Garrick’s Christmas
Author’s Note: Garrick’s name is Old English. The correct pronunciation is GER-rick.
The boy’s backside slammed against the wall, and his two front teeth bit through the soft flesh of his tongue. He moaned and despite that he knew his father did not approve of weak eyes, he let the tears emerge, to hopefully in his mind, spite him.
Oh, how he loathed him too! If not for his mother, whom he loved dearly, he might have tried to escape, run to the streets of Virginia, or… Why not? His father was no man, but a beast, and animals are fair game. Animals are meant to be killed- for food.
“No,” the boy whimpered, shaking his head in disapproval of such grim thoughts. He was hungry, but not that hungry.
“Happy 25th of December, Garrick!” his father boomed, then laughed mechanically.
He did not answer. Just swallowed the blood.
“Well?” his father growled.
He responded by moaning and wiping the tears away. He felt his whole head ache, neck too.
“Are those tears, boy? Are you weeping like a sissy girl?”
The boy daringly looked straight into his father’s eyes and sneered. “I hawt you!”
“Oh, ho! “ his father whooped and danced about in circles inside the run-down dwelling. “Now, the idiot child cannot speak properly! “ He stopped and glared at his son. “And what is this? Is Garrick bleeding as well?”
“Leave him alone!”
His mother came up from the rear and made haste towards him, except… Except his father caught her right arm and pulled her back, and in doing so, he watched in dismay as he hit her hard on the shoulder, knocking his mother down. She fell with a heavy thud, and did not move much at all. Garrick could see she was still breathing but knew more bruises would show themselves on her in the morning.
Garrick’s father stepped quickly towards him but he was far too sore to flee. He felt his cheeks pinched so tight by his father’s grasp that his injured tongue slipped out. Fresh blood dribbled over his bottom lip and stained a very dirty thumb.
“Your tongue, boy, do you not see it? You’re nothing but an evil, little serpent now! Sin from the Devil himself!”
“I dun’t-”
“Your tongue is cut in two,” he sneered, and then releasing his son’s cheeks, Garrick watched him suckle the thumb that was stained in his own blood.
***
He opened his eyes tiredly and yawned. Another Sunday, another visit in his dreams.
Garrick scratched his bare chest, and subconsciously twirled his black chest hairs into tight knots. Another yawn. He sat up, stretched, and shoved the covers off. Standing, he stood stalk still a few inches from the bed.
“Humph,” was all he could say.
Lowering his head, he examined his body. The scar on his left collarbone might as well be a grotesque, whitish worm, slithering in odd and unnatural angles. His vision cast even further down; it went past his penis, and halted at his feet. While they were perfectly normal, no reminders of the past such as the scar to his collarbone, Garrick stared dumbfounding at the tops of his feet.
After a few seconds, he shrugged.
“Perhuth I wull-” He cursed, instead of finishing his sentence. Garrick walked quickly to the table. On it, was parchment, an ink well and a quill pen. In quick motions, he scrawled his message:
Perhaps I will visit you Elizabeth.
“Humph.”
He thought for a moment, and then scribbled a few more words:
Not nude. See you in the Granary.
There was one other in the Granary Burial Grounds of Boston. Perhaps it was his friend who was persuading him to leave, a former Officer of the Continentals. He was kind to him, Garrick remembered, when the world shunned him because of his speech impediment.
Garrick read the parchment, grunted disapprovingly, then crossed out the two sentences angrily. Instead, he wrote carefully and as neatly as possible:
I will visit you Elizabeth, and Sam.
Releasing the pen, he strode to where is clothes were thrown about on the floor, next to his bed, which wasn’t a bed per say, but rags piled on top of each other; a deer pelt, torn and holey wool blankets, and an old pillow he found stuffed under bits of wood in an alley near Griffin’s Warf.
He grabbed his clothing, and slipped it on casually. His friend and wife weren’t departing any time soon, no, not at all. Garrick cringed after he had finished buttoning his weskit. The corner of his right, top lip, curled up in disgust.
