
"It is difficult to say for sure, son. Remember, these names are well over a hundred years old but if I had to lend my educated guess, I would say it was pronounced like this: Gee-once; Geonce Warren G."
My eyes scanned all directions of the hatchet's blade. Father was correct. There were many initials but unfortunately there was no room left to etch our names. However, there was one I wanted to find, but it was nearly impossible with all the names bunched together.
"I am going to sit, Samuel. My knee is bothering me. Care to join me?"
I sat, without removing my fixed gaze on the hatchet, in front of him. I lifted my head, and for once today, I frowned.
"Father?"
He stopped massaging his knee and looked up also. "Yes, son?"
"If I ask a question, do you promise not to get upset?"
"You want to know where your grandfather's initials are, I assume," he said in a surprisingly calm voice.
My jaw dropped again. "How did you know what I was thinking?"
"It does not take a brilliant gentleman to understand the curiosity of a youth, especially his own son. I suspected you would ask anyway, so I prepared myself ahead of time."
"Yes, I'd very much like find it, but if showing me the name is too hurtful, I'm sure I can find it on my own," I said.
"It is your Day of Birth, Samuel. I am as proud as you, if not more. As I said, I prepared myself for the worst indoors before giving you the dagger and hatchet. Your grandfather's name is on the bottom, right-hand corner."
I wiped away more sweat from my forehead and the corners of my eyebrows. Father was correct again. Towards the bottom, right-hand corner, were the initials – A.G. I rubbed an index finger over the name, tracing the outlines. That was my grandfather and he signed his name on this very blade that I'm holding, I thought.
Without thinking I asked, "What was his name?" I immediately lifted my head upwards, and frowned after I asked. "I apologize, Father. It sort of, the question slipped. I didn't mean anything by it."
The corners of father's eyes twitched, but he produced a thin smile nonetheless. "When I am able to accept his mistakes, then I might speak more thoroughly about your grandfather. However, you do know your grandmother's name, yes?"
"Comfort," I sighed. "Our family knew how to name them back then, huh?"
"Yes, I suppose they did," he chuckled. "At least no person in Boston can match the Garrison's creativity."
I smiled, even though I was secretly disappointed. Someday, I sighed, he'll tell me when I least expect it.
A hand rested on my shoulder, and the weight snapped me out of my thoughts. "Chin up, son. I know you are probably disappointed with me, but understand, I simply am not ready to speak about or mention your grandfather's name. I am just afraid that speaking his name will rekindle unhappy memories, and I do not want to place myself in that position," father said quietly. "What do you think of the dagger?"
I set the hatchet on my lap, and lifted the knife close to my eyes. Through my excitement with the hatchet, I had temporally forgotten about it. I ran a thumb across the blade, and noticed it was dull. The knife's blade was practically touching my nose but like the hatchet, I turned it in circles, and examined it. The blade was tarnished and it would need polishing but it was surprisingly longer than I remembered. It had to have been seven inches, and with the handle, the knife appeared to be around eleven inches in total length. I smiled when I started stroking the handle. It was coarse, jagged and marvelous. In my lap, rested my family's history, and in my hands laid a handcrafted knife by my father.
"Well?"
I lifted my head slowly and grinned open-mouthed. "I love both of them! Thank you, Father!" I said.
"Good to hear," father chuckled. "I am going to go inside, son. Enjoy your gifts and take special care of them."
"I will, but what are you going to do inside?"
"Cuddle with your mother," he winked.
"Thanks for sharing the information," I replied sarcastically.
Father rubbed the top of my head and smiled. "Remember to bring in the musket when you are finished. Leave it in the warring room, and you might as well put the hatchet and dagger in their respectable places in the room too."
"May I sharpen them? Both blades are dull, Father."
"I suppose so. You will need a sharp blade if you are to skin a deer. Hand me the musket then, and I will bring it indoors."
I reached for the musket and held it outwards.
"Samuel…," he grunted. "The muzzle should never be aiming for a person's chest when you hand it over. Be grateful that it is not loaded, and make absolutely sure the muzzle is aimed upwards," he said calmly.
I reversed the firearm, held it outwards again, and my head fell. "I apologize, Father," I said quietly to my bare feet.
A finger lifted my chin, and I peered into father's eyes, frowning slightly. "Samuel, you have nothing to be ashamed of. This was your first time with the musket, and you learned reasonably well, but remember all that I have taught you about the firearm so a person is not mistakenly injured due to neglect by your own fingers."
"I'll try and remember. Thank you."
Smiling, father patted my right shoulder, turned and limped away.
"Do you need help?" I hollered to him.
"No, I will be alright," came a muffled voice as I watched him turn a right-hand corner and disappear from my sight completely.
