The Musket Gun // 1779

Tricorne Hat

General Benjamin Lincoln stared right into my eyes. His tall but chubby figure was terrifying for me. I gulped and instantly said "Sir... by all means. I must be in the Militia." He slowly walked around me. Looking from my dusty tricorne hat to my burnt leather shoes. "What happened to you son?" He pointed his stubby finger towards my shoes. "The red coats burnt my house. My wife died in the fire, sir." General gave no emotion, but instead he just nod to his men. "Go get this man a tent and a horse." He approved of me. My red hair suddenly fell out of my hat. I was filled of joy but I tried to hide it. "Let's go, Eric. You need some food before you start going out." The boys behind me suggested it and I did nothing but follow them.

There were boys on their horses in the hot fields of Charlestown. Some are cover in blood and some are washing their horses. They look exhausted. I mean, there's no reason they wouldn't be. The red coats are horrible killing machines. They'll kill anyone whoever supports the continental congress. We stopped at a farmhouse, it had two horses and a young boy in it. "Run along, we need these horses for the militia." The boy stepped backwards and started to cry. One of the men behind me slapped him and he started to run away.

"This will be your horse." a troop hinted. "Thank you, sir." I muttered. "I am not a General. Just a soldier." He had a strong french accent. "Aye... thank you soldier." I once again muttered. He and his two men walked away towards the General's tent. I took off my hat to my chest and waved. They do nothing but keep walking not even a look behind. "French." I cuss under my breathe.

I stubble towards my horse and pat my horse. It got scared easily. Is this a joke? A scared horse and dark farmhouse? Thought I would get more out of this. Mary would be proud of me. My beautiful wife. I pull out a drawing of her. She was a great artist. I sit down and look at all the marks on it. 'A picture has thousand words' they say, and indeed it has. She used to paint so well. She drew a self portrait of herself the week before the red coats burnt our house. She was sleeping the night they did. I woke up early, I wish I didn't.

I put away the drawing away. I get back up and look at the horse. Tied to a wooden pole, it could break away if it wanted to. The troops did a bad job at doing an anchor (hitch) knot. I took off my hat and put it on a hay bale. I undid the knot and redid it better. Making it look stronger and neat. I gave the horse some water I had. I was starving. "You need some food, boy?" No answer. Horses don't talk. I suddenly hear men coming. I pick up my hat and quickly put it on. 

"Who are you?" A man and his three soldiers look at me. "Eric Creed, sir. I enlisted myself in the militia. By General Benjamin Lincoln, sir." He stepped up to me. Our noses were nearly touching. I could feel his breathe on my neck. "Don't fuck around with us, Creed. We need to get the British out of our country. You better not fail us." His american accent was lacking. "May I ask what is your role in this war, sir?" I ask. I was getting suspicious. "Lieutenant John Allen." A lieutenant? In the militia? Okay.