WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
The wind whistled through the bare gray branches of the trees above. It was a cheerless, haunting, eerie wail. Henry shivered at the sound and drew his cloak closer around his lean body. The tree above them cast its bony shadow near the fire, its groping fingers reaching hungrily toward the flames. It was now mid January. They were settled in this miserable valley for good. He stretched out his numbed fingers over the blazing fire before them. The heat hurt somewhat. He continued rubbing his palms against each other to drive away the numbness. It was still snowing. Swirling down in great white drifts, the snowflakes covered the ground in all directions, and built up on the roofs of the small huts they had constructed for shelter. Reluctantly standing up from the warmth of the fire, Henry picked up the remainder of the warm stew near him and made his way slowly to the nearest hut. The cold slowly seeped into his bones as he walked, driving out the warmth of the fire. Crunch, crunch, crunch. His shoes beat a rhythmic tread on the icy snow. The lantern cast an uncertain, hesitant glow around him, keeping the flickering, eager black shadows at bay. Unlatching the door of the hut, he entered, and setting the lantern on the nearby table, made his way over to the bunk in the corner. On it lay a form, still except for the ceaseless shivering. Henry woke the man, “Randall, I brought you some broth.” He was answered by some senseless muttering. Randall was still delirious. At least he wasn’t thrashing about any more. The bowl of watery stew was fast becoming cold as Henry proceeded to spoon it down his comrade’s throat. He hoped that the lingering warmth would help poor Randall. Pulling off his boots, he lay down on his own hard bunk, wrapping his cloak tightly around him. It was a bitterly cold night. His stomach grumbled noisily. His own supper fare had been far too meager. There was a general lack of food and clothing throughout the whole camp. Henry was better off than some of the other men, his mother having made sure he was well provided for. Many of them had died from numerous diseases, and many others were laid up sick. Poor Randall had fallen ill as well. He had a hardy constitution and would likely pull through, but Henry was worried about the lack of food and warmth. He had already given his own thin blanket to keep his friend warm, but that was hardly enough for any man. Medicines were also scarce in camp. During the whole of that long, wearisome month, Henry fought against despair. How could this bedraggled, half-clad, starving army even think of confronting the British come May. The English army was housed in the large and comfortable City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia. The Americans couldn’t even keep their own army together! Many of their soldiers had deserted, and in Henry’s own
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