I glanced towards the sky and noticed dark, gray clouds had moved in, blocking most of the sunlight. Rain would be coming soon, I realized. Wiping away more sweat from my forehead, I headed for the forest that surrounds the outskirts of my property. In the forest, I spat on a rock and rubbed the hatchet's blade in circular motions until I was able to carve whitish slits into a thumbnail. When I was satisfied that the blade was sharp enough, I did the same routine with the knife, and then tested it against my thumbnail.
Off in the distance, I heard rumbling, and then a loud crack! Grabbing the two weapons, I stood and sprinted out of the forest. I glanced upwards, and realized the sun had vanished. The entire sky was a deep silver and blackish colour. Another crack of thunder, and I ran towards the entrance of the house. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007
Last edited by Samuel Garrison on Sun Jul 23, 2006 10:00 pm; edited 4 times in total |
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| Posted: Tue Feb 07, 2006 2:40 pm Post subject: |
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The following day, father and I were outdoors, and he was barking commands.
"No, no, Samuel! Do not stand straight as an arrow, and swing. Spread your legs apart and bend your knees slightly. You will be more centered and not fall flat on your bum due to lack of balance."
I spread my legs a few inches apart, bent my knees and continued watching the objects cut in sharp arcs in front of me.
"Samuel! Do not swing in random directions. Your objective is to defend, not appear like a rabid lunatic. Grab the handle so that the end facing the clouds, lift and swing down as if you were cutting stumps of wood. This tactic should break the clavicle, and you can flee for safety."
With the hatchet in my left, the handle was pointed vertically towards a blue sky. I lifted my arm up and slammed it down. I watched the hatchet fly several inches in front of me instead. Behind me, I heard a groan, and father asked me to retrieve the hatchet. My cheeks began feeling warm, as I walked towards the hatchet, and grabbed it. Turning around, I walked three feet towards an expressionless father and stopped when I was near his body.
I turned my head sheepishly away. "It slipped," I said to a shrub.
"Nonetheless, ever since the incident with that Adams fellow, it has persuaded me in teaching you self-defense. Luck and the Good Lord were with you, son. If he had not removed the branch from your throat, you may have suffocated."
"I am aware of that," I said, returning my attention in his direction again. "Is that the reason why I'm holding the knife and hatchet?"
"You sound surprised," he smiled.
I shrugged. "I hadn't expected it. Normally, you're strict with this sort of thing."
"I had to wait until you matured. Besides, without a musket, you can defend yourself in hand-to-hand combat, as long as your attacker is equipped with melee weapons too. What say you practice more and cease on the chatting," he said calmly.
Grinning, I turned around and continued swinging the knife and hatchet. While I practiced, I smiled to myself. My day of birth was exceptional, but father surprised me again by further revealing information about himself.
As a soldier, he admitted he had been brutal in melee combat and father still attempted to instruct movements, while he sat on the grass, barking orders. His shouting didn't bother me. It only encouraged me to work harder and pay attention to father's commands.
"Samuel! What in the blue hell are you doing? God gave you legs, so use them. I guarantee your attacker will not stand in a single position."
I started bobbing and weaving, pretending to duck punches, and stabbing kneecaps with the knife.
"No, No! Whilst hunched over, your spine is exposed. With one quick response, you will have an axe embedded in your back. If it is necessary to duck, while hunched, try and consciously remember; aim the hatchet's blade towards their stomach and draw it as far behind you as possible. The purpose is that the blade will partially be protecting your spine. You will have a suitable chance of survival because hopefully the attacker's weapon will hit the blade instead. As soon as you hear the metallic sound, gouge their stomach."
"Thank you," I said and started swinging the weapons again.
Eventually, he gave up trying to teach with speech and decided to instruct by means of standing next to me. With father slowly guiding my arms, hands and legs into specific movements, I began to learn and realize I could disembowel, amputate or behead a person if I was in danger.
Though it caused him discomfort and needing to rest occasionally, the basic movements were fairly simple, now that he properly showed me. To offer fair warnings to my enemy, I would jab their chin, Adam's apple, stomach, shoulder blade and sternum with the handle of the hatchet. If the person continued, I could smack the center of their nose, pop their eyeballs, and on more drastic measures; use the blade of the hatchet and slice into their kneecaps, aim for the temples, and if the situation called, cut their throat. The dagger seemed to serve as an extra object to watch, but I could also stab in areas, causing deep, painful pricks.
When I had finished slicing an imaginary neck, I turned to my left, grinning. "How am I doing now?" I asked eagerly.
Father scowled and my smiled faded. "Well enough for a beginner. You definitely need to harness your skills but you seem to learn fairly quickly, son. However," he said shaking a finger, "I am not terribly pleased teaching you how to harm another man but these lessons are strictly for defense purposes only. Understand?"
"Yes, I understand. I would never attack unless I was provoked first."
"Even if a person threatens you, just remember, be on guard, and never engage in a fight unless you are certain your life is in danger."
"Yes, I understand," I repeated. "Is there anything else I should know?"
"Samuel…," father sighed.