“I need a buth.”
After, he tied his garters securely around his stockings, just under his kneecaps, to keep them from sliding down.
Sitting on his “bed,” Garrick searched. Where was his frok coat, he wondered?
“I wull just steal on’,” he mumbled.
With his three cornered, cocked hat, Garrick made his way outdoors.
***
“I was a fool,” Garrick mumbled quietly to his shoes. “Sam taught me that.” He reached out, and ran his finger through the carved words above his wife‘s headstone: Memento Mori. “I did not avenge you, Sam taught me that too.” He knelt on his left knee and stared longingly at the little, gray headstone. The Epitaph was simple. There weren’t any frills or a long-winded speech concerning mortality and the fragility of life; the phrase itself, Memento Mori, was all that needn’t be said to the living treading curiously by.
The corner of Garrick’s right eye twitched as he read his wife’s Epitaph again. He only was able to read: …”Miss Samantha Soutwick, Wife of-” before his mind wandered, as it so often does, now that he was permanently alone. There was a time he, himself, had considered suicide. He was a soldier, but fighting for a more glorified cause- revenge. The other enlisted men spouted off tales of freedom of tyranny and sung their songs of slandering the King, but Garrick was different.
I sat up and straightened out my shoulders as I sat on ground. I was a gentleman but who, I dare say, was this ghastly man…? He was horrid looking. What man would dress in rumpled trousers, a torn shirt and a waistcoat with more holes in it than Swiss Cheese? And by God! Hair tossed about, unkempt or groomed in a coon’s age. I wrinkled my nose and brought my left hand up, covering my nostrils, concealing what joyous and splendid air that I was allowed to breath inside this wedge tent, let alone gag in disgust outright by his crude and obscene stench. I quietly coughed underneath my hand, and swallowed deeply. As I said, I, Samuel Adams Garrison, am a gentleman, and although I would adore more nothing than to spit in this man’s face and shout, “Dear God, sir! Is bathing against your moral code? Please for the love of sanity to my own especially, jump in the nearest river!”
He is watching, that much I do notice, but his features are fixed in a rather unpleasant expression as if I committed a great sort of crime recently, which I clearly, and surely, did not.
Well, no matter. Since it is the evening, and the sun shall soon depart, I suppose a few hours reading about the Lord will put me at ease.
“Sir, would you be so kind as to fetch the lantern? It is in the far right-hand corner of the tent.” I asked in a muffled tone.
In response, he instead turned his back on me.
“Well, that was quite rude,” I grumbled.
The man whirled around instantly after my remark. “Dun’t do that!” he shouted, and then sneered.
“Dun’t?” I asked confusedly.
“Take yer hund off,” the man growled.
Hmm. This fellow seems older than I. His skin was a bit darker but splotched with brown spots around his forehead. Not freckles, perhaps liver spots? However, he could not be as old as my father? He does have wrinkles caressing his cheeks. The only feature we both exhibit is graying hair. But, alas, mine is far grayer in my early twenties. At any rate, this fool, shall I so boldly say, is acting nothing more than an impudent child.
“The lantern,” I asked once more underneath my hand.
My fellow comrade stood, walked briskly in the direction where the lantern rested on the grass and lifted it up.
I leapt to my feet and jumped swiftly to one side as he tried to throw it at my skull! I heard the sound of glass cracking.
“Idiot! Buffoon! Now our lantern is broken! What do you say to that!” I yelled hatefully at him.
“The glass pan, pan-” He stopped and frowned.
“Well? What do you have to say?” I shouted.
“The glass is not shat… erd,” the man said softly, which took me by surprise to say the very least. I had fully anticipated a shouting match.
I walked to the lantern and squinted while turning it in slow circles by inspecting the glass. He was correct. Two of the panels, I presume what he was trying to say earlier, were cracked in a few areas but it theoretically should still suffice for light. No shattering of glass shards.
