Read Online Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast - Free Book Online Page B

thin, but Ely is thinner. Our feet are wretched, but Ely’s feet are stumps of mangled flesh. Yet Ely walks without showing the pain. When there is work to be done, Ely does it. When a strong man is needed, Ely draws strength from somewhere. Yet he isn’t like Jacob. Jacob is fire, but Ely is spirit. Jacob is hate, but Ely is love. I think, sometimes, that when this is over, Ely will endure. Jacob will burn out, but Ely will endure.
    It is about three-quarters of a mile to the hospital, around the shoulder of the hill and down into the valley. Where we stand now, on the top of the hill, we are unprotected, open to every blast of wind that crosses the countryside. I look back and see the dugouts as heaps of snow. No life. Even the smoke is torn from the chimneys and dissipated. I think of how it would be if the British attacked us now, marched from Philadelphia and walked into our dugouts. No one to stop them or challenge them, only half-naked beggars who would sacrifice pride and honour for a bowl of stew. There would be no shots fired. We would be fed. Then we would go back home.
    I look down the white slope, half-imagine it. Why don’t they come and make an end?
    We went on slowly. It was on to late afternoon now, growing dark already. I kept my head down, but Ely led us; and whenever I glanced at him, his head was up, seeking the way. The Jew was a white, inscrutable figure. I had a feeling that I was walking into darkness—made up of white snow, buried deep in white snow. A sense of lightness overcame me, and I no longer felt my feet or the weight of Vandeer.
    We stopped once again, taking strength. Across the road, on the slope of Mount Joy, I saw a sentry. He stood in a lunette, a white cannon showing its head beside him. He stood without moving.
    â€œA short way,” Ely said.
    We pushed up the winding path that led to the hospital. It was a long log building. The sentry by the door scarcely glanced at us. I guess he was used to parties carrying men.
    Ely pounded at the door. An officer opened it, a tall, shaven man who wore epaulettes. I didn’t know him.
    â€œWho are you?” he demanded.
    â€œWe’re of a Pennsylvania brigade. We have a sick man.”
    â€œYou’ve a doctor there, haven’t you?”
    â€œYou know damn well we haven’t!” I cried.
    â€œUse a little respect when you speak, sir—or that tongue’ll be whipped out of you.”
    â€œYou can go to hell,” I said. “By God, you can go to hell, mister!”
    â€œTake no offense,” Ely begged him. “We’re half-starved We’re not fit to walk.”
    I could see the officer calculating how far he could go with us. Lately, they were beginning to wonder about the half-beasts they led.
    There had been no parades, just a few inspections by lieutenants and captains, and long days between inspections. A sentry on a hill, huddled over his musket, wrapped in all the clothes his comrades could spare him. They were beginning to have strange doubts when they saw us come out of our holes, like beasts. Only a sense of fear of the greater cold outside kept the beasts together. That and their weakness; their weakness made them afraid of the great distances between this place and their homes. But they had their guns. If they turned the guns on the officers and went off together, that would be the end of it.
    He measured us, saw we were unarmed. “The hospital’s full,” he said. “No beds are left. Try Varnum’s hospital at the redoubt.” Varnum’s hospital was a good mile away.
    Ely said nothing; the breath came in thin steam from between his lips. The Jew said, in his curious Amsterdam Dutch: “Give a comrade a place to die. We gave our enemies that. Put a little warm food between his lips.”
    The officer didn’t understand Dutch. “Speak English,” he snapped. “The army’s too full of your kind.”
    â€œWe can’t