"Is there?" I pressed.
He wrinkled his nose and groaned. "Give me the weapons, and go find a stump, while I sit and rest," father said.
"Here," I said. Father grabbed the weapons in his left hand and sat, with his walking stick resting in his lap.
I walked briskly into the thicket in search of a tree stump. His order was confusing but I did not dare to question father. I did not want to anger him, nor cause further frustration with simple questions. In the forest, I spotted several large rocks, bushes, shrubs, trees, but no stumps. Sighing, and hoping father would continue with his lesson if it took time locating a stump, I pressed farther in.
Snap! I collapsed, grabbed the sole of my foot and hollered in pain. I had stepped on a tree branch and part of it jabbed into the soft tissue. I sat on blankets of leaves, and massaged the foot. After a few minutes, when the minor pain ceased, I surveyed the forest. There has to be a tree stump somewhere, I said to myself. But no, I was surrounded with healthy trees and lush, green leaves.
Lifting myself into a standing position, I searched harder. I turned to the right, and pressed forward. There were more shrubs and bushes, but after five minutes of wandering, I found two stumps, and then it dawned on me. Did the width or length matter? One of the stumps was long and narrow, whereas the other was short and wide. Which one? He said get a stump, and that's all. I shrugged, and selected the short and wide stump because it appeared easier to carry. I bent my knees, slipped my fingers under, and lifted the stump upon my left shoulder.
When I reached our property, father was still sitting. I walked slowly towards him, and dropped the stump near his bare feet.
There was a thud as it hit the earth. I watched father peer at the tree stump, and then he peered upwards at me.
"Come sit next to me, son. With the dagger, I want to show you a few things."
Judging from father's tone, he seemed to be in a reasonably decent mood. He still wasn't smiling but he wasn't yelling anymore either. I sat by his right, and stared at the stump, wondering about its purpose.
"Could you hand me the stump, please?" father asked.
I reached, and carefully placed it in his lap. "Thank you, son."
"Welcome," I said.
In his lap, I heard scraping and watched pieces of thin wood drop on his kneecaps. I leaned inwards, trying to catch a glimpse of what father was carving with the knife. His right arm blocked my view, and all I could see was his left, carving away.
"What are you doing?"
"I am almost done, Samuel. Please be patient."
"I'll try," I said.
"Put the stump in front of my feet," he said shortly.
I lifted it and placed it within inch from his toes. I observed the stump and noticed father had carved unusual… pictures? There were two circles that appeared to be eyes, a vertical oval in the center, and a straight line underneath it.
I turned in his direction and raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what did you carve, and in firewood no less?"
"It is a face, but I am no artist by any means. Pay attention and I will explain."
I nodded. "I'm listening."
"The stump will be used as a visual explanation. Understand so far, son?"
"Yes, so far, I do."
"Good. Notice the two holes that represent eyes?"
"I see them," I said.
"Above the corner of your eyebrow, in the direction where the temple is located, there is a tender area. Find it," he commanded calmly.
I obeyed by tracing my brow with an index finger until I found the end, and pressed tightly. I winced and immediately felt a slight headache.
"Why did it hurt when I applied pressure?" I asked, dropping my finger.
Father swatted my stomach playfully, and he finally smiled. "Well, correct me if I am wrong, did I suggest applying pressure at all?"
"No," I groaned.
I watched the smile fade. "Right then. To properly answer your question, I suspect, although I am not absolutely sure, the area hurt because there are nerves behind the eyebrows. Applying slight pressure aggravates them."
I slid closer to him. "How do you know above the brow is sensitive?" I asked.
"You really seem to have developed an interest."
Smiling, I nodded happily. "Your knowledge amazes me too. Where did you learn all these tactics?"
"Son," he sighed. "One question at a time, please. Firstly, the amount of things I have seen, would shock you. Just accept that warfare has educated me."
Now, I was more interested than before. If it was in my favor, I'd inch nearer to father but unfortunately I was so close to him, I was able to feel him breathe. "So, the war taught you about melee combat?"
He wrapped an arm around back of my neck and combed his fingers through my hair, while he stared straight ahead. "One of these days, son, your curiosity will strike a nerve, namely a persons," he said quietly. "If you must know, I was trained to march to the beat of a French bugle horn and how to load a musket quickly and efficiently. I was taught obedience, discipline and strategic military principles to be used on the battlefield or surveying from the cover of a neighboring forest. There are other factors, but you mother will be calling us for dinner soon."
"But I don't understand, Father. What you described, it appears that the army barely trained you."
"The army trained me well, rest assured of that, son."
I licked my lips, and flexed my fingers. "Can I ask another question?"
"I suppose," he sighed. "You do realize we are delaying the purpose of the stump, yes?"
"Maybe so, but who exactly taught you about combat? Was it an officer? An experienced soldier?"
