Revolutionary Hearts

Revolutionary Hearts: Part Four

Revolutionary Hearts: Part Four

June 2, 1780

It’s been twenty-four hours since we spoke, but this Daniel Connor’s words won’t quit playing in my mind.

I learned that he is only nineteen, and now, because of his loyalty to life, he has quite possibly sentenced himself to death. Deserting is treason. If he hadn’t been shielded by the aftermath of the Massacre, he would have been shot on sight for leaving.

I tried to convince him that his regiment might simply count him as a casualty of what he dubbed the Battle of Waxhaws…

He seems determined to believe otherwise. Last night he confessed his fears to me, speaking so plainly that it sent shivers down my spine.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispered to me, “but they’ll find me. They’ll punish me for what I’ve done.”

“So why did you do it?” I’d asked.

His eyes had chilled, burning coldly into my soul as he answered. “I’d rather die as a deserter than live as a murderer.” He shook his head, then seemed to wish he hadn’t as he clutched at the bandages he wore. “Those men surrendered,” he continued through clenched teeth. “They needed to be shown mercy. Goaded back to the side I had believed to be right… “

“Believed?” I’d said softly, not missing the past tense. “And what do you believe now?”

He’d stared at me for a long while before deciding not to answer. With great difficulty, he’d turned away and asked that I let him rest.

And he has been resting ever since, speaking only to give tersely polite responses when my mother or I have asked him something or done something for him. The sole exception to this was when he vehemently asked for my mother to change his dressings instead of me.

Somewhat bemused, I’d allowed him his vanity and surrendered him to Mama’s care. She later told me that his wounds are still critical, but they’re less red and puckered than they were before. She says the infections ravaging his body must be receding.

I, however, cannot make the same claim for the infections in his mind. I have been unable to keep from watching him, and through my observations I find that guilt and confliction are tearing the man apart.

If his body doesn’t kill him, his conscious surely will. Damn my good-natured soul, but I’ve nearly gone to comfort him at least a dozen times today. Nearly.

I’m still not sure he deserves my attentions, but there’s a part of me beginning to think that he does. He may not have found peace from his sins just yet, but he clearly seeks to repent for them. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

I know I had hated him fiercely not long ago, but I now find that hatred is a tricky thing. It takes a single spark to ignite such a blaze, and the faintest wind to blow the flames an entirely different direction.

To put it simply, he now intrigues me more than he entices my newfound dark desires. I’m not sure that he should, but he does so just the same. Something about him makes me want to know him, makes me feel as though I should know him.

Perhaps after dinner I will give him some company. And if he doesn’t want it… Well, we can’t always get what we want if we’re to have the things we need…