Historical Fiction: A Collection of Short Stories

Molly Pitcher

As William fell, it occurred to me with a strange sense of detachment that I might actually be a widow now. He fell in slow motion, face-first toward the ground, making no effort to catch himself. His blonde hair glinted in the sun and then he was gone, obscured from view by the thick smoke from the cannons. I dropped to my knees and scrambled over to his side, groping blindly. The mixture of smoke and dust in the air seared my eyes and lungs as I scrambled madly in the dirt. Finally, my hand closed over William's forearm, and I could feel his pulse thumping wildly under his sweat-slicked skin.

Not dead, I thought as I let out the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding. My hands patted frantically at William's uniform, searching for the warm seepage of blood that I knew must be there. Horrifying possibilities flashed through my mind, each more terrifying than the last. A musket ball? Cannon? Oh God, a tomahawk? I had seen the red savages in camp before, tattooed and stoic, sitting quietly outside of the general's tent. They would fade silently in and out of camp, bringing news of the whereabouts and status of the British army.

"They're naught but scouts, Molly," William had assured me, reminding me that I shouldn't be afraid. But of course, the British had red Indians of their own. A hard lump rose in my throat as I pictured one of those gleaming tomahawks embedded in William's skull.

"Please, God, no," I whispered to myself as my hands traveled up William's neck. I could feel his thick blonde hair sliding through my fingers. His skull was firm and whole under my hands. Thank you, God. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I gathered William's head onto my lap.

As the smoke cleared, William's face came into view. His cheeks were flushed bright red from the heat of the day and the exertion of loading and firing the cannons. His uniform was soaked, but with sweat, not blood. The sun beat down relentlessly over the open battlefield, and as the day wore on, the temperature had risen to a blistering degree.

I had carried a bucket of water over to the men not ten minutes earlier, but William had declined to drink, instead continuing to work the cannons. I glanced wildly around, and noticed the bucket sitting a few feet away. I grasped for the bucket and sloshed most of its contents into the dirt as I dragged it over to William. As I cupped my hands to scoop up some water, I realized that my hands were shaking. Precious few drops of water made their way to William's blistered, dusty lips.

"Sarah!" My voice cracked, thick with emotion and dry from the heat of the day. "Sarah, water!"

I could hear the swish of her skirts as she knelt down beside me. "Molly?" she asked, breathless. "What's wrong?" Her hands fluttered a few inches above William's chest, searching for injury.

"Heat exhaustion, I believe." I had pulled my kerchief from my skirt and was industriously swabbing William's sunburned face. "He needs water." Sarah bobbed her head and hurried away, empty buckets swinging from her hands.

A nearby cannon discharged, spewing thick smoke that temporarily blinded me. Choking and gasping, I grabbed William under the arms and dragged him clear of the canons, single mindedly pulling his limp body through the dirt and grass. I hoped that Sarah was hurrying back with the water. The heat of William's skin burned through his thick blue coat. Without pausing to think, I pulled off the coat and dumped the half-empty bucket of water over William's neck and chest. As I did so, William's voice ran through my mind. "General Washington says a soldier must wear his proper uniform at all times in order to be a part of a proper army."

Well, I thought as I spared a glance toward the crumpled, dusty coat, Proper uniform be damned.

A moment later, Sarah plopped down beside me, gasping, but, God bless her, carrying two large buckets of water. "Soak up the water and wring it into his mouth," I instructed, soaking the dirty kerchief in the bucket before twisting it between my hands over William's mouth. A startled shout from behind me pulled my attention away from Sarah and William. Another soldier had collapsed behind his cannon, although this time, it wasn't from the heat.

A bloom of dark red seeped through the soldier's navy coat, staining the ground below. The reek of blood was heavy in the air, a tangy scent of salt and iron. The certain knowledge weighed like a brick in my chest as I knelt down beside him. Already dead. With his hair swept down over his eyes, it took me a moment to realize that I knew him. Charles Smith. William's friend.

Trembling, I placed my hand over Charles' face and closed his fixed, staring eyes, all the while thinking of his wife, Rebecca. They had eaten at our fire only the night before. Christ, had it only been last night? A memory raced through my mind: Charles sitting across from me at dinner, head thrown back, laughing without hesitation or fear. Like all young men, he had radiated strength and the sure knowledge of his invincibility. And now he was dead. Knowing that there was nothing else I could do, I said a quick prayer for his soul, and returned to the living.