Father turned his head, and looked directly into my face, tight-lipped. "Do the initials, A.G. signal anything?" he asked quietly.
"No, what does that…" I stopped short, and gazed into father's eyes. I swallowed, and licked my lips. "He taught you?" I asked, stunned.
He frowned and nodded. "Yes, your grandfather taught me. His reasoning was 'preparing' me, although it has been too long, I cannot recall what he was actually preparing me for. I simply have forgotten. I assumed it was for self-defense purposes, the same reason I am teaching you now, Samuel."
"I have another question."
"Help me up, and then you can ask."
I extended my left, father gripped my hand and I leaned backwards, pulling him to his feet.
"Could you fetch my walking stick, please? I accidentally left it on the earth."
I hunched over, gripped the stick by father's right foot, and held it outwards. He grabbed it, and positioned it by his right side. "You always forget, don't you?" I said, cocking my head, peering up at the man, and grinned.
Father returned my expression and smiled also. "I would love to witness the day when you reach your sixties. I could only imagine how your body cooperates," he laughed. "I admit that my memory and reflexes have dulled. Age does that, son. Accept it, because age will only grow worse and mock you as life passes on," he laughed again. "Was that your question, Samuel?"
I folded my hands behind my back and stroked the soil with a toe. "No, although I do not wish to be gray and fragile."
He swatted my bum gently with his walking stick, and laughed. I looked directly into his eyes and smiled. "Fragile? You are describing me as a sheet of glass," father said, and ruffled the top of my head. "Now, what is this question, and why are you digging holes with your toe?"
I peered down at a black toe nail. Soil was caked underneath. I didn't realize I was still digging, and I stopped. I raised my head, and shrugged. He was smiling, and urged me to speak by waving the back of his hand. I raised an index finger, opened my mouth to speak, and then clamped my jaw shut, thinking better of the question.
"Go on, ask," father smiled. This time, he urged me to speak by waving his walking stick.
Inhaling, I nodded, and exhaled through my nose. "Alright, but remember you asked."
I watched his smile fade slightly upon that remark. "Go ahead," he coughed.
"Does Mum approve?" I blurted. Instead of backing away, I stood my ground, but I started fiddling with the locks of my hair.
Father cocked his head, and rubbed a smooth chin. His smile disappeared completely. I watched him curiously. Father stopped stroking his chin, and then scratched behind his ear, and then started rubbing his chin again.
"Father?"
"Does she approve of combat?" he asked finally after a couple of minutes.
"Yes or is she against it?"
"Do you want the honest truth?"
"Are you stalling again?" I retorted.
"No, do not be absurd. I am contemplating; thinking about revealing the answer. I am worried it will entice your interest."
"Tell me, please," I pleaded.
"It is nearly time for evening prayers, and dinner, I am sure, will be served shortly. We must go. Fetch your weapons. They are still on the earth, in the middle of my ankles."
"Father…," I groaned. "Yes or no? I want to know if she supports my training or not."
"Yes," he said softly, turned and limped away.
I walked briskly towards the weapons, quickly retrieved them, and hurried to catch father, even though he was moving at a slug's pace. I wanted to be near him as much as possible before we entered the log house, so I stopped by his left side, ready to offer my services if he required help.
"What about the stump?" I asked, walking to match his slower pace.
"Your questions have delayed its purpose, son," he said softly.
"Why are you speaking so quietly?"
"I suppose it is because I am upset, Samuel. Most people respond this way when something is troubling them. Surely, you know that much."
I rolled my eyes, as we were nearing the house. I could see the side windows more clearly as we approached. "What is troubling you?"
"Samuel, must we peruse this conversation further? What say you save that fine wind of yours, and use it wisely for praying to the Lord?"
Despite his softer tone, I was beginning to lose my patience. With my right, I clamped his left shoulder and tugged it. Father stopped immediately and shot me a glace.
"What now?" he said sharply.
The sudden change in his voice almost made me regret my action but I said the question anyway. "What is bothering you?" I asked stubbornly.
"Will you cease with the questions for the evening, if you know?"
I nodded.
"Your mother knows a little of my military background. She knows enough, that she asked me to train you."
My jaw dropped, and so did the weapons. I pointed to father, open-mouthed, and blinked several times.
"Surprised, I see. Well, fetch the hatchet and dagger. I believe I saw them fall by your right ankle."
I reached, and grabbed the weapons with my left hand. I opened my mouth, but a palm cut me short. "Not another word. Remember your promise. No more questions, please. Let us enjoy the meal Martha has prepared. I am sure she is wondering what has become of us. Besides, I want to pray. Lord knows I need to repeal any sins I have committed. The three of us should reflect and hope the three Acts will be resolved soon by Parliament."
"But, the Whigs?" I blurted. "Does she know about -?"