“Humph,” I grunted. “If we are to survive with one and another, we not needn’t throw objects at our bleedin’ heads.” Walking to the place where I was sitting originally, I snatched the matchbox, lit the lantern and set it in the middle of us. Then, I grabbed the Bible roughly and angrily flipped the pages, not particularly interested in which passage I chose.
As I began to feel comfortable under the glow of light, I did not read but three whole sentences until I was interrupted by a foul noise escaping from the man’s rear. Now, the inside of the tent reeked that much more than before. I lifted my eyes just enough so I could observe him, yet, the book concealed the rest of my face- from the nose to below my chin.
Perhaps he will excuse himself, I thought. I waited. But no, instead he tossed his waistcoat and shirt in a rumpled pile in the right hand corner of the tent. I can say with honestly, this man was indeed burly. He reminded me of Paul, except, this person was quite hairy. Tufts of hair on his shoulders and thick curls of black “fur” running down his chest. We were comrades, that fact remained true, in this war, but we had only been encamped in the outskirts of the Charleston’s River for less than four days. Neither of us have formally introduced ourselves. Still… Despite him attempting to decapitate me earlier, he is quite intriguing. While this man had not officially offered an apology, he did tell me the panels of the lantern were not shattered, but cracked- and his tone, it lowered immensely. It is almost as if, as if that was his apology. And that scar. How on Earth?
“Done staring?” he asked quietly.
My cheeks grew warm in embarrassment. I was almost certain I was blushing. I put the Bible in my lap.
“Forgive me, sir,” I smiled.
He stood, and walked quickly to my body. I looked up, waiting. He siezed me by the throat with his huge hands. I gurgled and tried to swallow. Too tight… He pulled my head sharply to his chest. I reacted by heaving, coughing and gasping. Drips of his sweat touched my brows and the stench from his armpits! My tongue lolled out and I felt salvia dribble over my bottom lip.
My body fell backwards a few inches as he roughly released me.
“Get a gud look?”
I stared wide-eyed at the man in response.
“Or would you like to see my backside?”
“Sir?”
Shut it!”
“How did you get that scar?” I blurted. I rubbed my Adam’s Apple a little afterwards, carefully watching him in case he attacked again.
“I was stabbed,” Garrick answered. He glanced up from his wife’s headstone and peered the cemetery. There were two other people this Sunday perusing the Grounds; moving slowly to one stone, then the next. He shrugged, and returned his focus to the little headstone. “I was not kun-” He stopped and paused, thinking carefully. What was the precise way to say…”Kund.” No. Garrick shook his head in disapproval. He knew that was not correct. “If I had the pen and paper I could spell it out.” His bottom lip trembled. He reached and wrapped his arms around the stone and hugged it. “I was not… kun- kind- to Sam,” he mumbled to the dirt. “At first.”
I awoke with a startle. All was silent in the encampment, besides snoring or hearing the familiar sound of urinating; our tents were pitched so close, some nights I heard raspy exhaling. Instinctively, I reached for a knife. Not there. Moving my palm frantically over the ground, feeling for anything that felt like steel, searching for a straight razor- anything to offer protection. My hand slipped over the damp grass: nothing. No such luck. I squinted in the night air.
“Who is there?” I whispered hoarsely.
Indeed, there was another with us, but to my dismay, my comrade lied in his corner, asleep. Not so much as a purr from him.
The person stepped closer towards me, a huge brute of a man; thick, stocky. Something fell lose from above. I reached out and ran my fingers on top of the coarse object. I recognized it was rope. Up and down. I also felt several knots. It took a few seconds, but eventually the realization struck. I gulped, as I came to grips of what the object actually was, and its grim purpose.
“I will yell for them,” I whispered louder than before. I sat up, and raised a fist. “You will be apprehended before you dare attempt to hang me.”
The intruder squatted in front of me. My heart, it beats much too fast for a proper count. I froze, breathing opened-mouthed.
