BY HANNAH SKIPPER

I’m a Massachusetts man, born in seventeen fifty-eight, on farmland outside Boston while my father was away at war. Still a lad when the fighting ended, I happily welcomed him home, after he’d done his duty for king and country.

My childhood and youth were happy years and, being the youngest of nine, my siblings tried to shield me from the injustices and indignities that began to creep into our lives, due to the laws set forth from on high by men who lived far away. My parents guarded me less; they knew I’d one day be a man. They raised their children to be capable citizens, loyal to the king, our country, and our fellow man. I was kept busy with farm chores and had the great fortune to go to school. I also remember regular trips to the forests for hunting and local streams for fishing and many happy meals to celebrate success.

Perhaps my first great shock against the system I’d been taught so faithfully came as I approached my teenage years, when the crack of British muskets into an unwieldy crowd rang loudly in my ears. What could my good compatriots have done so badly that they deserved to die? Aren’t the professional redcoats trained any better than that in the art of crowd control? My self-righteous indignation bled for those shot down in the street.

Then one of our own townsmen had the gall to stand up in the soldier’s defense. In a court of law, he unwaveringly held that the dead men were wrong and their murderers were right. At first, I bit my tongue to hide my feelings. I knew many people who did the same. But this man came from Boston too and we knew him to be a good patriot. Didn’t we owe him our ears to listen? I was glad when the soldiers were acquitted. John Adams had changed my mind, and many others too. It’s funny how your perspective can change, when the gravity of life and death, right and wrong, is at stake.

I must confess, it didn’t take long for my heart to sour again. Day by day, I saw with increasing clarity how our overlords enriched themselves at our expense. When will the breaking point come? The thought was almost always on my mind. Surely, we couldn’t live like this forever.

I thought it was pretty funny when they dumped the tea into the harbor. No one was fooled by their Indian disguises and, if I could’ve, I’d have joined them. Hadn’t we given them fair warning? We have our rights as well. It was the ships’ captains and our appointed governor who were more responsible than the men who did the delightful deed.

The days seemed longer after we found out how parliament would punish the city after our little tea party; with no action allowed at Boston harbor, many businesses were forced to close their doors and the town quickly emptied of any fun. But my anxious spirit was buoyed by the fact that we didn’t suffer alone. Misery loves company, I guess is what they say, and forgive me, but it’s true. I was glad our sister colonies were suffering injustices because it began to draw us together. Perhaps, with a more cohesive voice, we would be able to right the wrongs of this unlawful oppression. Liberty or death is a transformational phrase.

I know it might seem odd for a man to have such changing moods over the weighty issue of freedom or servitude, but I confess my heart sank when real hostilities broke out. No matter the distrust I’d learned to hold against my king and his parliament, I think I’d always hoped that a path to peaceful reconciliation would be found. Maybe I was still partially the same child who’d been taught to revere the crown.

I’ll remember what happened the night before hostilities really broke out until the day I die. Paul Revere, a silversmith from Boston, rode in late bringing news that the regular troops were marching out of the city. What? Really? Didn’t they know that would only cause trouble? I swore the redcoats must be looking for it! My father understood that we had to act with urgency if we wanted to prevent more injustice and bloodshed. He asked several of my brothers to ride with him, but I was still too young. I wish I could’ve been there, but I’m glad they all came home.

I tracked the skirmishes that followed very closely. I wouldn’t call them battles because there was one professional army against a rabble of angry citizens. We got schooled at Breed’s Hill but our boys managed to pull off a fast one at Ticonderoga. What great news! The cannons captured there helped liberate Boston.

I don’t think there’s a single event that I could point to that made me leave the farm to take up arms. I’d been following our progress diligently from the start and always hoped that we’d win. Several of my brothers were already in service so I was definitely more needed at home, but the calling on my heart was too strong to be denied. The ingenuity of David Bushnell, who built an underwater ship to rid New York harbor of her blockade, had impressed me. I’d gobbled down Thomas Paine’s articles; they made good sense to me. And, in particular, Nathan Hale’s sacrifice stirred my heart to action. Who could’ve sat idle after hearing his story?