"Not. Another. Word," he said sharply by interrupting me. "And no, she does not have the slightest notion about your endeavors with these Sons of Liberty. Honestly, I would have preferred not to have shown you combat but your mother claims to have seen the people in town behave by means of spitting at heels and bickering bitterly in the streets. She also informed me that she has seen a political cartoon in the Boston Gazette depicting a jolly British lion. The animal was holding the British coat of arms, muskets aimed and firing at one of Britain's symbols - the lion. Your mother assumes these actions are distressing omens, and I agree wholly, but needless to say, Martha won the Words of War, and convinced me to train you."
Most of what father said slipped into one ear and out the other. All I heard were Sons of Liberty, Colonists spitting at each other and a cartoon in the Boston Gazette. Father's words didn't cling to my brain, I suppose, because I was still accepting that Mum was the one that suggested teaching me combat, not father. That is when the realization struck. Did father truly believe I was mature and used Mister Adams's attack as an excuse to train me or did he only teach me because mum insisted?
I wanted to know, so I blurted, "Father, I… have… another question, if I'm allowed to ask."
"If it concerns combat, or your mother, no more questions, please."
"Alright," I sighed. "Do you need assistance?"
"Your help would be graciously appreciated. Thank you."
I stepped close to his side, so that I was just under father's armpit. He wrapped his arm around my neck, and rested his left hand on my shoulder. I returned the gesture by slipping my right hand behind, and wrapped it around his waist. With the weapons in my left hand, I steadied his immense weight. As we made our way to the entrance, I thought about what father had said. Mum actually supported military training, and by her son no less! The actual realization didn't fully strike me but as I thought thoroughly about it, the excitement started swelling, and my heartbeat quickened its pace.
My mum, I thought, supports me. We approached the steps, hobbled up, and opened the door. Father released his hold from around my neck, and limped further within the house.
"Mum! We are home!" I called from the entrance, and shut the door, as I stepped inside. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007
Last edited by Samuel Garrison on Sun Jul 23, 2006 10:03 pm; edited 8 times in total |
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| Posted: Thu Feb 09, 2006 5:37 am Post subject: |
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Honestly, sometimes, its just too much to go through. A lot of the time you couldshorten a sentence but you dont, you go for a longer version; this slows the story down severely, and makes it drag. instead of you are, try 'your' and other such things like this could be changed.
Only 2 things stood out for me and they were in the previous installment:
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intentions.
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| that is why I you have my tunic in your arms |
that is why you have my tunic in your arms
There may have been others that I didnt notice due to exhaustion.
Otherwise, as per usual, awesome story-great writing. Keep it up |
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Samuel Garrison
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| Posted: Thu Feb 16, 2006 2:51 am Post subject: |
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*
It was late August when I thought about the new taxes. The Sugar Act was still in full operation and tension has started to boil. To be unjustly taxed on sugar, molasses, indigo and coffee without consent from the colonial legislators caused outrage. Then a new Act went into effect – the Stamp Act. This new tax by British Parliament required we pay an amount on every piece of printed paper we used. Ship's papers, legal documents, licenses, newspapers, other publications, and even playing cards were taxed. While the cost was small, what would happen in the future? Would the door be open for more taxation or unjust laws? The Quartering Act, however, were guidelines that we had to follow. The principles were each Colonist was directed to provide for the basic needs of soldiers stationed within its borders. Specific items included bedding, cooking utensils, firewood, beer or cider and candles. Would a sane person actually want to house a miserable redcoat? To me, it was an outrage to say the least. Being under the wing of the Whigs, I learned from their speeches, British Parliament was unfair and cruel because they had no respect towards the colonies and the three Acts combined caused hatred to the Crown; nerves were ready to snap at a moments notice.
I remained a member, but certain riots and events forced me to distant myself on an occasion. Father had warned me to use my head and not mix with violence. Since the three Acts, what were talks and planning early on in the Sons of Liberty became physical disturbances. The group grew and strengthened considerably in a short span to nearly twenty Whigs in total. While, Mister Adams believed murder to be extreme, he was a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words. Things were becoming bleak and its members created chaos – stoning target houses and tar and feathering were some exercises used. Its members didn't always adhere to their leaders. Andrew Oliver, Boston's stamp collector, was not so fortunate. Upon being surrounded by Whigs in the streets, he panicked and fled for his life to the safety of a burning house – his home. Shortly after, Mister Adams told and explained to me that he was hung in effigy from an elm tree, known by Bostonians as the Liberty Tree, for the world to witness.
News of riots began to spread; the British haven't a clue how to respond to such brute force. Word had also reached father. He has been spending time in town to catch up on events or find new news. When mum was outdoors, father pumped me with questions. He wanted to know why such force, and the purpose of it? He also became relentless and asked if I was apart of such acts. Every time he asked, I shook my head and promised I would never engage in that type of action again.
"Are you telling the truth, Samuel?" he asked for the third time today.
"Father! What more do you want from me? My blood? My hair? How about my neck?" The same question was usually asked by him and my answer was always, "No." Although, after defending myself for days on end, I was losing my patience.