“Would you do me-”
My eyes widened, dumbstruck. It was my comrade! He was awake! And he meant to kill me…
“Get away from me,” I growled ruthlessly, and then clawed the soil with my right fingers.
“They will har you,” he whispered. I cocked my head just so, to hear sufficiently. There was a bit of a trace of panic in his voice, and I would be lying if I denied that his nervousness did not amuse me.
He dropped the noose, and turned his back on me. It fell in my lap. I relaxed a little, knowing I was not in danger any longer. The man let out a moan. This, struck me. I crawled towards his foot, and tapped his ankle. He jumped back, and fell over backwards. Upside down, I sort of saw the shadows of his face. He was frowning that much I observed.
“Mind telling me what in all Holy, were you doing with a noose?” I whispered evenly.
“To hang,” he said softly.
“To hang who?”
“Me.”
____
Day five.
My comrade sat on top of his knees, watching me with a grim expression. His brows furrowed and indeed he was frowning. He was fully clothed; breeches, shirt and waistcoat. Two details were missing however, and I shared both: we were missing shoes- the Army had not enough provisions to say the least. I made due though by tying leather straps, holding scraps of wool or linen, any fabric I found, and wrapped them tight as I could around the soles of my feet. When scraps were unavailable- which I grudgingly deplored- I marched barefoot. As an adolescent, I made it a habit to hunt and even walk the streets of Boston with nothing more but calluses to protect the soles of my feet from lacerations of the harsh ground. It was only when the weather changed course, and the brutal fronts of chilly wind and of course snow, I was forced to borrow Father’s boots. Father has them now, our only pair. My comrade and I also did not have proper uniforms for the regiment we served under. Few men did. A simple brown frock coat is all I wore in battle- if we shall see one yet…
The question was there. It lingered. But, in the end, I decided rather than pry and have him throw the lantern yet again at my skull, I flipped open the Bible and began reading silently. The situation concerning the noose last night would have to wait.
I heard him cough. I did not look up.
Another cough.
I ignored him.
“Ow!” I roared.
“That dun’t hart you.”
“What did you say?”
“No blood,” my comrade replied casually.
“If you meant to say, throwing a stinking rock at my forehead does not hurt, you are sorely mistaken! There does not need to be blood for pain!”
Rapping on our tent.
“Come in,” I grumbled.
The person untied the knots, opened the two flaps and moved in slowly by walking on his hands and knees. I held up my left hand over my face to block the sudden glare of sunshine.
When I saw who it was I could not help but whoop with glee! I had not seen my old friend since we arrived near the Charleston River.
“The Good Doctor!” I said with joy.
“Or Doctor Warren,” he corrected me, and then smiled shortly after. “I heard some shouting, and decided it would be in the best interest-”
“For who?” I interrupted.
“That the former Son of Liberty was still alive and well,” Doctor Warren answered.
I laughed, remembering the days long past; my triumphs and dreadful mistakes while I was the youngest inducted and one of the original members of the Boston Sons of Liberty.
“I am fine.” Turning, I eyed my mute comrade. I snickered, then faced my mate, the ‘Good Doctor’ Warren.
“Well then, I shall be off. Still have to clean my musket.” He began easing himself backwards to the exit.
“Wait!” I said.
“Hmm?” Doctor Warren asked.
“Have you received news of Sam at all?”
“Not since he rode to Philadelphia, no.”
“Oh.”
“You two were close I presume?” Doctor Warren asked.
I nodded, now sadden by the news.
“Stay the course. Focus on the war at hand, young Garrison. Samuel would want that much from us both.”
I smiled a little at his comment. “Yes, and if we did not follow through, Sam would have raised holy hell.”
He nodded in agreement. “That was one of the many talents Samuel Adams exhibited. He was the master of stirring the minds of the people to succumb to his beliefs.”
I grew unhappy again when Doctor Warren said, ‘master.’
“Are you sure you are alright?”
“He used to call me, ‘Master Garrison,’” I said quietly.
“My wuf’s name was Sumantha. I called her Sam fir short.”
