So the reasoning for posting a new version is so that you (the reader) can read the First Draft (above) if you're curious to see the changes that took place through some editing, and there was a decent amount of it done. I hope the Second Draft is more appealing than the first.
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A Shiny Reddish Colour
Jessica Bruce
Octor 10 1779;
During this moment the flag was at Fort Gage*, I saw some men that lead in a wounded person. I supposed it was an Indian being the top of his head was so red and shiny. Upon a closer approach, the man was a Rebel, recently scalped. By the top of his head, I dare say I took immediate notice to the thin layer of pieces of black hair that clung to the flesh, which the wound was about six inches wide. It slipped a bit off the side of the prisoner’s head but the underside delivered more fresh blood secreting and other unpleasureable views of damaged veins that seemed to still pulse. My left eye twitched involuntarily upon this spectacle presented before me. A few more seconds passed and I wished to not see his scalp any longer, so I merely nodded, but cast my attention to the prisoner’s clothing. He wore tattered, dark blue rags that barely stayed on the frame of his sagging shoulders. This I guessed was the remains of his uniform. His cotton shirt laid in strips down the man’s chest, which presented a most disagreeable display of mud and bones of the human ribs.
“I believe I should recognize him, Lieutenant Enys,” a Serjeant bellowed and then squinted. Shortly, I watched as he proceeded to force the prisoner’s head upright by means of pressing the neck back with his thumb.
“Oh?” I asked curiously and cocked my right eyebrow.
“You do not know him?” the same man of our regiment asked.
Before I was able to respond, a sharp groan escaped from the prisoner. We – a Serjeant, Corporal and myself of our regiment – all looked. These two soldiers stared, and I must further comment, their staring is rather crude in nature for one that hardly appeared alive.
“I do not know,” I said after a few moments.
A slender man stepped up close to the right side of me. “Sir, if it pleases you, I humbly ask permission to speak,” the Corporal said.
I nodded. “It shall be done. Continue.”
“I recollect, Sir. He was a deserter from our regiment and from your party. He once served with the Artillery in ’76,’” the Corporal said.
With his firelock leaning against his left shoulder, the Corporal slipped himself under the prisoner’s left arm and allowed this man to lean in with all his weight. “For good measure,” he responded.
“Indeed,” I commented dryly.
The Serjeant’s thumb was still under the chin that arched the prisoner’s neck back; I approached closer and asked firmly, “Are these accusations true?”
The prisoner at first coughed rather violently, which I clearly saw bits of blood settled on his teeth and then he shuddered. Perhaps he might have been choking on his own blood due to the coughing fit but it not certain. His tongue, however, wallowed and twisted about inside. I believe he attempted to speak but words were a great source of difficulty. Silence might have been this one’s solution when faced with malignant peril but his strength in keeping himself upright with only his left arm supported over the neck of the Corporal; it should also be recognized of remarkable resilience.
“Serjeant, remove your thumb. Let us see if he can speak without further discomfort,” I commanded.
Obliged to agree, he removed his thumb and then grunted. Through the corner of my left eye, I saw him clutch tightly the top of the barrel of his firelock, ever ready I supposed if he must put it to use.
The prisoner’s head slumped. To ensure he had not a single concealed weapon, though I was very much certain of our safety due to his ill health, I nonetheless felt compelled to encircle him. In doing so, I immediately bore witness to his right arm hiding behind but it jutted outwards in an unusual angle. I glanced up and took also to notice, there were three very deep wounds at the back of his head, I assumed resulted from a tomahawk. Blood leaked freely from these wounds too. I came to the front again and so violent of a concussion he has also received, surely never poor a fellow suffered more than this one did.
Not expecting any sort of a satisfactory response, I asked once more in a less commanding tone to the prisoner. If he had once been a soldier of the Twenty-Ninth, the very least he deserved were not raised voices. “Two men remember your company. Do you know it?”
In response, his chest rose underneath the rags of clothing but exhaling proved to be the near end. He shook so hard, I supposed the Corporal who supported him was taken aback by the sudden outburst, jumped a little and then released. The prisoner upon the earth just lied there, silent as a lamb but now his eyes had shut. His breathing appeared laboured, as in every breath he tried to take in, choking and gasping sounds were the result.
“Bring him to his feet,” I commanded softly.
The prisoner foremost screamed and yelped when the two soldiers under my command lifted him promptly to a standing position. The scalped layer of skin moved and now it draped just over his left brow, a sort of grotesque patch. I frankly could not help myself and swallowed. Such things no man can take in reasonably.
“I must ask but are the accusations brought forth against you, are they truthful?” I asked promptly.
“Aye,” the prisoner muttered to the earth feebly.
“Have you abandoned His Majesty, King George the Third, and country?” I pressed.
“Aye,” he said with little delay.
“I am most certain that you realize the penalty for desertion, yes?”
He flinched and spitted blood.
The Serjeant moved in on the prisoner after that motion so that both were near nose-to-nose. “How dare –“
“Serjeant, step back,” I commanded sharply.
The Serjeant followed through with his order and filed back four steps into his original position and once more clutched the top of the barrel.
“Aye, Sir,” the prisoner said in a frail tone shortly afterwards. “I res… Pa –lease. I…” The whites of his eyes rolled up, than fell below inside his eyelids. His lower lips quivered. I watched them as they parched into the shape of an‘O,’ shortly after.
“Are you attempting to speak?” I asked the obvious question but if it is true, it should be inquired.
The prisoner grunted in response but then his voice attempted to address us with much effort. “I…” He convulsed for a bit of time whilst we waited for the fit to cease. “I res, res, res – pect… full – eee…Da, da, do, Sa, Sa…”
I clasped his shoulder, glanced straight into this fellow’s eyes and held contact for a few minutes. When satisfied, I motioned for the Serjeant and Corporal to lead him away to another ship until the Twenty-Ninth shall return to ours. The prisoner yelped as he was dragged away but due to his credit, he did not put up a fuss in the way of painful outbursts, nor attempted to flee. I watched the nobility of one soldier who traded his life for a less becoming offer, and his sacrifice was pure.
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Octor 12 1779;
Word has just reached my ears that notwithstanding all which he lived for some days afterwards, that particular prisoner died on board of one of the ships on Lake Champlain, after our party had barely returned to ours today.
*Gages Heights according to Enys, might have been “Fort Gage,” south of Fort George.
Source: “The American Journals of Lt. John Enys.”
The setting is 1779, and the American Revolution ended in 1783. The colonies declared their independance from England in 1775, which was about the time the "States" were birthed.
Gender:
Points: 22
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