Young Writers Society

Old reply from 2005 - unimportant.

*

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.

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.

Father and mum

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.

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.

Thwack!

Sound effects should really be reconsidered. Use description instead, unless you think the immediacy of "Thwack" is necessary.

Her expression was a blank

was blank.

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.

My insides feel that their entangled

feel like their entangled.

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.

I lurched foreword, gripping my waist and coughed.

I lurched forward, gripping my waist as I coughed.

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.

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.''

He reached foreword

forward.

"I would be a trader

not entirely sure but should that be: 'traitor'

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)

"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.

Hiya, Jig. I corrected the mistakes, thank you.

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.

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.

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:

intensions

.

intentions.

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

*

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.

___

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.

"What can we do?"

"We can prepare him," father said firmly. "I may be nearing sixty, but that is some distance away. I am still able to move around a little. I will train our son thoroughly in all aspects of fighting."

Upon hearing that, I edged closer, excitedly.

"Do not assume I am doing this for your pleasure, Samuel," he said, waving a finger in my face, warning me. "Remember your vow?"

"What vow?"

"The promise you assured me that you would never enlist, when we showed you my uniform."

"But there isn't a war."

"If one should arise, you promised to not engage in it."

"I remember. When can we start?"

"Your vow?"

"Father!" I laughed. "Will you stop with the questions?"

He grunted, and delivered a message, forcing my heart to leap into my mouth. "We begin now, as soon as I am properly dressed."

Father clutched the tunic with his left hand and reached for the floor on his right to grab his walking stick.

Before he could lift himself, "And I?"

He tightened the tunic against his waist and glanced at mum. "And what?"

"What help am I capable of?"

"Teach the boy to sew," father said seriously. "If his clothes tear, he will need to know the proper way to mend." Standing, he limped across the room and shut the door to dress.

I stood and sat next to mum on the bench. I cocked my head and asked, "Are you angry with my choice being apart of the Sons of Liberty?"

"I'm not happy, but no Samuel," she frowned.

"Are you alright with Father further teaching me combat?" I asked boldly.

"I support defending one's self for his country, and his namesake," was all mum said. Then she stood and I watched her walk to the house's entrance and slammed the door.

After she left, the door to my parent's room immediately flung open. "Where has that women wandered off this time?"

"She went outdoors, maybe visit one of the neighbors or she is headed for town."

"Maybe…," father said, scratching his smooth chin. Son, fetch your hatchet and dagger from the warring room."

He moved closer into the light, away from the casting shadows. I smiled and pointed towards him.

"Yes?"

"Father," I giggled. "I think you forgot something."

"What now?"

"Look down."

He did, and yelped, trying to cover himself and bolted back into his quarters.

The door to father and mum's room squeaked as it slowly opened.

"How is this?" father asked, stepping into the foyer.

"Your cheeks are a brilliant red, aside from that, you are clothed," I said, giggling again.

He was wearing gray breeches, no shoes and the same tunic he had with him earlier, secured around his neck; exposing a hairy chest and a bulging belly.

"Move your bum and fetch your weapons!" he yelled. I sprinted away immediately, knowing he was not angry, but secretly embarrassed.

After a few minutes, I returned with the hatchet, knife and I also brought the musket.

"You planning to hunt whilst we are out there?" father said, pointing to the gun.

"I brought it for protection."

He sighed. "You are learning too quickly. Come, let us go."

I let father pass and helped to steady his weight by allowing him to lean on my left shoulder, while I hauled the rest in my opposite hand. We stepped slowly towards the entrance and walked outdoors. I slipped from under father's arm temporally, shut the door firmly, and then resumed my position under his left arm again. Father walked one foot at a time, down the steps until we reached the earth.

Father instructed that we head into an open area. So, I led him twenty yards from the log house, in an effort to save him discomfort if he wished to retire.

"Samuel, leave the musket by the house. We will not be needing it."

Obeying his request, I walked north and behind of the house, I leaned it against the privy. It was in plain view, allowing me to quickly retrieve the musket if required, although, the stench seeping from the half-moon shack would kill a fly on contact. I plugged my nostrils and sprinted away. When I returned, I resumed my position by letting his massive weight rest on a shoulder.

"Thank you, son. The techniques I will begin teaching will transform you into an expert fighter. Before we start, I require your solemn vow-"

"Father…," I groaned. "Not the enlisting speech again. Spare me, would you?"

"Shush!" he bellowed. His sudden outburst caused me to jump a few inches. He grunted, "Keep that trap of yours shut for once. It is your involvement our family is in this predicament. I was asking for a pact, Samuel. The things I will teach; you will become a warrior. I want a promise son that you will never engage, unless first provoked. What say you, Samuel?"

"I understand. Will you be alright if I slip from under your weight? My shoulder is numbing."

"That is fine. Order of business today - technical combat and stealth. We have already experienced basic training. Remember?"

I nodded. "I remember, Father. You taught me the handle of the hatchet is as deadly as the blade itself."

"Right then; what I have not taught is the importance of stealth." He pointed to the forest. "I want for you to hand me your weapons and walk into the thicket, and wait for further instructions. If this was a normal circumstance, the object would be to sneak behind, without hearing your presence, and attack with an actual weapon. Of course, this tactic would be used in surveying an enemy also."

Confused, I handed him the hatchet and knife. "How am I to sneak from behind? You will hear me."

"Samuel," he sighed. "Firstly, notice I am not wearing shoes. This should be your first hint. Be cooperative, listen and watch. Go, whilst I sit and rest my leg."

"Alright, if you say so." I trudged into the forest, a few feet and selected a wide bush that I thought would hide my body, but allowed me to observe father. I knelt on my haunches and waited.

I watched him turn so that I was gazing at the hindquarters of a man. My heart began to quicken its pace, preparing to best father. Minutes passed and I started wondering if I strayed too far and couldn't hear his instructions. I bet I could creep near him, I thought to myself. After all, I have become a skilled hunter. Grinning, I slowly lowered my body, careful to not snap any twigs and I lied on my stomach. If I am able, I could slide my body along with my elbows and when I get close enough, I will slap his back and grin.

He remained seated, his back facing me. My nerves finally gripped my actions and I started easing my body forward, without father's orders. I was anxious to prove that I was already skilled enough.

I crept along, digging my elbows into the earth and slinked along slowly, gaining a few inches at a time. When I reached the border of our property and nearly out of the woods, father spoke.

"Samuel… Go back and hide. I can hear you a mile away, son," he said.

Groaning, I retreated and selected another bush, one that was closer to the property and waited again.

An agonizing silence passed. My haunches began to ache from resting my weight so long. His back was still mocking my intentions.

Finally, he spoke. "Samuel, show your old man how great you can be. Let see what you have again, son."

Licking my lips, this time I slowly eased upwards, bending my knees slightly to the earth and carefully watched where I was stepping. I attempted to avoid every stone, twig and leaf by sidestepping them. This time, I reached our property and father hadn't said a word. Tiptoeing, I crept up beside his back. Excitement flowed through my veins. This is it, I said in my head. With a wide smile, I prepared to tap his balding head with my index finger.

Instead, he quickly turned and pointed the knife directly into my abdominals, smiling also and catching me by surprise. "You are dead, son," he laughed.

"How… But… How did you know I was right behind you?"

Chuckling, he stood and handed me my hatchet and knife. "I heard you, again from quite a distance. Tell me, son. What was your approach?"

"Well, I first thought I try to creep along, by means of digging my elbows to the earth and inching forward. I suppose it is a habit of mine. I often stay downwind when I hunt. Next, I tried to kneel and tiptoe from behind. That seemed to work better. I was able to spot objects that wouldn't give my position away."