Both Doctor Warren and I whirled around and stared at him.
“Oh? How intriguing… Three Sams’,” Doctor Warren mused. “Well, Samuel, I shall be off.” He departed, but not completely leaving without winking at me.
“What was that for?”
He did not answer. The flaps were dropped and the knots retied by Doctor Warren.
My shoulders sagged. Deciding so, I returned my attention to the nameless comrade I shared this tent with.
“Do you read the Bible?” I asked politely.
He answered by turning his back on me- again…
I had had just about enough of these childish antics. I strode quickly to his right shoulder, tapped it three times, and then stepped backwards immediately, fully prepared if he attempted to strike.
He did nothing.
All right. If this person is wishing not to attack, perhaps we can speak to one and another, ceasing on the melodramatic violence for once.
I sat next to him, the Bible in my left hand. He scooted a few inches over, away from me.
“What is your name?” I asked softly to him. “I suppose you know mine now?”
He shrugged.
“Oh, well, it is Samuel. Samuel Garrison.” I waited.
A few seconds passed. Instead of introducing himself, he pointed to the Bible, and nodded?
“I do not understand? Surely your name is not, Bible?”
The man groaned in disapproval. He touched the cover with his index finger, then pointed to his chest. After, he nodded.
“Why do you not just talk to me?” I asked.
He pointed to the Bible once more, then to himself.
Surrendering to the nonsense, and utter confusion, I tossed it in his lap. He picked it up, glanced at the Bible, and then tossed it back at me. No opening of the book or searching of the pages… How odd…
“Do you know what this is?” I asked, pointing to the gold lettering on the cover.
The man nodded immediately.
“Would you like to read a few pages?”
No answer.
I was so beyond confusion. Perplexed was a far more suitable acceptance of a word choice.
“Well, if you see it to your satisfaction, here.” I placed the Bible next to his right kneecap. “You may read it whenever you like.” Scooting on my hands and knees, I crawled to a corner of the tent, preparing to nap on top of my frock coat.
A huge hand tugged my shoulder instead. I never was able to move three inches until my comrade halted me.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Garrick. Soutwick.”
I grinned. “Morning, Mister Soutwick.”
He shook his head. “No. Just Garrick.
“Garrick,” I said.
He shook his head again. “Ger-rick. Not Gare-rick.”
“Apologies.”
“Hmph.”
“What was your wife’s name? I cannot seem to recall.”
“Go.”
“Excuse me?”
“No more talk.”
“As you wish, Garrick.” I placed my right hand on his left shoulder and squeezed it a bit. “My offer stands. I shall leave the Bible with you today. Read anything your heart desires.” Leaving him be, I sensed I overstayed my welcome, and flopped onto top of the frock coat, and shut my eyes, thoroughly embracing sleep after last night’s fiasco.
[i]Day six.
Garrick approached me by scooting along the grass on his hands and knees, much like a toddler would. He stopped, no more than a couple inches away. My plan today was to write a letter to Father and Mother; address the current situation in the encampment, which was primarily nonexistent. No action, no drilling, a bunch of fat men sitting about drinking, staggering and sleeping under canvas or their own muskets. A few of the lucky ones, such as myself, had tents. Mine was given to me by Father. Since he had long been discharge from his previous service in the Seven Years’ War, I was very much grateful for the gift.
I glanced up. “Hello, Garrick.”
He did not reply.
I merely shrugged and returned my attention to the blank piece of paper. “A pen would surely be beneficiary,” I sighed unhappily. “Do you miss your folks?” I asked the piece of paper.
“Har.”
I shot my head up and frowned. “Do not mock me, Garrick. Do not laugh.”
He moved closer.
I remained.
“Sum,” he said.
My eyes caught something, this time… unusual… inside Garrick’s mouth.