It didn’t take long to find out that neither youthful fervor nor our newly declared independence could erase the poor state of the continental army when I first arrived in camp as seventeen seventy-six was drawing to a close. Our tired troops were hanging on despite many defeats. Funds? Food? Clothes? Where were they? Even congress had fled from where they should be. I was one of the lucky ones; newly enlisted, with a few things from home that weren’t completely worn out. How could I begrudge a tired veteran who only wanted to go home and tend to what was his once his enlisted time was done? How could anyone begrudge them?

My first action was on Christmas Eve. Up until then, I’d been accustomed to spending that blessed night around the hearth at home, but when word came that our enemies had left Trenton in the hands of a mercenary force, General Washington decided to strike. I remember thinking how silly it was for the Hessians to join the British cause against us. What concern was it of theirs if we throw off our overlords? Were they really willing to sell their lives for pay? No one could answer these questions to my satisfaction.

Sitting in a wooden boat, I remember focusing on General Washington as we crossed the Delaware River. Perhaps I was hoping the sight of him would make me forget I was half frozen to the seat. I couldn’t help but remember the stories my father had told of him in the last war and hoped his great fortune would rub off on all of us in the battles ahead.

What a delight it was to earn that victory! Those poor Hessians didn’t know what hit them. I sort of felt bad, attacking on Christmas Day, as we did, and with them only being here for the money. But we won! And we took Princeston, too. Thank God for these victories! The dream of liberty didn’t die and many men reenlisted.

Of course, such great fortune didn’t last, as my inexperienced mind might have hoped. We went right back to trading victories and defeats with the British as the new year unfolded and our enemies came out on top more often than not. However, there was one great feather for the continental army’s cap: Saratoga.

We regular troops had heard of some difficulty between General Gates and General Arnold, but that mattered little to us. What mattered was that Arnold came to rally us when the cause seemed almost lost. He was my hero that day. What did it matter if he did so against orders? We had won and Burgoyne surrendered.

The world must be slowly turning upside down. That’s what I thought, as I watched our former overlords give up their arms to us. Would France now come to our aid? Who could tell, but the months ahead. I only knew that Ben Franklin was in Paris and I trusted him to do his best. But that is the statesman’s game. I am a soldier, and mine is to fight and, maybe, die.

I don’t know what the future holds. Experience has taught me that victory can be followed by defeat just as easily as the other way around. It wasn’t long after the elation of victory that we found out Philadelphia was occupied. Philadelphia! Our Capitol! The continental congress has fled again from its hallowed halls.

And what are we doing in response to this outrage? Right now, we are encamped twenty miles distant, at a place called Valley Forge. It’s been a mean winter thus far; worse than anything I’d imagined before. The nice things from home that I had last year have long since played out their use, and I’m as ragged as any veteran. The British need only to follow our bloody footprints to find and finish us off. But why would they? Freezing, sick, and forging for scraps like rats, as we are. The redcoats are quite happy with their quarters, I’ll wager, fattening themselves like pigs on theater productions, balls, society, and delicious food.

I hope they choke on it. Those fools. General Washington has not allowed us to remain idle. He ordered inoculation to stave off the dreaded epidemic that has scourged our camp and many lives have been saved. What’s more, Baron von Steuben has come from overseas. I knew Ben Franklin wouldn’t let us down!

I guess I haven’t always been so congenial towards the idea of foreigners among us in our war, but I think I’ve begun to change my mind. Marquis de Lafayette has certainly made our cause his own and this new Prussian is of the same mold. He is among the troops daily, learning about us and insisting that we keep a clearer camp. He saved many lives with these, sometimes, tedious admonishments and has won our trust and friendship. But, he didn’t stop at simply gaining our respect; he has taught us about new tactics and weapons that we hadn’t known or appreciated before. He is also teaching us to teach ourselves and, I think, I like that best.

I can’t wait to leave this place. Not only because I’d sooner forget the angst of ugly death that has stalked us here, but also because I’m anxious to test our new skills on the battlefield. Our enemies will certainly meet a different opponent when they leave the comfort of our Capitol. And they will leave. We will make them; there is great hope in my heart now.