"I see," he said scratching his chin. "Whilst your attempts were good practice, there were several mistakes. First, remove your leather slippers your Mother sewed for you."

Cocking my head, I shrugged, and tossed them to the side. "So, what else?"

"By removing your shoes, you can use the pads of your feet to feel your surroundings. It is easier to judge what objects are more delicate then others by touching them with a toe, thus you are capable of ignoring them. Also, the pads of your feet should not produce clattering or severe echoes, which a shoe against a hard floor would."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I will remember, I promise."

He nodded and sat to rest again. "The other mistake made was you breathe, Samuel, like it was your last breath. You breathe too loudly. Were you nervous at all?"

"Anxious. I wanted to best you," I replied honestly.

"Well, you will not that way," he said chuckling. "When you sneak towards an enemy, you need to learn to breathe through your nose, not your mouth. It also helps to train your lungs, so you are able to hold air for at least a minute. Though, your idea about crawling on the stomach is not exceedingly foolish. It is a great strategy, but in the future, attempt it in an open field, where it is less likely you will stumble upon branches and such. The strategy works well if no one has spotted your body, in which case the element of surprise is on your side. What say you, son? Do you follow?"

"I do, Father; every word."

"Good. Notice how dark my tunic is?" He asked me to untie and hold it over my arms, while I was holding the weapons. "It is also helpful to hide your body. If you ever are wearing a tunic and it is a darker colour, people will have a difficult time being able to spot limbs if you toss it over your head and crumple into a tight ball."

My face beamed at that concept. The thought of becoming invisible was thrilling. "Could I try it?"

"Of course, that is why you have my tunic in your arms. I want you to practice. Go ahead, move around on the earth and get a feel of your weight. It will directly influence your movements. I must require that you hand me the hatchet and dagger again; would not want you to impale yourself."

I smiled and dropped them into his lap, flopped onto the earth, tossed the fabric over my head and squirmed, trying to learn about stealth. While I was moving in different directions, I also attempted to break a habit and breathe through my nose. I tried to suck in deep amounts of air and count each time before I exhaled.

After several minutes, when I thought I learned the basic concept of father's advice, I stood and asked if there was anything else I should know.

"Yes, of course. You really seem to have developed a fancy with fighting, son. I never have seen you so eager. Usually, you would give me lip."

"I'm enjoying myself," I smiled.

"I see. Whilst, I am not enjoying it, I hope by my teachings you will be able to defend yourself if another riot happens and you are caught on the brink of survival. Now, I will demonstrate how your body is an extraordinary weapon itself."

I watched him drop both weapons, and his walking stick to the right, next to his injured knee. Father beckoned for me to stand as close to his body as possible. "Earlier, I showed the importance of the end of the hatchet and pointed to certain areas that would cause immense pain if you connected, even death," he began. "What I have not shown you is how dangerous your palms, knees and elbows could be."

"I don't understand."

"Watch, son." He flattened his hand, so I was looking at his palm. "If you arch your fingers into curls, your palm has a broader range to connect. You may not know, but there are very little nerves in this area," he said, rubbing it. "Thus, a person should be able to hit firmly against an object that would normally cause a flicker of pain. For example, if you attempted to punch a wall with your fist, chances are a few bones would break. But if you strike with your palms, the pain should be minimal."

"Can I try it?"

"On who, Samuel? I am the only one here," father smiled. "If events favor us, you will never have to worry. By using these palms; strike in the center of the nose. It will cause immense pain, possibly breaking it, in which case you are able to flee. If your attacker grips your throat and pulls you into their face, use that power; move in with the force and smack the sides of their ears with your palms. This should cause pain to travel directly into their brain; again you are able to escape. However, son, should you have to perform this technique, avoid the temples, above the ears. Your intention is to flee for safety, not to destroy your attacker. The temples are delicate, and an immense connection to them could potentially kill a person. Remember that, Samuel."

I was in awe of how much knowledge he possessed. I glanced towards my hands and marveled them.

Father whacked the side of head lightly. "Pay attention, son. Your elbows can be used to attack the sides of the stomach. The pain could be minimal, but in the event that your attacker moves into your face, you should be close enough where you can lean to the side and shove the elbow into their rib cage."

Watching father demonstrate the movements and the concept was simple to understand like the palms. I should tuck my fists inwards, so that it forced my elbows to protrude outwards. By doing this, I can sidestep the attacker and swiftly jam them into the rib cage, before the person reacts.

When he spoke of the proper technique to use my knees, he said I was able to cause complications, but no serious damage, like bones breaking but enough that it would allow me to escape. His own knee started to flare and I watched him sit and rest again. By speech, he instructed when I was in close quarters of my attacker, depending how agile I was, I could lift a knee swiftly and aim for the groin. If the person hunched over, in an attempt to punch, the opportunity was open to quickly smack underneath the jaw with a knee. Father mentioned, depending on my force, I could potentially tear the tongue if their teeth connected into the tender area.

"How are you holding, Samuel?"

"I feel alright," I replied, and a broad smile spread on my lips. "How are you holding, Father? Are you tired?"

"I am getting to that point, son. But I am fine for now. I want you to fetch your dagger. The last piece of your training is not melee, but rather attacking from a distance."

He slowly pulled his body from the earth and he leaned heavily on his stick. "Give it to me," father ordered. I handed father the knife and watched him limp away about three feet. He turned around and faced the side of the house. Father first gripped the knife and positioned the tip of the blade in his left index and thumb. Without warning, it flung swiftly and I gawked at the knife, which was firmly embedded in the wood.

"How?"

"Watch, my dear inquisitive son. Fetch the dagger and hand it to me, please."

I nodded, walking swiftly towards the house. I gave the knife a quick jerk, turned, walked towards him, and placed it into father's left hand.

"Notice how I am gripping it? I am lightly holding the end of the blade and using my thumb and index finger to steady the dagger. It be may be weeks, months or years, for you to throw it accurately. The idea is to throw in close company with your enemy and in such a way that the blade travels in the appearance of an arrow."

"The hatchet too?"

"Too difficult, at least I never learned," he smiled.

"Is there more to learn?"

"Of course. I could spend the next six months teaching you all that I learned but I believe the knowledge you possess now is sufficient for defense purposes. That is all for now, besides your earlier teachings. Practice and learn to harness them, son."

"Right now?"

A thunderous laugh rang. "Of course not. My feeble body is commanding that I nap. What say you and I both nap?"

"I am a bit weary now. My muscles ache in my neck. Need help Father? You can lean on my shoulder if you want."

"Yes, that would be noble of you, Samuel."

I grabbed his tunic, placed the weapons inside its folds, secured the fabric around and placed the bundle under my left arm. Extending my left hand, father gripped it and I hauled the heavy man to his feet, allowing him to lean on my right shoulder. We both hobbled inside the house to rest.

Okay, here goes! I'm sorry it took so long for me to get this together. I suck.

I'm not going to critique the historical accuracy, because my knowledge of the 1776 War is very very sketchy. But what you've got here is very interesting; I like the premise of the story, and you've managed to give each character distinct, enjoyable personalities. Samuel's enthusiasm shines through his every line of dialogue — you've captured his youth and vitality amazingly well. He's brimming with idealism and enthusiasm and impatience, and it translates to paper. (Er, text.) Lovely stuff.

Now ... the critique.

"Samuel!" a deep voice bellowed from another room of the log cabin house.