Garrick released his embrace and slowly rose to a standing position. He still looked down at the little gray headstone, the final resting spot of Miss Samantha Soutwick. Opening his mouth, Garrick touched the tip of his tongue, except there wasn’t one, but two tips at the end. An instant amount of pain engulfed him. It started in his gut but shot up quickly to Garrick’s throat. He felt his kneecaps wobble a bit and he immediately shot out a hand and gripped his wife’s headstone to steady himself, to keep balanced. The hand that was fiddling with his snake-like tongue absent mildly rubbed both eyes, to erase evidence of suffering, to undo his memories, but to ultimately ban this morning’s nightmare.
“Your, your mouth?” I asked, wide-eyed.
I have never witnessed anything, well, if what I saw is to be true, I feel it is quite remarkable. Unusual, but interesting nonetheless.
I winced as Garrick immediately applied pressure around my wrist after the question.
“Let. Go,” I seethed. “Now.”
He instead shoved me backwards. I fell over on my ass but did not get any chance to retaliate. Garrick leapt on top of me. Snug in between his two calves, both my arms were tightly pinned. His shirt was thrown over his head. Now, a wonderfully hairy jungle greeted me. Lovely.
“You,” Garrick growled. He pointed to that same scar I noticed on his shoulder. “See?”
I cooperated by nodding.
“He stubbed me.”
I thought for a minute. What did he mean? Hmm…
“Stubbed!”
“Stabbed,” I blurted. The answer came without a second thought while studying the bare area of flesh where the scar was.
“Who is he?” I asked curiously, perhaps boldly too.
Garrick pointed to the piece of paper that had fallen near my waist.
“I do not understand. Really, I do not.”
Garrick stood, then, he turned around. I gasped. How could I have not notice, but, how? His back- lacerated… Scars in every direction; diagonal, vertical, many crisscrossed. It was like looking at thin, pale webs. These scars however were unique. I recognized the marks straight away. Father has these exact, but… My eyes just widened. Father was whipped by my grandfather, and he wept good and long the evening of the Bloody Massacre when he finally revealed with us a secret he closely guarded: Father’s earliest childhood memories of Atticus- my scoundrel of a Grandfather that permanently damaged father emotionally and physically for his own scars are there on his backside. The same as Garrick but no where near as plentiful…
“I am so sorry,” I moaned.
He whirled back around and instead of attacking, frowned. And he frowned deeply.
“For what? No pity fir me. Never was.”
I shook my head in disagreement. “I know,” I chocked, struggling not to…
Garrick arched an eye.
Oh, to hell with it, I thought to myself. I have openly sobbed in front of men before- my friends, and with Sam, my second father. I released, I let them come. One by one. The drops trickled across my cheeks.
Garrick knelt on his right knee.
“I know. I know,” I wept. “I know ev… every…” I could simply not finish my train of thought. The reality, for me, was too personal, too real. Father was abused by his father, Atticus. Years I wondered about my roots, my family history but father, with mother’s help, kept the childhood past secret; he refused to tell his only son. That is, until the Bloody Massacre erupted, slaying five innocent lives. I was there, a witness to the crime, hiding behind a large snow barrack some local boys built, watching. Mother was there too in the snowy streets except she was in the fiery, violent crowd, antagonizing the redcoats.
The end result was we escaped. Distraught as I felt , and frightened facing father, at the given moment, we made our way home. After a good, swift punch to my jaw by father, he eventually broke down, revealing everything. He was indeed happy we were safe and of course, not deceased but mother and father cried, it seemed, forever. I did not. I could not find it in me. Too shaken.
Garrick cocked his head.
I sat up and wiped the tears off. “I apologize.”
“Fir?”
“Nevermind,” I replied.
“Tell,” he insisted.
Looking him straight in the eye, I said, “I know you were abused. Whipped, like my father.”
He put his mammoth hand on my right shoulder, similar in practice as I did with him yesterday. I smiled sadly.
“Now, do not go and think you are allowed to kiss me,” I joked.
Garrick shoved me lightly. I fell backwards anyway.
Gender:
Points: 22
Reviews: 365