The air reeked of gunpowder and damp earth as Thomas Whitaker crouched behind a splintered fence, his fingers numb around the musket stock. The sky hung low, a bruise of clouds swallowing the sun, and the river behind him glowed like molten lead under the fading light. His boots sank into the mud, each step a reminder of the weight in his chest—fear, or maybe grief, he couldn’t tell anymore. Somewhere ahead, the British drums thudded like a war drum in his skull.
“They’re not coming,” Eli muttered beside him, his voice a rasp of exhaustion. Eli, the boy from the next farm over, had been Thomas’s partner in every prank since they were ten. Now, at twenty-one, Eli’s face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed by sleepless nights and the stink of campfire smoke. He adjusted his cap, fingers trembling. “They’re waiting for us to break.”
Thomas didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words felt lodged in his throat, heavy as the musket ball he’d loaded minutes ago. The line ahead was a blur of red coats and bayonets, a wall of steel and fire. He thought of his father’s farm, the way the corn swayed in the breeze, how his mother had pressed a loaf of bread into his hands before he left. “For the road,” she’d said, her voice steady, but her eyes had betrayed her.
A cannon roared. The earth trembled. Thomas dropped to his knees as a shockwave knocked the breath from his lungs. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and acrid, mingling with the scent of burning wood. Somewhere, a man screamed—a sound that didn’t belong to this world, raw and guttural.
“Move!” someone barked. The command sliced through the chaos. Thomas scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking, and joined the rush forward. The musket felt foreign in his hands, its weight a mockery of the weapon he’d practiced with in the fields. He fired, the blast deafening, and saw a red coat crumple. A boy, maybe sixteen, falling like a ragdoll.
“Don’t look!” Eli yelled, shoving Thomas aside as a bullet whizzed past. The boy’s body hit the ground with a thud, and Thomas’s stomach turned. He’d seen death before—animals, once, when his father’s cows got sick—but this was different. This was real.
The line buckled. A cry of panic rippled through the ranks. Thomas saw men turning, running, their uniforms a blur of blue and gray. He wanted to run too, but his legs wouldn’t obey. The world narrowed to the musket in his hands, the smoke in his lungs, the sound of Eli’s voice cutting through the chaos.
“We’re falling back!” Eli shouted, blood trickling from his temple. “Get to the river!”
Thomas didn’t know if he heard correctly. The world was a storm of noise and fire, but he followed Eli, stumbling through the chaos, the scent of sweat and terror filling his nostrils. They reached the river just as another cannon blast shook the ground. The water churned, dark and angry, reflecting the sky’s bruised hues.
“We’ll cross tonight,” Eli said, slumping against a tree. His face was pale, his breath ragged. “They’ll be waiting for us tomorrow.”
Thomas nodded, though his mind was a fog of noise and pain. He thought of the farm, the bread his mother had given him, the way the corn swayed in the breeze. He didn’t know if they’d make it through the night, but he knew one thing: this wasn’t over. Not yet.