A couple of things here. First of all, you don't need both "cabin" and "house" because they serve to reinforce the same idea, so the use of both is redundant. I'd suggest using "cabin" (since "log cabin" works better than "log house") and cutting "house" out of the sentence.

Secondly, "another room" makes it seem as if the reader's already been introduced to the first room (which, I assume, is the kitchen where Samuel is). We haven't, so "another room" simply clutters up the sentence. I'm not sure what you'd replace it with, though — "from the depths of the log cabin"? "From within the log cabin"? "From the sitting room of the log cabin"? You may want to toy with the wording until you come across something you like.

A young, scrappy boy walked briskly from the kitchen, towards the voice that called for him.

This sentence seems a tad bit unnecessary. I'm not sure the readers need to know about Samuel walking from the kitchen to the voice — it lengthens the narrative without providing any kind of purpose. The information that we learn in this sentence (1. that Sammy is young and scrappy, 2. that he was in the kitchen) can be maneuvered into later sentences — in fact, we find #2 out later on, anyway. So I think it'd be better to cut it to, "A young, scrappy boy walked briskly into the wide foyer," or some variation thereof.

Which brings me to my next point ...

He entered a wide foyer that led to the sitting room where his family and guests sometimes gathered to enjoy each other's company, tell tales, laugh and have wonderful times.

I'm assuming that Welcome's in the sitting room, but when you say, "he entered a wide foyer," you never elaborate, so it seems that Samuel's still in the foyer. Rather than showing Sammy move from the foyer to the sitting room, I'd suggest simply having him enter the sitting room. (So, if you go with my previous suggestion, it would be something like, "A young, scrappy boy walked briskly into the sitting room.") And later on in the narrative, you can fill us in on the details of how the foyer. For now, though, simply having him enter the sitting room makes for tighter storytelling.

Once Samuel's entered the sitting room, you start to describe what people do in it. Instead, I'd suggest cutting the sentence off when he enters the foyer/sitting room and start the next sentence with your description. And while you're describing, remember one of the cardinal grounds of storytelling — show, don't tell. Instead of directly telling us that the family tells tales and has wonderful times in the sitting room and generally uses it as a place to relax, show us through little clues. Describe the room (this is a great time to stick in the little detail about the wide foyer) and leave us little tidbits of information. Maybe his mother's knitting is lying on a chair; maybe a game of cards is still spread out on the table. Maybe there's a book lying open somewhere. This way, you can do two things: (1) tell us what the room looks like (for example, "A game of cards was spread out on the mahogany table.") and (2) tell us indirectly what people do in the room (i.e. play cards, leading the reader to conclude that this room must be used during periods of relaxation).

"You called for me, Father?" the boy asked, with a somber expression on his freckled face. He stood, with his arms folded across his bare chest. The boy was wearing light, brown breeches and his hair was dark brown, cut short just below his earlobes. It had a greasy and grimy appearance and the strands of his hair stuck out like spikes in odd directions on the top of his head.

Cut out "with" — the sentence works just as well without it. There shouldn't be a comma after "stood," or a comma after "light." The word "short" is unnecessary, since right after that you specifically describe how long it is. And instead of saying "It had a greasy and grimy appearance," simply say, "It was greasy and grimy" — it cuts out unneccessary words and make the sentence stronger.

"Yes, I did son. Could you fetch my walking stick? I left it by the fire pit."

"But it's less than a few inches from you feet, Father. Couldn't you have been able to get it yourself?"

"Samuel," his father beginning to laugh, shaking a finger at his son, "You know very well I cannot walk properly without my walking stick. Maybe if my kneecap was not injured so poorly in the French and Indian War... run along and fetch it, Samuel."

A couple of things here.

First, the minor stuff: it should be "your feet," not "you feet", and I think you mean, "his father began to laugh." And because you're starting a new sentence of dialogue with, "You know very well...", there should be a period after "his son".

This scene (correct me if I'm wrong ) seems primarily expository; we learn that his father can't walk without his stick due to kneecap injuries, and we learn that he was in the French and Indian War (and was poorly injured there). And while it's all well and good to have an expository scene, I think it could serve some more purpose — I think it's an ideal place to better establish these two principle characters for the reader. For example, our Sammy boy seems very much the, well, little kid — he's impatient and eager and very vocal about his opinions. So why not infuse the dialogue with some of his character? Instead of having him directly say, "But it's less than a few inches from your feet," make him grumble it under his breath. Give him a scowl when he says it, or something else that an impatient boy would do under these circumstances. You'll still be conveying the same thoughts in the scene, but at the same time giving your readers a better perspective of these two characters.

Also, a bit of a minor nitpick: would his father really clarify it to be 'the French and Indian War', or would he not simply call it 'the War'? If the fact that it's the French and Indian War is significantly important to the plot, you might mention it later on in the story (even later on in this chapter), but I find it unlikely that he'd be so specific about it. Even if he did fight multiple wars in his time, or if several wars happened at the same time.

The other thing you could do is, instead of specifying the actual war, specify the location — "Maybe if my kneecap wasn't injured so poorly at Niagra ..." or something like that. Again, if his participation in the French and Indian War is significant to the plot (or even if you personally feel it's necessary in order for the reader to form a better picture of his character), you could mention it at a later point — for example, when they're taking out his uniform later in this chapter.

Samuel grunted, walked slowly over to the fire pit, where his father's stick was resting against a log, grabbed it and dropped the stick into his father's lap. "There. Now may I go back into the kitchen?"

I'd suggest chopping the first sentence into smaller ones, since it has five ("was resting" = one) verbs in it. If you do that, I'd also suggest varying the lengths and structure of the various sentences.

Er. Some rough examples:

- Samuel grunted. He walked slowly over to the fire pit, where his father's stick was resting against a log, grabbing it and dropping it into his father's lap. "There. Now may I go back into the kitchen?"

- Samuel grunted, walking slowly over to the fire pit where the stick rested against a log. Grabbing it, he dropped the stick into his father's lap. "There. Now may I go back into the kitchen?"

Like I said, they're rough, and only examples — you'll probably want to toy with the sentence until it flows to your satisfaction. (If you decide not to chop up the sentence, though, I'd suggest taking out the comma after "pit", since it's cluttering up a sentence overflowing with commas.)

The large, round stomach jiggled as he spoke, "Fine, fine son. You may leave," his father said, smiling as he laughed again. "Hold on son, before you go, may I ask why you are so preoccupied today? What is your fancy with the kitchen anyway?"

You may want to specify "he" to "his father", since it initially seems to be Samuel's large round stomach that jiggles. If you do write, "as his father spoke," you'll probably want to change, "his father said," to a simple, "he said".

There should also be a comma after the second "fine" in, "Fine, fine, son." (Unless you mean "fine son" as in "his son is fine," which I assume you don't. ) And technically there should also be a comma after "hold on."

A couple of other things — first of all, the "may I ask," bit kind of undermines his father's authoritative stance. So far in the narrative he's portrayed to be jovial but commanding — heck, in the sentence right before this, he just said, You may leave. Which, in terms of dialogue, is a pretty I'm-in-control thing to say. I'd suggest cutting out the "may I ask" and (if you do that), "before you go," too, for the sake of flow.

The other thing is, he says "son" a couple of times in the dialogue. And while I can see him saying "son" maybe once (or even twice, if it's interspersed sparingly throughout the dialogue), twice in the same paragraph becomes kind of awkward. Of the two times it's mentioned, I'd suggest taking the first "son" out (this is entirely based on opinion, so you don't necessarily have to). So you'd have:

The large, round stomach jiggled as his father spoke, "Fine, fine. You may leave," he said, smiling as he laughed again. "Hold on, son — why you are so preoccupied today? What is your fancy with the kitchen anyway?"

