starry eyes

TWENTY-SIX

January 17th, 1778

I feel certain in that something inside of me has surrendered itself to despair. Something inherent, interwoven within the entity comprising both my spirit and soul.

And what hope is there to be found in a domain of such suffering? Where is there hope except in fleeting moments, in the heart that flutters at the sight of food or the meek laughter of the suffering?

I write only of my bleakest sentiments because they so ostentatiously overwhelm the rest. Understand, Death treads pointedly upon the heels of every man here. It is He who manipulates to the point of elongation the tender threads of time, He behind the sluggishness of every passing day. He has poked and prodded and beaten my army to a point where I almost wonder if-

Oh, but I mustn't go there. Even now, I refuse to allow my mind wander to such places. Surrender is not in the question, nor is defeat. Britain's army will not win. The sacrifice of my soldiers will not be for naught.

Truthfully, not everything is as dreadful as I'm making it out to be. There is joy to be found by those who know where to look. As chance would have it, it was only this morning when I was discussing with a few close companions what opportunities life after the war might bring.

Joseph Moore is looking forward to the day when he can finally be reunited with his wife and children.

Ol' Morgan Brewer just wants to settle down and retire to his family's farm.

And me? Well, I imagine I'll be working pretty closely with politics.

Got a good laugh out of them, this did. Not a common thing to hear around camp as of late, laughter.

Nonetheless, they told me that if they were to entrust anyone with their livelihoods, it would be me.

Of course, they were only able to maintain the solemnity of their expressions for a few, meager heartbeats.

"Don't get the wrong idea," said Moore. "I believe you a man of great courage. In fact, you're among the boldest of men I think I've ever come across! But therein lies part of your flaw: You do not think. Rather, you act first and worry about the consequences later."

"I've noticed that, myself," Brewer pitched in, clapping a hand down upon Moore's shoulder. With a grin, he gave his companion's shoulder a good-natured shake. "But you have to admit: It makes him a helluva soldier!"

Ah, that reminds me! I've ceased to explain my current situation. Previously, I disclosed nothing for fear of discovery. Now, I believe it safe to assume that not a sole man in Valley Forge has the clarity of mind for such tasks as reading. How I, myself, have thus far sufficed is a mystery unto itself, but one that is aside from my initial point.

I fight, as one might imagine, under the guise of a man. I wear my hair above my ears and only loose-fitting uniforms so as to appropriately conceal any features which might stand out as especially "feminine". It's as wearisome a task as one might suspect, but one I have accomplished with fortuitous success.

There is much more I wish to write. Much more I wish I so bitterly wish to disclose, but daylight is dwindling, and I've a meeting with the General, who, in reference to the truth of my gender, has been sworn to confidentiality.

For instance, I had an encounter with Arthur not long ago. I do wonder how Alice is doing, whether she has taken it upon herself to become directly involved with the war efforts, or if she is providing aid, as is expected of traditional women of her caliber, from a safe distance.

Of course, I dared not ask lest I give off the mistaken impression of missing her or something childish of the sort.

But it is time for me to go. I mustn't keep the General waiting.

I will write more if and when I find the time.