Not Out of the Woods (ConcreteGirl08/open)

[Prudence]

Nat swallowed hard when the Doctor came into view, he could feel himself slipping out of character..feel Emily creeping in. He had fought so hard, for so many months, to keep his thoughts compartmentalized, segregated and for the most part he had succeeded until now. All it took was one look at her brother and Nathan Hallewell was Emily Wright once again.
“You are Nat Hallewell, you are Pvt. Nathan Hallewell, you are a soldier…” Emily thought fiercely as she continued toward him. As much as she despised him just now, as much as his very presence unnerved her, not to mention put everything she’d fought for in terrible danger she still couldn’t completely dismiss the urge to run to him and throw her arms around his neck. She could resist it, yes, and it made it much easier considering he was glowering at her as if she were the devil himself, but she couldn’t dismiss it. Gabriel... He looked about a silly with a musket on his shoulder as she must have looked to him. Her brother abhorred violence, not out of some moral conviction but because he believed it illogical, wasteful, the idea that he would ever willingly, knowingly kill a man was absurd. And the idea that he would ever be in a position to do so, that he would ever see battle, made her stomach churn. She pushed the thought from her mind with a brief shake of the head.
“Don’t think I asked for this. It was all Singer’s idea.” He snapped from a few feet off.
Emily folded her arms across her chest in what she realized, a second to late, was a very feminine manner and dropped them immediately back to her sides. “I wouldn’t put it past you…Let’s get one thing straight right now Doctor. I’m your superior officer here understand? So if I tell you to run, you run, if I tell you to duck, you duck and if I tell you to keep that mouth of yours shut, you’d better do it.” She fought to make her voice sound as gruff as possible, “That’s if you want to stay alive. If not,” she shrugged, “do as you please.” She drummed her fingers along the stock of her musket briefly, trying to size him up with an unprejudiced eye. “Have you ever even been on a march?” she cocked a brow at him.

(bah, shortish…I hope the jumping back and forth between Nat and Emily isn’t too confusing.)

[concretegirl]

Gabriel felt his teeth grind together. He would think he could handle this situation for a few moments, and then Emily would go and do something like that. Try to boss him around. Order him around. Like when they were kids.
His superior? The mere idea was insane. She was his little sister and that was all there was to it.
He didn’t want to say that, no, he’d never been on a march. He’d always wound up in more sedentary regiments-or, was at least there during a time when they were sedentary. He saw much more of the aftermath of battles than he actually did real action.
But, he couldn’t admit that to Emily, so he ignored the question completely.
“You know? I don’t care if you say that Emily doesn’t exist anymore. I know my sister. She’s right here in front of me, and I’m not going to… Tell anyone. I-… I wouldn’t do that to her.” he said, but then his voice started to harden. “But don’t you dare think that just because you’ve fooled all of the idiots into this regiment into thinking you’re someone-no, something- you’re not, don’t think you can pull it off with me. I’m only doing this because Singer ordered me to, and Singer ordered me to because I got into a fight with that oafish, brainless friend of yours. It doesn’t mean I think of you as anybody else, and it definitely doesn’t mean I’m your bloody slave. I’ll follow you around, I’ll listen to what you say, and I’ll even call your… Private Hallewell… But if you so much as once try to boss me around or humiliate me, so help me, Emily Wright, I’ll go to Colonel Thorton myself. I have my limits, and you know I‘m enough of a bastard to do it, so don’t test me.”

[Prudence]

Emily’s temper flared with every word, her mouth pressing thinner and thinner until it was a hard line, her hands clenching at her sides. What she really wanted to do was punch him square in the jaw. Maybe if she hit him hard enough it’d knock a few teeth out and then he wouldn’t feel so inclined to blather on and on as though it made any difference. It was frustrating enough that he couldn’t—wouldn’t understand, she’d always thought that of the family he would’ve been most likely to support her, or at least understand. What really infuriated her was how little respect he thought he owed her. Little sister or not she was still a seasoned soldier and the only reason she didn’t outrank even Corporal Alexander was that she refused promotion. She didn’t doubt his abilities as a Doctor just because he happened to be the same brother who used tease and taunt her. It took her a long time to speak but when she finally did her tone was flat, almost acid, her voice steady. “You obviously don’t know your sister half so well as you think. I am a soldier, regardless of what you want to believe and Singer put me in charge of you. As for those idiots I’ve fooled, I’d be careful if I were you, one of those idiots might just save your life, as my oafish friend has saved mine more times than I’d like to admit—whatever you think of him, you owe him that at least. In any case Gabriel, I wouldn’t dream of trying to humiliate you…you’re doing an excellent job of that all by yourself.” She exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension in her limbs that always seemed to accompany anger. “How fast can you load a musket? Do you know how to march in formation? Can you identify the different drum signals and what they mean? Can you take an order from a superior officer without hesitation, even against your own better judgment? Can you, at the same time, think for yourself and act accordingly? More importantly, can you do all this under enemy fire?” She shook her head almost scornfully, “I think maybe you do need someone to boss you around brother…” With that she turned on her heel and started off toward where the men were getting into formation. If he followed, fine, if not, well…right now she wasn’t sure she really cared.