Which leaves you with two minor nitpicks: one, there should be a comma after "kitchen", and two, you'll probably want to take out one of the "he"s in "he said, smiling as he laughed again." For that matter, you may want to cut out smiling, because usually when you laugh, you also smile. And if you do cut out smiling, I'd suggest changing, "he laughed again," to "laughing again," which would leave you with, "he said, laughing again."

"I'm helping Mum with the dishes. She promised that she would show me your old uniform from the war if I helped her."

In his father's next bit of dialogue, we learn that Samuel is very excited when he says this. So instead of just having his father say it, why not indicate it somehow during this piece of dialogue? His eyes might dance, he might be hopping up and down, grinning — something to show during this piece of dialogue that he's excited.

His father's expression grew stern. "Judging from the look on your face, you seem excited about this, but I do not approve," he said shaking another finger at his son. "Such things should remain buried. Promise me son that if she shows it, you will not form crazy ideas about warfare? Warfare is horrible, cruel and changes a man forever. I once witnessed –"

The same idea that applies to the last bit of dialogue works here, too. Show, don't tell! So in this case, instead of having Garrison say directly, "I do not approve," show him to be disapproving. You've got the stern expression and the finger-wagging, which is awesome — now show it through some reproachful dialogue! A favourite parental thing to do is something like, "Now, Samuel," his father began warningly. This is also a great time to draw on real life experiences .

"Father! Please," the boy groaned. "Save your stories. I'm going to go now and help Mum."

Okay — first of all, this is a great piece of dialogue. It gives us an amazingly vivid picture of Samuel's impatience; we get the idea that this has happened before a lot of times and Sammy's really not in the mood for it.

But I think this is as good a time as any to point out the conflict of character between our initial view of Sammy and his development thus far (if you can call this "far" ) into the story. When his father calls, Sammy comes obediently; he's somber and very much the serious boy. But as the story progresses, we get a much better idea of him. He's impatient and enthusiastic and kind of romantic (in the sense that he has these wonderful romantic notions of war). So we have these two conflicting images — one, where Samuel is somber and obedient, and two, where he's grumbly and vocal about his displeasures and quite obviously hates being interrupted. When he first goes to his father, would he really be so serious and attentive? Judging solely based on his character as it is presented for the majority of chapter one, I'd think he would be slightly impatient, but still somewhat attentive. (And possibly not quite as somber as he was when first introduced.)

The other thing is, I'm curious as to the father/son relationship and how willing (a) Samuel would be to interrupt his father and (b) his father would be to let Samuel interrupt him. On one hand, interrupting his father like that seems right up Sammy's alley (and like I said before, I think the dialogue fits perfectly), but I'm not sure if Welcome would be so happy that his son is bulldozing into his lengthy anti-war spiel, especially since he obviously feels strongly about this topic. And he's very serious when addressing his son. Like I said before, my image of Welcome has been a man who is jovial but commanding, and I'm not sure if this is in direct conflict with that image or not.

His father waved a weary hand, and the boy hurried out of the sitting room and returned to the kitchen. When he had finished washing all the dishes, his mother led her rambunctious, fifteen year old son to an unkempt room. Inside the room, it had one window.

"Mum, I can't see anything! It's too dark in here."

"Hush, Samuel. The candle is lit and it will take a few moments for your eyes to adjust," she said in a firm voice to her impatient son.

Samuel sulked and sank on the wood floor, near the entrance. "Alright, Mum. I'll wait."

When I was reading this scene, one of the things that really stuck out was the lighting. It's not nighttime (near the end of the chapter, Martha tells Samuel to bathe before the sun goes down), so when you say "evening" I assume you mean around five or six o'clock (give or take a few hours). There is a window, so I imagine there would be some amount of sunlight pouring in. (Actually, later in the chapter, you do say that sunlight pours in — "the daggers ... glistened when light poured on them ...") And then on top of that, they light a candle.

So already there are a couple of issues; first of all, if light is pouring in from the window, is a candle really that necessary? And even if light isn't pouring in through the window, it doesn't take time for your eyes to adjust to candlelight (generally speaking, that is; if you've been in complete darkness or very very bright light, it's a whole different issue, but since that isn't the case for either of the characters, let's not go there). I assume they were washing dishes in the fading sunlight, so if anything, when they step into candle light, their eyes would have to adjust to the brightness, not the darkness. And if they were washing dishes in candle-light (which seems kind of peculiar in itself), their eyes wouldn't need to adjust at all.

I'll point out the other lighting references when I come across them, because I think you might want to choose a specific light source and go with it. Plus, again — it doesn't take much time for your eyes to adjust to candle light (if indeed it takes any time). I'm not sure if that's a problem — it would be lovely if you could clarify this.

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," his mother remarked sarcastically. Samuel crossed his arms against his chest again and watched his mother move steadily around the room, occasionally stumbling on lead bullets or small stones. He watched her remove a white bonnet and carefully placed it near his filthy feet. She brushed her hands through her long, gray hair that flowed down to her waist.

"Your enthusiasm" or "Your patience"? Because Samuel is enthusiastic, thus nullifying her sarcasm, so it makes more sense for her to say "patience" (seeing as he's impatient and all).

Also — would they really leave small stones and lead bullets strewn across the floor? Even small stones I can understand to a certain degree (although I can't imagine them not cleaning the room once in awhile), but lead bullets? Unless perhaps there was a gunfight in the room (which I assume there was not), not only can't I see any reason for lead bullets to be scattered across the ground, I'm also slightly confused as to how they would've gotten there in the first place.

And as a minor note — specify that the white bonnet belongs to Martha. When you say, "he watched her remove a white bonnet," it could mean that she removed the bonnet from her hair (which I assume is the case) or that she removed a white bonnet obstructing her path. You could do a couple of things to denote the possessive for Martha's bonnet:

- Change "the bonnet" to "her bonnet". You'd then have lots and lots of "her"s cluttering up the next two sentences, and you'd have to tweak them so that they wouldn't sound awkward.

- Lump the last two sentences together, so something like, "He watched her remove the bonnet from her long gray hair, carefully placing it near his filthy feet."

- Combine bits and pieces of the two sentences, but still maintain two separate sentences. "He watched as she removed the bonnet from her hair, carefully placing it near his filthy feet. She brushed her hands through the masses of long gray that flowed down to her waist." (Except, not as horrible as that.)

Or, of course, you could do something entirely different — just clarify for the reader that the bonnet belongs to Martha, and wasn't randomly found in the room.

"Come here and sit next to me Mum. My eyes are starting to adjust already. I can already make out small objects." He patted a spot next to him with the palm of his hand.

Cut out "with the palm of his hand" — when you write "patting", we know it's with their toes unless otherwise specified. And cut out one of the two "already"s in the paragraph — I'd suggest the first one, so you have, "My eyes are starting to adjust. I can already make out small objects." (That's if, of course, you keep the lighting thing; again, it's highly unlikely that it would take this long for their eyes to adjust to candle light.)

And, minor nitpick — there should be a comma after "me".

His mother walked carefully and sat next to her son on the left side and waited also for her vision to adjust to the dim light.

Just thought I should point out that candle light isn't really dim at all.

There were two daggers hanging on the wooden wall; one each side of the window. The handles of the daggers were carved from deer antlers and glistened when light poured on them. There was also a hatchet that hung above the window. The boy's head darted in all directions of the room, glancing at every object he could see.