A stick hovered over my scalp, causing me to close my eyes tightly, ready for a lickin'. A few seconds passed – nothing. I was still alive! Opening my eyes, the stick was resting on father's lap. I hoped he would place a sack over my head because his expression was frightening. Father's bushy brows lurched forward, the nostrils flared, his cheeks were crimson and father's brownish front teeth were in plain view, as he breathed heavily, open-mouthed. I watched how hard he gripped his walking stick and both hands were trembling.
"Samuel!" he roared. "I command for you to stop hiding by the fire pit and show me respect. Move your ass and kneel before my eyes."
I shook my head. I regretted my outburst and wanted nothing to do with father at the moment.
"Move it! If I have to crawl on my belly, so help me God, I will! Come here," he hollered. His voice caused an echo that rang throughout the house. I prayed mum would come home soon. Why did she have to, of all days, visit one of our neighbors today?
I watched father slowly stand and arched his finger, trying a different approach. "Samuel…," he called, taking a seat in his rocking chair afterwards. "We could go at this all night, son. What say you quit being stubborn and obey me?" his voice starting calm.
Reluctant to sit within a foot near him, I decided I should cooperate or a punishment would arise. When I knelt, my shins were facing the floor but my heels supported my bum, pushing me upwards a few inches, and allowing me to nearly sit eye level. "Father, I –"
A palm silenced me. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples clockwise. I noticed both of his cheeks began turning a palish colour. Curiosity grew inside and I crept closer to study his face, his eyes were still clamped shut. I watched the rhythm of his breathing – his chest rising deeply under his black shirt. I leaned inward and pressed one of my ears tightly to father's chest and listened; rattling and snorts escaped freely inside. Two large arms pulled me tighter against his chest so that my left ear drum was pinned against a stomach. An awkward pitter-thump, thump, pitter, thump, thump of father's heartbeat greeted my hearing. One hand was firmly placed behind my head, stroking my hair; the other caressing my lips.
"Father?" I began, burying my head into his stomach.
Silence.
"Father?" I tried again in a muffled voice. When I never received an answer, I decided to glance into his face again. He was watching me, but oddly. Cocking my head, I glared at him, trying to make sense of the situation. I watched his eyes dart in all directions, as if he was studying every detail about me. Then without warning, he pulled me tight into his chest again and squeezed hard. On the rare occasion, I welcomed this affection and I did not bother to fight it. I rested my head on his jolly stomach, pretending it was a pillow, and took comfort of how deeply he was breathing.
Minutes flew by, and we finally broke contact. At first we both studied each other's face, and then I decided to break the silence. "Are you all right? I am used to your sensitive nature, but that was sudden. What happened? Are you not angry with me anymore?" I locked gazes with his and stared innocently… waiting.
A deep breath, another quick hug, and he finally spoke. "My only son and my only child. I will be honest with you Samuel. My emotions, since hearing about these local riots have escalated with mixed emotions of anger, sadness and most of all, fear. Knowing you are apart of this group… Samuel, there is nothing in this world, I fear more then to lose my only child."
"But, I told you. I have nothing to do with those disturbances."
Sighing, he patted the top of my head, while I was still kneeling on my shins. "I know. I had a gut feeling all along but the thought you are connected to these Sons of Liberty in some way - What if you were killed, Samuel?"
"I will not be killed. You have my vow, Father," I said, crossing my heart. "I will not become the stalker I once was. Those days are over but please try and see my point of view and others too. The Whigs are making a stand and believe strongly in the cause. They are trying to prove if rules won't be changed then maybe a physical approach is necessary."
Father leaned forward and scratched behind my ear. I let him and waited for his answer. Seconds slipped by before he spoke again. "Samuel, if I had known the web you would have entangled yourself in, I would never have asked for your assistance. This is my request; I wish for you to disband from that organization. I fear you are a walking target and we love you too much to risk your life. However," he warned. "If you decide to continue to follow, I feel it would only be right for Martha, your mother, be included. What say you, son?"
"I cannot leave in an instant. I believe in freedom, as much as you do, Father. I want to stay with them. But why does Mum have to know? She might blab our secrecy."
"If you stay, she has to know. As far as I am concerned these Sons of Liberty do not seem to be a secret group anymore, but raiders. What if something happens to you? How would you feel if Martha knew nothing at all? I will, however attempt to keep her lips shut if she enters town, so not all is lost. Do we have an agreement, young man?"
I nodded instantly. "Deal," and I shook, his hand swallowing mine. "Father?"
"Yes, son?"
I stood and clamped my arms around his waist and squeezed. "I love you."
A small, quivering sound rang out. "I love you too, Samuel," came a shrill voice. When we let ago of each other, both of us had tears dripping from our cheeks. Father was faintly smiling; I frowning, looking into a familiar face that I've grown with since birth.
