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Setting Two Hearts Free

By Janet Grunst

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March 1781
Donald Duncan’s chest pounded as he gasped for air and
struggled to carry Todd Gordon up the muddy road. The
lad’s wounds were severe, and he would surely die without help.
Donald’s back cramped under Todd’s weight. I hope I’m not making
the injury worse.
Another day filled with the unspeakable horror of the wounded
and dying. Earlier, Donald thought he would certainly be numbered
among them. Put it behind you and focus on the camp ahead, or you
will never make it up the hill, and Todd will die. Breathing heavily,
he passed several injured men limping, also aided by comrades.
Together, they climbed to the Continentals’ camp. There would be
no rest until they cared for the wounded and buried the dead.
The sky threatened more rain. Donald shivered, and he laid
Todd under the shelter of nearby trees and scanned the sea of
soldiers. “Help! Somebody help!”
A medic stopped and eyed Todd. He bent over, opened Todd’s
jacket, and shook his head. “Too far gone.”
Donald’s stomach knotted as he grabbed the medic’s sleeve.
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Setting Two Hearts Free
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“He needs aid. Please.”
“You do it! I have others to help.”
Trembling, Donald fell on his knees, searching for something
to keep Todd from bleeding to death. Nothing. He tore off his
kerchief. With his free hand, he pressed as hard as he could against
the gaping wound in Todd’s chest. “Stay with me, Todd.”
Todd turned his head toward him, his breathing labored.
Garbled words sputtered out. “Tell them …” A pleading look filled
his brown eyes. The vessels on his neck protruded before he relaxed.
He swallowed hard as he brushed a tear from Todd’s dusty
cheek. The lad’s eyes dulled. Please don’t let him die, God. Grabbing
his canteen, he poured a little water on Todd’s parted lips before
again putting pressure on the wound. The kerchief was bloodsoaked. Memories flooded of visits over the years to Stewarts’
Green when he would hunt or fish with Todd and his brother. “Try,
Todd, try. Think of home.” He bent over Todd to listen. Shallow
breathing, but still alive.
Todd grabbed his arm and tried to speak. His eyes opened,
equally filled with desperation and resignation. “When this is over
…”
Donald leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk.” If only he could pour
his strength into the lad.
Todd wheezed as he grasped his hand. “Tell folks I love them
… death … not in vain.”
Donald choked back tears and the acid taste rising in his throat.
He gripped his friend’s hand. “Todd, stay with me.” Todd’s death
would devastate the Gordons and Stewarts.
Todd tightened his hold. His eyes flared for seconds. Blood
oozed from his mouth. His hand relaxed. He was gone.
His head fell forward. Donald’s tears fell on Todd’s bloody
chest. How would he ever face the Gordons with the news of their
son’s death? Would he even survive to deliver that message? I have
seen and experienced too much … things I would sooner forget … but I
fear they will haunt me. How can I ever be free of this?
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Janet Grunst
ADVANCED READ COPY – NOT FOR RESALE.
He stood, legs shaking, and motioned to a group of soldiers
assigned to pick up bodies for burial. His eyes fell again to his
friend. “Go with God now, Todd.” Did he still believe that God
listened or even cared? Where had God been these past six years?
Rain and nightmares fell in torrents upon the land and his mind.
Donald woke in a sweat before daybreak the next morning. His
heart raced, like many other nights in the past year … with bitter
memories of the bloody massacre at Waxhaws.
Colonel Abraham Buford had ordered the men to hold their
fire until the British were within ten yards. Would he ever get that
scene out of his mind? The butcher, Banastre Tarleton, had attacked
the Patriots. Many Americans were cut down. Buford had escaped,
and Donald, along with other stragglers, joined a new Virginia
regiment with eighteen-month enlistments. Eight more months to
go. He rubbed his aching head. If only he could forget all that he
had seen, heard—and done.
Todd’s death had left him drained. He had reconciled there was
little or no control over life’s circumstances. His tension increased
each time he went into battle, but since the early years of the war,
he’d learned to squelch his anger, frustration, and feelings. He had
to function and not go crazy. Now he needed something for his
growling belly.
He picked up his blanket and walked to the dwindling campfire.
Men sat under a nearby tree, talking in low voices. He scooped
beans onto his tin plate and poured a cup of tepid coffee, then sat
and leaned against a fallen tree trunk.
How had they lost the battle yesterday when they outnumbered
the British? He had overheard the major and captain. They said
General Greene had prepared his defense in three lines. But the
British army forced its way through the first two, before turning on
the third. Tarleton, that devil. He and his Light Dragoons moved
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forward along the road and came out on open ground at Guilford
Court House, attacking their large force of Continental Infantry.
His lips trembled.“Tarleton’s murderous green coats again.”
He turned his thoughts to something more calming, toward
home, Virginia. Four times he had been assigned as a courier to
locations near Alexandria, making him more fortunate than most.
But the last had been months ago.
Donald finished the beans and sipped the bitter brew, swill
compared to the coffee at home. Home—the six years he had been
absent seemed a lifetime. In another month, his sister was to be
married. He should be at Jean and Peter’s wedding, but years of
war had robbed them all of a normal life. He still believed in the
cause, he just had not anticipated the cost—in lives, time, and
enthusiasm lost.
Life—so precious and fleeting. Donald wiped away the moisture
from his eyes. I’m sorry, Todd. Not even twenty and gone. I must write
to the Gordon family and relay the circumstances of Todd’s death and
his final words. What to tell them—and how much? There was no way
he could make the death of their son palatable. But he had to do it,
as hard as it would be, and soon so when the next post rider came
through it would be ready.
Boyd Alexander approached. “You are up early, Duncan.” The
tall, lanky Scot poured himself some coffee and sat across from
him. “Trouble sleepin’? The young fellow was your friend, I’m
guessing.”
“Todd was in the unit that joined ours last week. I knew him
for near a decade, but not well. I told you about my family’s best
friends, the Stewarts, who have a farm and ordinary about twenty
miles northwest of Alexandria. Todd’s family are tenant farmers at
Stewarts’ Green. He was their youngest son.”
Boyd rubbed his stubbled chin. “I’m sorry. No matter how long
we are in this fight, I never get used to all the dyin’. You going to
write his folks?”
“Yes.”
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Janet Grunst
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Another soldier joined them and spoke with Boyd. Leaning his
head back against the tree trunk, Donald closed his eyes. He would
go to Stewarts’ Green to see Todd’s family—and Mary.
His heart warmed just thinking about Mary Stewart. He could
picture her walking along the path to the pond at the Green. Mary,
with her chestnut hair and amber eyes, had owned his heart for
more years than he could count. The stunning and spirited girl was
a woman now. He had told her he planned to court her when he
returned from the war. Was she still waiting for him?
He opened his eyes. Fog hid the stars, but the moon shown
through the mist. A few hundred miles away, Mary might be
observing the same moon. Was that Irish cabinetmaker from
Philadelphia still pursuing her? Patrick O’Brian certainly had every
opportunity, and he was sure to be there when his brother Peter
married Jean. He shivered and wrapped the blanket around his
shoulders. Jean and Mary were inseparable. The Stewarts would
certainly be at the wedding.
A nearby scream jarred him. He tensed and covered his ears.
Another injured, suffering soul whose life would be changed
forever. He gripped his trembling leg to still it. Will my life ever be
the same?

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