Again — you'll probably want to take your choice of the two light sources and go with it. Since there's sunlight pouring in from the window and a candle, it makes no sense that (a) the light should be dim, and (b) they should need such a long time to adjust to the light, let alone any time at all. As it stands now, though, the various lightings are somewhat contradictory.

Another note. The room has been carefully arranged with premeditation: the dangers flank the windows and the hatchet hangs above it. With that in mind, it becomes increasingly unlikely that (after such careful arrangement) whoever set up the room would simply leave lead bullets strewn across the floor.

"You always shooed me away and Father would have cuffed my ears if he ever caught me peering in here without permission. Father and you kept reminding me I needed to grow up s'more. He said he didn't approve when I told him today, but you let me Mum. Does that make me a man?"

Hmm. I thought this would be a good place to point out that Samuel doesn't really act like a fifteen-year-old. At all. He acts five or six years younger than his age — and what's more, his parents treat him like he's five or six years younger than his age. Would it completely skew your chronlogy if he was actually ten or eleven? It would fit his behaviour much better (plus, I find it hard to believe that by age fifteen he couldn't have snuck in once) and it fits his parents' behaviour towards him better.

"Oh, I'm so sorry your Majesty," she said, smiling.

Minor nitpick: comma after the "sorry".

"We were waiting for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, Father. Mum kept tripping, so I decided to wait, until I could see well."

Hee. Again, it should take them nowhere near this long to adjust to the light.

"Well, I will save you both the trouble of waiting. Step aside you two. I will fetch the horse blanket."

A bit of a minor note — Welcome has trouble walking, he hasn't had as much time as his wife and son to adjust to the light (or dark), and he has to maneuver around the stones and bullets. Would he really be able to do this without hurting himself?

Samuel and Martha moved away from the entrance and stood in a hallway.

Stood in "the hallway", not "a hallway".

Within a minute, Welcome called to Samuel. "Here, son; I found it." The boy entered the room again, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Ohh… It's grand Father! May I put the uniform on?"

There should be a comma after "grand", so it reads: "It's grand, Father!" Also, it seems odd that he'd say "the uniform" right after he directly referred to it as "it". Would he not then simply continue to refer to it as, well, "it"? (Okay, I'm not sure how much sense that made; if you need me to clarify, let me know and I'll try.)

Plus, you've shown us time and time again that Samuel's an energetic boy. As someone who has obviously wanted to see this uniform very badly, wouldn't he show some sort of outward enthusiasm beyond his eyes sparkling?

"You may wear it, only if I have your vow that you will never engage in any type of warfare. I do not want any of these artifacts or this uniform to encourage your will to enlist in a war, if one should arise." Welcome squeezed his son's shoulder tighter, "What say you, Samuel?"

When Welcome says, "if one should arise," it seems as if he knows a war's about to occur. And while I'm sure it's entirely possible that he could've predicted the possibility of one popping up, it seems odd that this would be his word choice. Wouldn't he simply tell his son not to enlist in the army, or never use violence as a way to solve his means? The way he words it here, though, seems kind of unnatural.

"Of course, Father! I would never do such a thing. May I wear it now, please?" Samuel's hands were clasped, as he peered upwards to a tall and overweight man.

"The tall and overweight man," not, "a tall and overweight man." Also, I'd suggest tweaking the sentence to make it flow better — trying something like, "Clasping his hands, Samuel peered up at the tall, overweight man." Something that varies the structure of the verbs but makes for a smoother sentence.

"Do I have your vow, son?" Welcome repeated.

"Yes! I promise. Now, may I put it on, please?"

"How could I say 'no' to that cute face, Martha?"

"He's your son, Welcome," she said, grinning.

"Well, go ahead son. Put it on and let us see how it fits."

You've got some awesome dialogue here — now give us some additional visuals to make the images more vivid. Is Welcome frowning to emphasize thei mportance of his words? Is Samuel hopping up and down? (I can almost picture Welcome turning to Martha, his frown turning into a smile when he says, "How could I say no ...") You've let us hear the dialogue (and it's great!) — now let us (i.e. the readers) see the gestures and facial expressions that accompany it.

Samuel dashed to where the gray jacket laid crumpled on the floor; a small corner to the right of the window, where Welcome's musket was kept. "Can you help me, Father? It's too big."

This is slightly confusing; when I initially read the first part, where Samuel marvels at the uniform, I would've thought that Welcome was holding it in his hands. It seems strange that Sammy would dash up to his father when he's not holding the uniform — I think it would make more sense for him to dash up beside his father. Also, when he first sees the uniform, it might be good to clarify that it's lying on the ground. (And, while you're at it — it would be great if you could slip in a description of the uniform when Sammy first sees it. Recapture his enthusiasm for it; yes, it's crumpled and probably layered in dust and maybe even foul-smelling, but something about it appeals to him. Let the readers know what that appeal is through your description.)

Plus, "laid crumpled" should probably be "lay crumpled," and the semi-colon should be a comma. And the sentence is somewhat unwieldy — twice you describe a place with the word, "where," which may not seem like such a big deal, but both of them are unecessary and clutter up the sentence. As well, "to the right of the window" is also somewhat clunky; the payoff (we find out where exactly the uniform and the musket are) isn't worth the cost (the sentence becomes over-burdened with words). If you do choose to cut this out, you'll probably want to tweak the sentence so that it still makes sense and flows well — for example, "Samuel dashed to the grey jacket, crumpled on the floor beside his father's musket." Or something of the sort; decide what you want to keep and what seems unnecessary and/or can be omitted, and trim the sentence down a little.

"Indeed. It was my uniform," he said, bellowing cheerfully. "Come here, I will help put on the old horse blanket." Welcome dropped his cane on the floor and balanced his weight the best he could, and held up the uniform so Samuel could slip his arms into it. "Turn around, son. Let us take a gander how you look."

A couple of things. First of all, if he's bellowing, cut out "said" and replace it with "bellowed". ("It was my uniform," he bellowed cheerfully.) Although this is somewhat conflicting to the image you've presented of Welcome so far — yes, he's loud, but not necessarily the bellowing type (at least, as of yet he's never bellowed an ordinary statement). If it so happens that he is the bellowing type, I'd suggest going back to previous scenes with him and emphasizing his volume control (or lack thereof).

Also, it should be, "let us take a gander at how you look."

"I am not sure. Martha! Come in here, please."

Entirely a personal opinion: "I am not sure," sounds overly awkward to say, especially when he can say, "I'm not sure." Then again, it might be part of Welcome's strange and endearing speech.

Martha walked into the candle-lit room and glanced at her husband questionably.

Again, a bit of confusion — when Welcome says, "How can I say 'no' to that cute face?" and Martha replies, I got the impression that she was in the room; she didn't pitch her voice louder to carry across the room, or call to them, or anything of the sort. It seemed as if she was standing beside them, participating in the conversation. And when Martha walks into the room, it seems kind of bizarre, because I the reader got the impression that she was already in the room.

So in the initial dialogue exchange between her and Welcome, ("How can I say 'no' to that cute face, Martha?" to which she responds, "He's your son, Welcome."), could you clarify this? Slip in something like, "Martha called from the door," (So it would read: "He's your son," Martha called from the door.) or something like that, so that the reader knows she still hasn't entered yet.

Also — "she glanced at her husband questioningly," not "questionably". Even then, it would be great if instead of directly saying that she looks at him questioningly, you could indicate it through her actions. Maybe her eyebrows are raised, maybe she says, "Yes?" or something of your choosing along those lines. Show, don't tell!

"He looks filthy! When was the last time you bathed yourself, Samuel?"

Welcome's belly jiggled, as he laughed hysterically. "That will do. Come son, you have had your fun. It is time to put this thing away for another time."