Thwack! I heard a door slam shut and an object moved around the house; footsteps shifting quickly around the kitchen. The object eventually made their way into the foyer. "My, what is this? Samuel? Are you becoming a lovey-dovey?"
I didn't move, nor answered her. Father, at first, didn't either. But finally, when mum decided to sit on the bench next to us, her face grew with concern. "Welcome? Have you been crying?"
Father gently eased me away, by means of pushing a shoulder blade, and pointed towards my bed. I nodded, kissed a cheek and retired for the evening without food. I could hear the beginnings of their conversations perfectly but it did not matter. I knew what it would be about. Twisting my waist, I faced the wall and buried my own emotions deep and drifted off to sleep. |
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230th F&I Commemeration; Fort Ti, 2007
Last edited by Samuel Garrison on Sun Jul 23, 2006 10:15 pm; edited 3 times in total |
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| Posted: Thu Feb 16, 2006 3:07 am Post subject: |
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___
A week had passed and August was coming to an end but before the month could bid us a farewell, a story was published. The article stated that Governor Thomas Hutchinson suffered an attack by Boston's most feared mob. The group attacked his home, removing all its contents from within and burning the mansion. Father and Mum had already read the article and slept in their quarters.
Dawn broke and the sun's rays slowly pushed the stars and moon away, presenting white puffy clouds and a brilliant blue sky. Its rays shone brightly through one of the windows in the sitting room and caused me to remove my shirt, so I was sitting on the floor in gray breeches and wearing buckskin slippers mum sewed for me.
I read the story twice already but I couldn't put the paper down. In dismay and shock, I read it for a third time:
I laid the article onto the floor, and gawked into thin air.
Thwack! I ignored the sound of the door being shut; it meant nothing to me.
A yawn, followed by a groan and then light footsteps moved steadily into my sleeping area next to the fire pit. I felt a finger tap the bare skin of my shoulder, but I ignored the gesture.
A sharp sting connected into my spine. I yelped and quickly turned around, while rubbing the tender area. "What was that for?" I said, angrily.
"For being foolish and inconsiderate," mum said.
"Why are you angry? I didn't want to be bothered. That is why I didn't turn around."
Mum ignored my question, walked briskly into the sitting room and resumed a spot on the wooden bench, next to father's rocking chair. I twisted my body around so I could face her and waited for a hopeful explanation. Her expression was blank and her blue eyes appeared to be burning into my face.
Flexing my muscles, I decided to lean backwards and lie on my back and wait. A long silence passed. I thought about the governor and what was written about him. He seemed to be an important man, someone with authority. I began to turn my attention toward the Whigs and the vicious attack some where responsible for. Was I apart of a mob or was I a fellow Patriot? I am a rebel, I told myself firmly. Governor Hutchinson must have deserved it, I thought to myself. The Sons of Liberty represented freedom. They wouldn't attack, not unless he was allied with the Crown, I reminded myself. Or would they? Some doubt began to seep inside, and I felt the beats of my heart quicken. I started to understand father and mum's concern with my involvement within the Sons of Liberty. This group was a force, a cement wall. By growing into nearly twenty members, we were the new officials in Boston. Even the redcoats feared for their lives to become directly involved with the Whigs' motives. A lump began settled into my stomach and I lurched forward, gripping my waist as I coughed.
When I finished, I glanced at mum. She was still sitting. I forced a thin smile and asked for help.
Silence.
"Mum!" I screeched, "Why won't you talk to me? I feel horrible. My insides feel like their entangled. Can you help me?" I asked, in a pleading voice.
Mum reacted by moving towards me, rubbed my head gently and returned to her room.
"What help was that?" I hollered, hoping someone would hear my pleas.
I reached for the article, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the pit. I sat and gaped at the rocking chair and bench.
A couple seconds passed and I heard a door slam shut again. A heavy and awkward sound crept up behind me. I winced, prepared for another whack. Instead, the person moved passed and I watched a near naked man, whom wrapped the lower part with a dark tunic, hobble away. I peered up and locked gazes with fathers'. He dropped his walking stick to the right, sat in his favorite seat and beckoned for me to come closer towards him.
I obeyed and crawled so that I was in front of his hairy kneecaps.
He readjusted the tunic, making sure it wouldn't fall off. "Good morning, Samuel."
I grunted and said, "Good morning."
"I heard quite a commotion. What happened?"
"I felt ill and asked for Mum's help. But she didn't and walked passed me."
"Odd," father said, stroking the stubs on his chin. "Are you sure there was not anything else? Something you are not telling me?"
"Maybe…," I gulped.
"Out with it, Samuel," he said, sharply.
"Before Mum came, I finished the article about Thomas Hutchinson, for the third time and it shocked me. I was in no mood to be bothered."
"Go ahead," he urged.
"I heard Mum sneak behind me and tap my shoulder, but I ignored her. Then she smacked my back for no good reason."
