WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
That was helpful, for the moment. He had to get help. Surely there was a village not too far. Had they not passed one before they had met the British? Hoisting up the limp body of his friend, he stumbled slowly off in the direction they had come. It was not an easy chore. His breath began to come in ragged gasps and he felt he must soon lay his burden down or collapse. The last light of evening was failing and the moon had risen, shining coldly on the forlorn wayfarer below. It was with immense relief when he reached the top of a ridge, to find the sought-for village laid out below him. With renewed strength he made his way down the last hill, and, stopping at the first house he came to, knocked loudly. It did not even enter his mind that this could very well be a loyalist village. However, it was unlikely. The door opened with a creak, letting out a warm golden beam of light which illuminated the boy’s haggard eyes and weary face. “Please, let me in. I beg of you! I have a wounded comrade here and I must lay him down.” The door opened wider. “Of course, come in.” The deep voice rang out sympathetically. “You are a patriot, are you not? We heard the firing this morning. It must have been a rarely fierce battle!” Randall, entering the door, swayed with his burden. The man caught his elbow, and led him to a bed in the corner. Carefully easing the body from the lad’s weary arms he laid it there. “Come now, you must be hungry. We are just about to have supper, you must join us. I will send one of my boys for the doctor. He, unfortunately, sympathizes with the loyalists, but he would not turn away any man who needed his help.” “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.” “Oh, tut tut, not at all,” responded the man, his benign face beaming with a kindly smile. “It is a pleasure to do something for my country, seeing that I am too old to fight and my sons too young. Meg, my dear, lay an extra place for our guest.” Randall sat down thankfully at the full table, laden with heavenly smelling food. The farmer had already dispatched his son to get the doctor, so Randall set to with a relish. Around the table sat the farmer’s family. His wife, Meg, an older daughter, about fifteen, a couple young boys, and a baby in her mother’s arms, sucking her thumb contentedly. The door opened soon to admit the doctor. After examining his patient he turned to Randall, his brow puckered. “You say you brought him in?” “Yes sir.”
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