Additional tags! I don't know if Martha's being amused here or horrified or angry, and there's no indication outside of the dialogue to help me reach a decision. Again, don't tell us directly, "she said laughingly," but rather, show us — for example, if she's horrified and amused, maybe she claps her hands over her mouth, a smile twitching at her lips.

Also — the comma after "jiggled" is unnecessary. And if you decide to cut "bellowing" out of the earlier dialogue ("Indeed. It was my uniform."), I'd say this is an ideal place to use it; replace "laughed hysterically" with a bellowing laugh; it's a stronger image, and the former indicates a kind of mental instability, whereas the latter simply suggests a deep laugh.

"No, Father. Can't I wear it a bit longer?" Samuel gazed upwards to lock his eyes with his fathers', bunched up his lower lip and pretended to whimper.

It should be "father's," not "fathers'". Also, I'd suggest cutting out "gazed upwards" and just going with, "Samuel locked eyes with his father." You've got the same idea with less words, making for a smoother, tighter sentence.

Also, I wonder at his word choice — would he say, "No, Father," or "Oh, Father"? If he's appealing to his father, it makes more sense for him to say, "Oh, Father" — "No, Father," makes it seem as if he's taking a stand against his father and being defiant. Which I don't think is the case here.

Welcome sighed and waved his hand, "Ask your mother." He reached down and picked up his cane, careful to not lose his balance, and exited the room, leaving Samuel and Martha alone.

Okay, the second sentence is very unwieldy — I'd suggest breaking it into two smaller sentences, ending the first one at "careful not to lose his balance." You'd have to tweak each of the two smaller sentences to make them flow right, but I do think it would be worth the effort.

"Well, can I?"

"I suppose you cannot get dirtier, what with the blood stains and all, embedded in Welcome's uniform."

A minor nitpick about your word choice — you can have blood stains on a uniform, but they can't really be embedded in it. (And even if you went with "embedded", it should be "embedded into".)

I'd also suggest adding some additional tags for Martha's dialogue, so the reader can get a better impression of her. Nothing ground-shatteringly major — maybe she's struggling to control her laughter, or shaking her head at her son, or something like that. Show, don't tell — you know the spiel .

Samuel's face lit up, after hearing that. He circled a few more times, admiring the uniform. I don't care what father says, he's a foolish old man, Samuel thought to himself. If the time comes, I will join proudly, he thought again.

Cut out "after hearing that" — it's unnecessary and simply burdens the sentence. The idea carries well without it, and it only serves to burden the sentence. Also, is he circling or turning around? I'm inclined to think the latter; "circling" means that he'd be going around the room, whereas I think he's simply spinning around to show off the uniform.

Also — "father" should be capitalized. And "he thought again" can be cut out — when you switch to first person, we know you're delving into Samuel's thoughts.

Samuel's wearing the uniform for a while here, right? Give us a little bit more to indicate a longer passage of time. (After all, he wouldn't go to all the trouble of begging to keep wearing the uniform if it was only to wear it for five more minutes.) So while he's spinning himself around and amusing himself, here's an ideal place to be expository. Tell us about the family (this would be a great place to tell us about Welcome's leg injuries, instead of putting it at the beginning of the story). You could give us some internal monologue courtesy of Sam, where we get to pick his brain and see how excited he is about the war, giving us a better impression of his character. You've got a nice lovely stretch of space here, and you can do a lot of things here — character development, plot development, exposition, etc. — just expand a little bit more here to enable the passage of time.

The boy nodded happily, removing the uniform and handing it to his mother. He didn't mention his secret conversation and turned to leave the messy room.

"Conversation" indicates two people, and since it was only him and his thoughts, it should be, "He didn't mention his secret thoughts," or better yet, "He didn't mention his thoughts" — thoughts are secret until you share them.

There's also no connection between Samuel's thoughts and his departure from the room, so that sentence seems somewhat awkward (especially since there's no segue). I'd suggest separating the two and tweaking them into two different sentences. (You may even want to tack, "He didn't mention his thoughts," onto the previous sentence, and if you make a couple of alterations to it, it should work.)

Upon hearing his mother's wishes, Samuel groaned, turned around a corridor to the right, walked slowly past the sitting room, where his father was in a rocking chair; reading. He walked straight, ten yards, turned to the left, which led to the front of the house; and exited outdoors to a nippy evening.

Cut out the "upon hearing his mother's wishes" and start the sentence at "Samuel groaned" — the part about hearing his mother's wishes is pretty obviously implied. Also, the specific details about the layout of his house are at the moment unneccessary; readers won't remember these specifics. In fact, I'd cut out all the details about his house in this paragraph and replace it with, "Samuel walked through the log cabin." It's simple and straightforward — like I said, the readers aren't going to remember the exact measurements between the hall to the front of the house.

The semi-colon after "chair" should be a comma, as should the semi-colon after "house". You may want to keep the detail about him walking past his father — I really like that you had it in there. It's your choice, of course.


.... whew! I'm done. If you have any questions or need me to clarify something (or want to bash me over the head with a baseball bat ...) just let me know and I'll try to help. I love your premise and, like I told you before, I love your characters. They're whimsical and charming and lots of fun to read about, and you've captured their essences wonderfully on paper. Great story so far, and I hope this critique helps.

Well, I think you have enough people looking at grammar etc, and they can usually be picked up through editing, but there's a couple of points I wanted to just highlight.

I shook my head, "Of course not. I did not know, Father. I thought you were born in Boston? You don't sound British, though. Your accent has disappeared."

Were the accents that different back then? I had this notion that the British and Americans in those days would have spoken very similarly. Clearly the dialect would be different, but I didn't think the way they spoke would be noticably contrasting. The slang might be different and the phrases used different, but on the whole I thought they still spoke the same. I think that in general, American became slightly more archaic than the ever-fluctuating English because by the time changes were being made in England, they didn't always cross over the seas to the Colonies. I'm not sure though, this was more of a discussion point.

Following on from this, how can Samuel know how the British speak but hardly anything else about them? There are numerous conversations between him and his Father, Welcome, when he it toally ignorant and things like King George. I was just wondering how he would know how they spoke but nothing else.

Father finally taught me 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. Needless to say, after much practice, I became skilled enough to reload less than sixty seconds.

Umm ... reloading in less than sixty seconds isn't particularly skilled when it comes to muskets. I would say this was incredibly slow. For a first time, that would probably be acceptable. British soldiers were trained to fire in less than thirty seconds, twenty seconds was acceptable and 15 seconds was the expected optimum, allowing a musket to be fired four times in a minute. Obviously Samuel wouldn't be able to load it this fact after just a bit of training from his Father. But you said he was "teaching the importance of reloading quickly," so I expected that this would be at least thirty seconds, or Samuel would simply just die in his first encounter. Remember, loading your musket quickly was a matter of life and death - in small encounters, if your opponent was faster than you, it was likely you would die. Since the accuracy of muskets was pretty much terrible - soldiers were taught to simply fire it into a mass of people - then loading was the skill needed to win.

That's all I had really. I skimmed a lot of your story looking for these sort of things, but read some passages, and found it really interesting. Your way of story-telling is totally different from mine, but I love it. It'd be great if you could post more, because I know you've done a lot.

Old replies from 2005. Not important to me anymore.

Inside, I slipped from under his arm and asked if father would be alright without my assistance.

"I will be fine, son. I would like to accept that my body will cooperate by the few extra steps to the rocking chair," he chuckled. "Step aside please."

