WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
They were at the battle. He was standing next to Henry. They had rushed forward in the impetuous charge after the retreating Red coats. That was where his memory failed him. What had happened? Why was he lying here on the cold, stony earth? He groaned, slowly raising his bruised body from the ground and looking around him. He remembered now. He was rushing forward up the rise, his rifle in his arms, when he had tripped over a dead body lying in his way. He did not notice it, his eyes being fixed on the retreating British. He had stumbled, fallen and knocked himself out on the stony hillside. He groaned once more. How mortifying! He had fallen and missed the battle without having fired more than one shot and without having received a wound! How Henry would laugh when he found out. Where was Henry, he wondered? Probably swept up with the fleeing army, pursued by the redcoats. The field of battle was silent and still. All around him lay the dead and the dying. Occasional moans and cursing arose from the wounded. American and English lay together, enmity forgotten in the sleep of death. How strange, he thought, that brothers should go to war against brothers. All here were English, and if not for the rift between them they would be the best of friends and countrymen. Struggling to his feet, Randall looked around him. Already his head felt much better, and he pondered what he should do. He could not follow the retreating army; he would run into the redcoats. Surely someone would come to bury the dead and carry away the wounded, but how soon? A sudden groan came from behind him. Surprised, he turned around. The young man whom he had assumed was dead, apparently still had life in him. He looked closer. Blood trickled from a gash in the man’s forehead, his face was smeared with blood and dirt, and very pale. His wavy dark hair fell over his closed eyes. Muttering, the man began to thrash about. “Water,” he moaned, “give me water.” His eyes opened, and he looked up at the boy bending over him. Randall gasped. Those gray eyes were unmistakably familiar. “Henry?!” “Randall?” he whispered, a sudden look of recognition filling his eyes. “Don’t move, Henry.” warned Randall. “You’re badly wounded. Here, I’m going to wrap this around your wound. Stay still.” He did not voice his concern to Henry, but he was desperately worried. Henry really was badly wounded. He had been bleeding freely from an ugly bullet wound in his side, and if it did not stop soon, Randall was afraid he might bleed to death. He must get help, and get it soon. Rapidly binding up the wound with his handkerchief and a torn piece of his shirt, Randall thought about what he should do next. Henry had relapsed into unconsciousness from the movement.
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