Hometown Hero [A Carving the Way book]

III.

Uncle Philip walks into the room barely more than fifteen minutes later, paper in hand. He passes it to me.

"I want you to read it, James. Out loud. To all of us."

"What about my father?"

"Don't worry about him. Read Prospero's article. Show the word this amazing mind."

Pride swoops through my chest. "Alright, Uncle." I take the article and sit on the floor, my siblings gathering around me. "The Threat of War by Prospero. An article warning of the looming war gathering on the horizon."

Sarah's eyes bore through my soul. I got the topic from her, of course, and she knows it.

"As we sit amongst our families and friends, docile in spite of things, there is a danger on the horizon. With the Crown in no position to give way to the disputes of the Patriots, the threat of war springs up in daily arguments, in small actions and words. The divide between the Crown and the colonies grows day by day... The sound of gunfire and cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder plague the dreams of the king.

War is upon us, Patriots and friends. Shall we fight for what we believe in? Shall we take up arms and fight for our own? Or shall we sink on bended knee? Or shall we let the Crown rule us with an iron fist? Friends, I tell you this—war is coming and it is coming fast. We must be ready, lest we wish to taste defeat.

My friends, family, and fellows—let us not be senseless in the face of adversity. The fight will be arduous. The battle will test your every strength and bring forth your every weakness. You will face substantial failures and taste small victories. But do not despair, my friend, for you will fight for the freedoms we deserve.

To Patriots and Loyalists alike, I bring you warning of the fight we are about to embark upon. When the time comes to dress in a uniform, I beg of you to choose the right side. I plea your musket will join the force of the right side. Whatever side that is may yet to be seen, but choose wisely. For war is upon us.

Danger looms over your house and the houses of your neighbors. With the coming war will come sorrow and bloodshed. But should we Patriots fight and fight and fight until we win—we will win more than freedom. We will win honor.

In the promise of gaining glory and exaltation, let us not be boastful and prideful. Let us use wisdom in this fight to bring glory to us all. Let intelligence triumph over foolishness. Let valor triumph over timidity. Let us not charge blindly into battle, but let us strategize with the power of many bright minds.

So stand together, comrades, and bond in your courage and beliefs. May the fight be swift and may the victory be deserved.

But before victory first comes the war.

The war will spill the blood of our friends. It will spill the blood of our family. It will spill the blood of our enemies. Our families will be ripped apart. You may spill the blood of your very own family.

But this war...this war is inevitable. The war will begin and end with a bang.

But who will it favor? The Patriots, intrepid and determined, or the British, disciplined and ruthless?

Only time will tell." I look up. "That's...that's where it ends."

"And what do you think of him?" Uncle Philip asks.

"He— He sounds knowledgable. Like he knows what he's talking about. But..."

"But?"

"He didn't seem to favor the Patriots or the British. I mean, he says here, 'I plea your musket will join the force of the right side. Whatever side that is may yet to be seen, but choose wisely.' That sounds like he says either side could be right," I say. "I thought he was supposed to favor the Patriots!"

"He does," Uncle Philip says. "You see, young James, it is the tone in which Prospero writes that suggests his Patriotism. Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"Well, then," Uncle Philip says with a smile, "I believe it's time to teach you a thing or two about mood and tone in writing..."

◈

After our literacy lesson, my father forced us to bed and my cousins, aunt, and uncle out. So I sit at my desk again, a paper before me, covered in my scrawl. I reread the piece, making my little edits as I go, pleased with it. My writing seems to have improved, even if only slightly.

I fold the piece and slip it under the loose board under my bed. I crawl into my bed and let sleep take me, forcing away the fears of discovery.

◈

For the next few days, my father's mood decreases significantly as Prospero unleashes article after article. There's one every day now. At every meal, my father grumbles about how Prospero must be dancing around a room somewhere. After every comment, Sarah's eyes skip over me.

My father might not be totally right about Prospero dancing—for he's certainly not dancing around a room, but he is partially right.

Prospero is dancing around in my chest.