I stepped a few inches backwards from the entrance of the house, smiling also. I watched him approach the foyer, duck, and then limp to his chair. Father leaned forward, set his walking stick by his right foot and then leaned backwards. I heard a loud sigh and watched the steady rocking of the chair. Strands of hair by father's shoulders swung with the rhythm of his body. I smiled again, and walked briskly through the foyer and into the sitting room to greet father.

When I was standing in front of him, I noticed father had shut his eyes. Shrugging, I walked to the left of me, towards the bookcase. There were at least twenty books to choose from. With an index finger, I bumped it over the tops of each binding, trying to decide. Do I want to read a thick and long winded book or how about one that is fairly short in length? I frowned, unable to decide. Oh, select a book, and be done with it! I shrugged again, and chose my favorite from the top shelf. It was the one book that my family read continuously and the passages held many valuable lessons.

With the book in my left, I headed for the bench. As I walked passed father, I noticed his eyes were still shut. I sat on the bench, opened the book, chose a passage, and began reading silently to myself. The beat of wood connecting with wood greeted my ears, as the rocking chair tapped against the floor.

About a half hour passed, and I was still in the sitting room with father, reading. Mum hadn't returned yet, but I assumed she was probably in town searching for new news or just enjoying the brilliant afternoon. Although, she did not seem too pleased earlier, I thought. I quickly brushed off the unpleasant feeling, and continued reading. I had read five pages, but with a terrible habit of re-reading a page, sometimes twice, I was progressing slowly through. I was on the six page, when I jumped!

"Are you alright, Samuel?" father asked, by leaning forward. "My intention was not to startle you. What are you reading that has you absorbed?"

Sitting on the bench again, I swallowed, and lightly smacked father's left shoulder, laughing. "I'm fine. I'm reading the Bible, Father. Did you enjoy your nap?" I asked, and set the Bible on the bench next to my left thigh.

"I was not actually asleep but I do feel refreshed. Although…," he paused. "Although it appears the mild training you underwent unlocked certain things I have forgotten."

"Oh?" I asked curiously.

"Did you enjoy reading about our Lord?"

"Well, yes, I always do. It was the first book you and Mum taught me to read when I was able."

He nodded. "Is your neck bothering you still, son?"

"It is fine, Father. I believe it was sore because I was steadying your weight. You are much heavier and a bit taller than me."

"Heavier?" he chuckled. "Are you suggesting I am obese?"

"A cow is fat but if you prefer to align yourself with a farm animal, you are more than welcome to, Welcome," I laughed.

"Come here!" he laughed in return.

I moved quickly away before his hand grabbed me. "You cannot catch me!" I hollered playfully.

Father beckoned me with an index finger. I giggled and sat on the bench again. I peered upwards to the right of me and locked gazes with father. "Too quick for you old man?"

He gripped my earlobe and yanked it before I could react. "Ouch! That hurt!" I yelled, and rubbed the tender area.

"Not quick enough," he laughed.

"Hysterical," I retorted sarcastically. "So, what have you forgotten? What was unlocked?"

The smile on his lips faded, until all that remained were two dark brown eyes staring. I frowned also, regretting the questions but when I thought I had upset father, his lips produced a very faint smile. From a distance, I'm positive it would have not been noticeable but sitting next to him, there it was; a crooked smile, but a smile nonetheless.

I cocked my head, and rubbed my chin. Quite peculiar indeed, I thought to myself. Father is usually one or the other as far as emotions are concerned. If he is angry or sad, those emotions remain for a while but happiness does not show so quickly, especially after a frown from him. Although, father is smiling, even if it is a sideways grin, I suppose I should be grateful for that much, I thought.

"Samuel?" father asked, waving a palm in front of my face.

I shook my head, and blinked. "Huh?"

"I called your name twice, son. Do me a favor, and fetch the bugle, please. I wish to share something with you."

"Uh… Alright, one minute," I said.

I left the Bible on the bench and walked briskly out of the sitting room. In the hall, I made a left-hand turn into the warring room. The bugle was crumpled in a corner to the right of me. I walked towards it and gripped the metal. The dust that had settled onto the horn, gave away, and it temporally clogged my nostrils, causing me to cough and snort.

"I wonder why Father wants this?" I said aloud.

Before I left the room, I fumbled with the bugle with my fingers. To me, it was a plain and ordinary horn but too father it obviously meant something entirely different or else he wouldn't have requested it. Examining it further, I peeked at the part where the sound carries, and I noticed an odd object crammed inside. With a pinky, I hooked it and pulled out what appeared to be a flower. If it was a flower, it was dead. There was nothing left of it but a dried stem.

My eyes instantly widened, while I stared at the two objects. "How odd. Why would… How come…" I looked behind to see if anyone was watching me. There was no one in sight. "I hope he has a decent explanation."

With the two objects in my hands, I exited the warring room, and walked through the foyer that led into the sitting room. I stopped suddenly in the middle. Father still had that crooked smile but why was the corner of his eyes twitching?

Father leaned to his right, nodded, and beckoned for me. "Come son, sit. Sit. Please, sit."

I wonder why he is so eager? Without questioning him aloud, I walked closer, and sat on the bench, with the two objects in my lap. I gripped the Bible and placed it under the bench.

"I see. You have uncovered another secret of mine, son. You found the white rose."

"White rose? It's a dried, brown stem," I commented.

Father grunted, but the smiled remained. "Before you condemn something, know its history first, Samuel. It was a rose long ago but I will address that in a moment. Firstly, while I was relaxing, I acknowledged, my son is indeed growing into a gentlemen, and time is slipping."

"Slipping?"

"I am not my youthful self anymore, and there are some memories I wish to share to my only son, if something should ever happen to me."

I nodded in response.

Father reached, and gripped the bugle. He coughed, and then rubbed more dust off with a sleeve of his shirt. "It seems the bugle has collected more dust since the last time I have seen it. I suppose, I should have had it hung on the wall since it is my only link to my mates, and country."

I stared in complete confusion. I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know father had friends, nor was I absolutely certain about this country he was speaking of. It had to be either England, or father was referring to Massachusetts as a country. Needless to say, I sat in silence, and patiently waited for a hopeful explanation.

He put the mouth piece in, inhaled, and blew the bugle. I had to cover my ears because the sound pierced my eardrums. It sounded like an injured wolf howling for mercy.

I uncovered my ears when father stopped, and continued staring at him.

"She still carries the brilliant tune," he smiled. Father turned to the left, and faced me. "A beautiful sound, yes?"

"I might comment on that brilliant sound later," I said sarcastically.

Father shrugged, and placed the bugle in his lap. "At least there are some memories that still bring me happiness." He turned into my direction again, and grinned. "I have mentioned it before, but this is a French horn," he said, pointing to it.

"Thanks for telling me, but what purpose does it serve?"

"I already informed you, son. It is a link to my mates and country." Upon that comment, he grabbed the stem in my lap, and slipped it behind his left ear.

Now, I was more confused then earlier. Father simply was not making sense, and now there were the remains of a rose in plain view next to his temple. The bugle, or French horn, did not excite me as much, but I continued to wait patiently in silence.

Father turned in my direction, with a thin smile. "You are awfully quit all of a sudden. I would have expected a thousand questions by now."

"I'm just listening, and trying to piece together the importance of a dead rose and bugle."

"You are correct. I suppose I should be more thorough. The two objects symbolize two different aspects of my life. The bugle actually has a more pronounced meaning but that story has no basis with this discussion, therefore, I will not explain its full history today. Perhaps if the situation arises again, I will explain further about the bugle."

"I understand. I shall be patient with the bugle's meaning, but you said it does have a purpose?"

