Will had taken our gallant captain to Boston and handed him over to the king's troops instead of bringing him all the way up here to Newburyport, he would've been treated for his injuries that much sooner! He would've woken up to find himself amongst people he knows and trusts, instead of strangers whom he must think of as the enemy. Your concerns are with the wrong person! Lord Charles is the injured party here, not Will! Will ought to be whipped for what he did, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!"
"What do you mean, Will? Amy's the one who deserves to be whipped!" hissed Mildred, eyes gleaming as she, too, turned on Amy. "I'll bet you knew who Lord Charles was from the start, didn't you?"
"I knew he was a redcoat, yes, but I didn't see a need to say anything —"
"Didn't see a need to say anything! You stupid, unthinking, idiot, Newburyport is a rebel town! We even had our own tea party last year! What happens if someone finds out we're harboring a king's officer? And what about when Dr. Plummer comes back to check on him? All Lord Charles has to do is say hello, how do you do, and the doctor's going to know immediately that he's no rebel a'tall! You've put us in as much danger as Will has, Amy, for keeping your silence!"
"And unlike Will, you're old enough to know better!"
Amy bit her tongue to hold back her angry retort. Of course she hadn't said anything to Sylvanus, but that was because Will had begged her not to. Unbidden, her mind drifted back to that desperate, tearful conversation she and Will had had in the barn, just following Charles's surgery . . .
"Swear you won't tell Pa, Amy! Oh, please Amy, don't tell him, he won't understand and since the captain'll probably die anyhow it doesn't make a bit of difference —"
"Will, why did you even bring him here?"
"I had to," he'd said miserably, his eyes filling with tears as he sank down on a bale of hay, his head in his hands. "Oh, Amy . . . I thought war was going to be glorious. I thought it would feel good to kill one of those bastards, to know I'd done my part for America, but when it came down to it, and I saw people on both sides dying horribly all around me . . ."
"It suddenly wasn't so glorious anymore," she'd finished.
"It was awful," he'd sobbed, tears squeezing out between his fingers.
"Tell me what happened, Will."
And he had.
"I wanted to hate the redcoats, Amy, I wanted to kill one, but how can you hate and kill someone you feel nothing but admiration for? When that young soldier ran away from the safety of the troops, the captain was just like the shepherd who leaves his flock to save a single lost sheep, heedless of all the bullets flying around him. I've never seen courage like that, Amy . . . And just as he was putting his soldier up over the saddle, I got a hold of myself and thought, here's my chance to kill one, to kill a really important one and do my part for America so that everyone'd be p-p-proud of me . . ."
Tearfully, he'd told her what had happened next, how the captain must have realized his youth and in the last moment, spared his life, only to fall backwards against the wall. He told her how, long after the fighting moved on and the fields and woods had gone quiet, he'd gone back. "I had to —" he'd choked back a sob — "had to see for myself j-just what I'd d-d-done to him."
"It's all right, Will. Don't cry . . . you're too big to cry now and besides, it's not your fault."
"But it is my fault, Amy! It's like when you go hunting and you kill something for the supperpot. You know you have do it, and you get all excited when you pull the trigger, but when the bird goes up in a little puff of feathers, or the beautiful deer stumbles and goes down, there's a big part of you that hopes that when you get there, you was just imagining that you hit it . . . that it'll have recovered and got away . . . or that you killed it cleanly so it didn't suffer." He'd passed the back of his
"What do you mean, Will? Amy's the one who deserves to be whipped!" hissed Mildred, eyes gleaming as she, too, turned on Amy. "I'll bet you knew who Lord Charles was from the start, didn't you?"
"I knew he was a redcoat, yes, but I didn't see a need to say anything —"
"Didn't see a need to say anything! You stupid, unthinking, idiot, Newburyport is a rebel town! We even had our own tea party last year! What happens if someone finds out we're harboring a king's officer? And what about when Dr. Plummer comes back to check on him? All Lord Charles has to do is say hello, how do you do, and the doctor's going to know immediately that he's no rebel a'tall! You've put us in as much danger as Will has, Amy, for keeping your silence!"
"And unlike Will, you're old enough to know better!"
Amy bit her tongue to hold back her angry retort. Of course she hadn't said anything to Sylvanus, but that was because Will had begged her not to. Unbidden, her mind drifted back to that desperate, tearful conversation she and Will had had in the barn, just following Charles's surgery . . .
"Swear you won't tell Pa, Amy! Oh, please Amy, don't tell him, he won't understand and since the captain'll probably die anyhow it doesn't make a bit of difference —"
"Will, why did you even bring him here?"
"I had to," he'd said miserably, his eyes filling with tears as he sank down on a bale of hay, his head in his hands. "Oh, Amy . . . I thought war was going to be glorious. I thought it would feel good to kill one of those bastards, to know I'd done my part for America, but when it came down to it, and I saw people on both sides dying horribly all around me . . ."
"It suddenly wasn't so glorious anymore," she'd finished.
"It was awful," he'd sobbed, tears squeezing out between his fingers.
"Tell me what happened, Will."
And he had.
"I wanted to hate the redcoats, Amy, I wanted to kill one, but how can you hate and kill someone you feel nothing but admiration for? When that young soldier ran away from the safety of the troops, the captain was just like the shepherd who leaves his flock to save a single lost sheep, heedless of all the bullets flying around him. I've never seen courage like that, Amy . . . And just as he was putting his soldier up over the saddle, I got a hold of myself and thought, here's my chance to kill one, to kill a really important one and do my part for America so that everyone'd be p-p-proud of me . . ."
Tearfully, he'd told her what had happened next, how the captain must have realized his youth and in the last moment, spared his life, only to fall backwards against the wall. He told her how, long after the fighting moved on and the fields and woods had gone quiet, he'd gone back. "I had to —" he'd choked back a sob — "had to see for myself j-just what I'd d-d-done to him."
"It's all right, Will. Don't cry . . . you're too big to cry now and besides, it's not your fault."
"But it is my fault, Amy! It's like when you go hunting and you kill something for the supperpot. You know you have do it, and you get all excited when you pull the trigger, but when the bird goes up in a little puff of feathers, or the beautiful deer stumbles and goes down, there's a big part of you that hopes that when you get there, you was just imagining that you hit it . . . that it'll have recovered and got away . . . or that you killed it cleanly so it didn't suffer." He'd passed the back of his
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