013. Cemetery; Our Sacrifices, Will They Be In Vain?
1773.
Sitting side by side, Sam and I leaned against Judge Sewell’s tomb in the Granary Burial Grounds. It had to have been ten minutes since either of us had spoken.
“Do you fear death?” I asked by breaking the silence.
He turned to the right and I turned my head also until we are looking at each other. Sam Adams displayed a somber expression, and I suppose I was as equally as depressed.
“That was forward of ye,” Sam blinked.
“Have I not always been outspoken?” I asked.
He nodded in approval. “I suppose I am just as open in mind but not so with opinions from those I deplore." Sam coughed and swallowed.
“Does the question cause nervousness within?” I probed.
He nodded - tight-lipped - but reached out and rubbed the nape of my neck while he spoke. “I fear one day our sacrifices will be lost to the generations. I fear the future. I fear to those footsteps thy treading softly by my stone, and remember who that sacrificed their fortunes, freedom and lives."
“I am sure the people will never forget, Sam, as long as the memory stays alive among the citizens,” I said, trying to cheer him up, even though I was not exactly leaping for joy myself.
Sam frowned. “We shall see, in spirit, two hundred and fifty years in time.”
There has been a question nagging me but up until now, I have been too hesitant to ask. Sam was very much closer than a trusted mate. He was my father – by choice. I thought a little more and then without thinking I blurted, “Samuel, I have a question but be warned, it is personal. I suppose coming in contact with death on numerous occasions, the subject is thoroughly on my mind today.”
“I do believe that is the first ye have spoken of my full name, Master Garrison. What does this question entail?”
“I consider you more than a mate, as you think of me more than a fellow Whig. There is my Father at home, my heavenly Father above, and my third, you – Samuel Adams. The question is, if death tapped your shoulder with his boney finger, and your spirit was sent to the Golden Gates awaiting rightful passage, where would it be; your eternal sleep? I will understand if you wish to ignore it,” I said glumly.
“Are ye inquiring about my will and last testament, Samuel?” he asked by raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“A miniscule trace of the Adams' bloodline may be circulating through thy veins but ye are not pure of blood. Therefore, I will not reveal the entire portion of my will, except to family.”
My throat tightened immediately. Sam’s comment hurt. He had stayed by my side once and nursed me back to health during the Bloody Massacre. He let me live in his home until I regained my strength, which was no simple feat. The amputations to my toes and swollen ankle took considerable amount of time for me to heal properly. Yet, Sam managed to remember the procedures Doctor Warren suggested by dismissing possible infections and despite two men sleeping in the same bed, that fact never faltered under him. As far as I am concerned Sam Adams is family – he said it was so himself seven years ago.
“Judging from the mask of disappointment you have instantly displayed in my presence, my blood does flow inside your body. These dreadful scars have forever linked us; we are bound together. Therefore, I shall reveal an intimate passage towards the ending of my last testament. I trust again, within Samuel Adams Garrison, he will not speak of, so personal an aspect of myself?”
I reached out and clasped Sam’s shoulder. “Have I not kept the bond between you and I in secrecy, even with my biological kin?”
He nodded. “That you have, Master Garrison. I cannot say on your behalf, but in this strain I am speaking of, I wish to be rested in my native Boston, in the Granary.”
I nodded in agreement and removed my hand. “I had not thought much of it until today, but yes, I suppose I would also like to plant roots in my native home. Many thanks, Sam.”
“There is more,” and then Sam coughs.
“Oh?”
“The circumstances have presented themselves this day, but as a somber a conversation this has become, I too have thought about what is to become of generations ahead of me. Privately, I have occasionally thought of how I should be remembered, when all flesh has fled away. In my will near the ending, has enclosed the following passage:
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>SACRED
>>>>>>>>>Rememb’r me as I Was, when ye pass by
my decree
>>>>>>>>>Will Set thy Free
By releasing I”
“Those are profound thoughts,” I remarked, and then we both lapse once more into silence, thinking deeply.
*
Afterword from Author:
Thank you for reading. I actually wrote this story in script format three years ago in Dennis, Cape Cod. And guess what? At the time I was thinking about my characters, and wishing I had my computers, I was sitting in a bench. In back, a Church was having their Sunday sermon, and to the left of me, the very same Puritan beliefs overlooked my able hand as it wrote. Those headstones were no more than five feet away, which inspired this short story.
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