"No reason indeed. Samuel, have you no clue? She is worried for your safety. It seems that your mother wanted to speak with you. By ignoring her existence, it caused hurt."
I had not thought of that. I pointed to the fabric slipping from father's lap. He looked down, thanked me and carefully retied it.
"Is she angry with me?"
"No, I am sure of it," he sighed. "She would pierce me a new belly button if I informed you but late in the night when you are snoring or off with Adams and Revere, I have to listen to Martha sob into her pillow. I always attempted to comfort your mother by pulling her under the wing of my arm; no use. Your mother is afraid for you, as I am."
"But…," I couldn't respond, words escaped me.
Father sensed something was wrong and asked.
"I'm not sure. I thought a little when Mum was in the sitting room while you were sleeping. I thought about the Sons of Liberty and the governor. I started to realize how fierce and powerful they've become. I finally understand their actions were a direct impact on me and us. Though I was not apart of the raid, I played a part in the burning of Mister Hutchinson's home and Mister Oliver hanging in effigy, for simply being a member of the group. That is when an illness struck my stomach."
"Praise God!" I watched him throw his arms up high. He reached forward, careful to not let the tunic slip and pinched a cheek gently. "You finally understand your involvement and the serious consequences it will and already has caused. Will you leave them now?"
"I would be a traitor. What if they think I changed my mind and sided with the redcoats? The Whigs know our surname. What if they came and attacked us?"
Father sighed and asked for me to check if mum was awake. If she was, he instructed for me to tell her to come into the sitting room. Standing, I turned around, walked briskly from the foyer, and turned a right-hand corner. I crept into their quarters and gently closed the door. On a bed, under a large bear skin cover, lied mum. I shook her and mentioned that father wanted to see us both. She nodded in the room, lit brightly by the sun's rays and told me she would be a moment. I nodded and closed the door behind me.
"Is she coming?" he called.
I stepped into the sitting room, walked passed the fire pit, careful to not trip over shirts near my bed and resumed my position in front of his knees. "Yes, she is coming, Father. She said she wanted to put her dress, bonnet and apron on first."
Thwack! The door to my parent's room slammed shut. I heard mum walking behind my body and stopped suddenly.
"Welcome Garrison! What on earth? You're naked!"
"I am not!" he growled. "Son, do you see anything?"
I glanced at the tunic and shook my head. "Nothing, Father."
"Put some clothes on, for Heaven's Sake!"
Father chuckled and pointed towards me. "Look at our son. He is not wearing a shirt, and rightfully so. The warmth is oppressive."
"He is covered, Welcome," mum said, impatiently.
"So am I, Martha. Unless of course, if you find this ancient thing such a bother, I will remove it." I watched father's hand slowly creep down.
"Stop! You wouldn't in front of Samuel?"
A laugh bellowed throughout the room. "Of course I would not, but boy, I sure got a rise out of you," he chuckled.
I smiled too. It was amusing watching mum in an uproar.
Mum stomped into the foyer and sat on the bench, glaring at him.
"Enjoying the excitement, son?"
I nodded happily.
"Ouch! What was that for, Martha?"
"For being you."
Father rubbed his left arm, smiling. "Full of piss and vinegar today, aren't we?"
She ignored his comment and sat in silence.
Chuckling, he reached over and hugged mum. "Right then, you know Samuel has been apart of these Sons of Liberty for some time, yes?"
Mum nodded, choosing to ignore him.
"Whilst you were in our room, he admitted he understands the atrocity he placed himself into."
"I what?" I asked, confused.
"You understand the brutality," father said, facing my direction. "Following this morning's events in the paper, I assume he would leave?"
He glanced at my face questionably and I nodded slightly. It was gut-wrenching to decide on which side of the coin my loyalties should remain. One half of my body was tearing and screeching for me to stay with the Whigs. The other was yelling angrily, remember who gave birth to me and my kin should outweigh any desires with the Whigs.
His rumbling voice snapped me out of my thoughts and I returned my full attention to father.
"However, our son has made a strong point. He cannot leave now, it is too late," he said, reaching and tightening the fabric.
Mum turned towards her right in father's direction. "Why couldn't he leave? Surely no one is forcing Samuel to stay? Or are they?" She looked to me for an answer. I shook my head in response. "Then why cannot he stop with all the midnight meetings, where it is only endangering his life?"
"That is the answer, Martha. Samuel cannot disband from them because he is apart of them. Judging from the brute force, what would stop this group to attack our son outright, if they thought he was betraying them? These Sons of Liberty have no distinct way of knowing Samuel wants out; it is his word against theirs. I am afraid, though it pains me terribly, we must support our son and no longer belittle his decision."
"Speak for your self," mum huffed, and her cheeks began reddening. "You knew what Samuel was up too, yet you never informed me?"
"A mistake I will regret later on, after life," he retorted.
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