"Of course, or I would have not requested it," he chuckled. "I admit though, to mention you will hold your patience is remarkable. I may have to pinch you just to see if you are still my son."

I slid over a few inches to the left after that comment. "I hope you are not serious," I said.

"Son, why are you moving away from me?" he laughed. "I was nothing of the sort. Come, no need for you to cower." Father beckoned me with an index finger, still smiling.

I trusted father would keep his word, judging from his mood, and slid to the right, closer to his body. "You seem to be in a great mood," I commented.

"Well, it appears the circumstances taken fold in Boston seemed to have allowed me to remember those I have chosen to forget. However," father pointed to the dead rose behind his ear, "This rose is a symbol of my country, my home, my birthplace."

"I'm very confused, Father. What country are you talking about? I assume England but I'm not positive."

A broad smiled formed on his lips. "You are correct, son. I knew my boy was intelligent."

I grinned upon that comment, and slid closer so that father's left shoulder touched mine.

"Samuel, I want to share with you my birthplace before I settled in Boston. I will be honest. I do not consider myself a Bostonian but an Englishman. I was born in Great Britain, therefore I am British. Now, before you ask, as I mentioned, I have never adhered to the likings of King Tyrant, and never will. I deplore His Majesty's reasoning, but I adore my native country. Understand so far?"

I nodded. "I do, mostly anyway."

"Good. The white rose is an emblem or symbol of Yorkshire, a small country in Britain. Yorkshire comprises of three ridings, or more apporperiately divisons. Samuel," he said, pointing to the dead rose again, "I was born in Ryedale, Yorkshire, England."

I shifted my weight slightly, and folded my hands in my lap. Father coughed afterwards. I shrugged in response. I knew I was behaving in a calm manner, maybe too much. Judging from father's good natured spirit this afternoon, he is indeed excited about speaking of his first home. And that was just that; I didn't want blurt rediculious questions, and sadden or anger father. Sitting in silenece seemed ideal, for now.

"Samuel?" father asked.

My head jerked back and forth. I blinked, and shook my head slowly. "Yes?" I asked.

"You seem to be deep in thought today. I spoke your name again, and again not so much as a whisper. Has the mild training exsausted you?" father said. There was trace of concern in his voice as it lowered into a softer tone.

"No, I'm fine. Really, I'm alright. I apologize if I have not spoken much. I'm actually afraid to speak. You seem to be a grand mood, and I do not want to be responsible with spoiling it by asking questions."

"Well, now. That is the most that has spilled from your jaw since returning to the house," he laughed. Father then placed his left hand on my thigh, grinning towards me. "I understand the hesitance, and I suppose I have never been too patient with continuous questions but in this instance, if any should arise, you may ask them, son. I promise, you have my vow, I will not behave in a perturbed manner. The ending of August and the training you underwent has retrieved fond memories so I believe there will be little to alter my current happiness."

"What does perturbed mean?" I grinned.

A thunderous laugh echoed throughout the house, and father slapped the back of my shoulder. The force nearly pushed me off the bench. I slid backwards, and readjusted myself, still grinning.

"That is my boy!" father bellowed cheerfully. "That is the Samuel Garrison I know and love."

I laughed, and nodded. "Could you continue, Father? I'd actually like to hear more about the bugle and rose."

"Well, I would have told you whether you approved or not!" he laughed again. "Anyway, whilst I mentioned this month, I might as well mention that August first was an anniversary, a date I have always remembered but never celebrated with others. Martha isn't much for ale, and what with being discharged, I left behind mates I had formed close bonds with. Therefore, I do not have really anyone to celebrate with, accept privately with myself."

"I'll help you celebrate!" I hollered happily. "What anniversary though?"

Father grinned. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, son. Since that women of mine has not returned yet, we shall leave her a note, and if you feel able by hauling a farm animal, you and I will visit the river in the outskirts of our property and read books together until the sun begins to depart."

"I would enjoy that but what of this anniversary?" I repeated. "And you never explained the bugle. How is it a link?"

"I might address the month of August, but let be known that the date has significant value. It marks a Battle Honor with the regiment I was apart of in the Seven Years War; the year I was shot, and sent home." Father's eyebrows eased upwards into two diagonal lines, and the corners of his eyes twitched. It was as if someone had instantly placed a sheet of glass over them, dulling the shade of his brown pupils, but his thin smile remained. "The French horn, Samuel, is a symbol of the type of infantry I was apart of in the British Army, and the regiment. The French horn was less cumbersome; lighter to carry than a drum or heavy artillery, such as muskets or rifles. In the war, the stem of a white rose was embedded in my uniform by my left breast, so the petals were in plain view, and I always carried it on the battlefield. I was not the only one, however. Many soldiers in my regiment proudly displayed roses. Some were tucked in their uniform; others had them tucked from the brims of their cocked hats, always in view." Father sighed, and held the bugle in front of my face, waving it. "So few memories that have brought me joy, but this instrument allows me to reconnect with the small band of men I was close too, and will never see again," father said, in a softer tone. "This dried stem," he said pointing to his ear, and resting the bugle in my lap, "Symbolizes Yorkshire, and the fond memories of nearly every soldier on the battlefield with a white rose."

When father stopped, he stretched, and I watched the dead rose slip from his ear. It lied just in front of his left foot. I suppose Father didn't notice because after, he stretched again, and scratched both sides of his ribs.

Holding the bugle with one hand, I leaned forward, gripped the stem, and set in father's lap. "You would not want to lose this, now would you?" I grinned.

He tilted his head down towards his lap, and for several seconds, he did not say a word. I wondered what father was thinking, but I kept my jaw shut and waited. Eventually, he picked up the remains, and jammed it into his white shirt. The dead rose was positioned how father had described it; by his left breast. My grin broadened, and I stroked it.

I stroked the stem for several minutes, father watching me, and smiling also. I stopped suddenly, peered upwards, displayed a wider smile for father, and then studied the object poking from his shirt.

"I will assume you enjoyed my story?" father smiled.

I nodded. "Very much so, but there are a few things I do not understand."

Father slapped my shoulder lightly. "Go on, speak your mind."

"I understand the bugle and rose's purpose, but what is a regiment? What was this Battle Honor you spoke of? Actually, what is a Battle Honor? And I do not exactly understand the significance of August."

Father chuckled. "My, that was a mouthful, son. Let us see if I cannot properly answer those questions. However," he said shaking a finger, "There are two I will purposely neglect to answer, as they may rejuvenate; refresh unwanted memories. I hope you respect my decision. Maybe in the distant future, I will inform you."

"Please continue, Father, and I respect that decision. You seem to be in such high spirits, I would not want to see you become sad," I said honestly.

"Thank you, Samuel," and father rubbed my shoulder for a few seconds, and then stopped. "I trust you are mature enough, what with your current responsibility with handling my musket and hunting, so I will reveal the meaning of a regiment. A regiment is a military unit of ground troops consisting of two battalions. Before you ask, a battalion is essentially a large body of troops. A Battle Honor…," he stopped, and tapped the side of his head. "Ah! A Battle Honor commemorates the celebration of victory in a war. Understand so far?"

"I do, Father. Thank you."

"You are very welcome. As I mentioned, I purposely did not answer two of your questions. Just remember, for me at least; never let me forget so far towards the end of this month. August first, was indeed a special day for my countrymen, but a grim day for me personally, especially readjusting to a normal lifestyle. I am sure if I do not mention the readjusting I underwent, your mother will, if the situation ever arises. Maybe when you are a bit older, I will reveal the regiment I was a member of, but I do not want to further increase your fancy with that subject."

Old reply from 2005.