[concretegirl]

Gabriel stood for a moment, shaking and feeling ready to explode.
He wanted to follow behind her, and tell her-no, to scream and shout at her- about how he hadn’t been able to learn any of those things because he was always knee and arm deep in blood, vomit, and sweat. How, over the last few months, he had lost any desire to do any of those things she had just listed-things that she was apparently so good at- and that was losing his taste for it more and more.
He still felt something nagging at his conscience about having lost it the night before on the Corporal-though, admittedly, he had been trying to talk himself out of feeling bad about it constantly- he couldn’t imagine how taking another man‘s life would feel.
He didn‘t want to imagine it, and he was losing any desire to learn how to do it.
When he had first enlisted he was worried about his family, he wanted freedom from the British. He had been caught up in all of the sharp emotions circulating through the house, through his family.
And, just maybe, he wanted to prove something-to his father, to Richard.
But if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t lost his hesitancy yet.
Well, he wasn’t going to be hesitant anymore. If he was finally going to be put on to the line, then now he could lose his fear of it. He could shed his indifference and become more committed.
And he didn’t bloody need Emily to show him how to do it.
He went around to the formation in a different direction then she did. He was just going to have to learn how to do this on his own, just like she had to.
He went to walk around to the back, where he would normally be in formation. But, then, he thought about one of the things Emily had said.
Can you take orders?
Thinking back to the night before, or even just how he had spoke to the Colonel this morning, he knew he didn’t. But, he could learn how. He’d prove he could.
He changed directions, and fell in line directly beside Emily, and beside him was a black and blue Corporal-feeling a renewed desire to punch he man all over again.
He turned to Emily. “This is how it’s going to work, Hallewell.” he said, his lowered voice sharp, but loud enough to be heard over the drums. “I’ll follow you around and we’ll both make Singer happy, but I don’t need your help, I can learn like everybody else and I’ll be fine. So I think it‘s best if we just don‘t talk to one another, don‘t look at one another, don‘t even acknowledge each other‘s presence unless Singer is looking, alight?”

[Prudence]

A long strip of soldiers, marching in some places ten abreast, in other, narrower spaces trickling down to only two or three, stretched across the New York countryside. They marched through thick dust along wide roads, slogged through dank, muddy marshland, up hills and down into deep valleys thick with trees—all in time to the thunderous repetition of drums and the shrill peel of the fife. Charlie whistled along with the fifers, he was soaked with sweat, drying mud caked almost to his knee, dust clinging to his damp face, and yet he positively glowed with delight. Every faculty of his mind and body alive, engaged…now if only there were some redcoats around.
He cast a sidelong grin at Hallewell, on his right. The lad’s face looked pinched somehow, as if he’d eaten a crabapple. Alexander could hardly blame him, though he still didn’t fully understand what had gone on between he and Wright, he could certainly understand not wanting to ‘saddled’ with the fellow, training or no. Judging from the exchanges between the two—or lack thereof, Wright didn’t seem terribly fond of the idea himself. The two seemed content simply to ignore each other, Lieutenant Singer be damned. Charlie had hoped that the young doctor would’ve been complaining by now, of aching feet, of bugs—the air was so thick with them in some places one could’ve cut it with a bayonet, of the heat…but he hadn’t. Not a beat, he just marched doggedly on, more silent than the Corporal could’ve imagined possible. And if the bruises and scrapes he’d incurred during last night’s scuffle were bothering him half as much as Charlie’s, he would have reason to complain. Charlie couldn’t decide if it’d made up for his probably-broken nose, or only made it that much worse.
The fifers picked up a new tune, one known well enough through camp by now, and especial favorite. A few voices started in shortly after with the words, including Charlie, and by the second verse the song had filtered through the entire regiment.
“…Fath'r and I went down to camp,
Along with Cap'n Goodin',
And there we saw the men and boys
As thick as hasty puddin'.

Yankee Doodle keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.

And there we saw a thousand men
As rich as Squire David,
And what they wasted every day,
I wish it could be saved.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy…”


Charlie clapped Nat on the back lightly, “cheer up lad, we’ll be to—well, wherever it is we’re going soon enough, and once you’ve tacked up a few more red coats on that trophy wall of yours, why, they’ll be pinning so many cockades to your hat we’ll be calling you Macaroni.”

And there was Cap'n Washington,
And gentle folks about him;
They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud
He will not ride without em'.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy…


Nat couldn’t help smiling at that, although he was inclined to disagree, if some artist were to conjure up from their head an image of this ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ why, he would bet his best hat it’d be Charlie Alexander to a T, muddy boots and all. He thought of saying this aloud but didn’t want Gabriel overhearing so he just shook his head, smile becoming strained for a moment before it faded altogether.

[concretegirl]

Gabriel had decided that silence was the best policy in his current situation.
Just as he told Emily: it was best that they didn’t speak. If he knew his sister-and, despite his cause for serious doubts on that front, he still felt he did- he knew that she was going to continue on being impossible and he definitely knew that he wasn’t going to be benevolent about it.
So, he trudged along wordlessly. He felt like he was in a sorted herd of cattle, and he was the one you always see straggling. He was generally an active person, but there was great difference between taking walks in an orchard for hours and being on a march. His body was starting to protest the relentless pushing forward, wearing and carrying everything that he was. There was dust mixing in with the sweat that was starting to gather on his skin, and the constant buzz and hum of insects moving around them. And, if the buzzing didn‘t drive Gabriel mad, the Corporal’s whistling and singing certainly would.
Gabriel only knew part of the song the man had joined in singing. He had heard it before, but Gabriel found that he had stopped giving much attention to music.
He and Richard used to sing all of the time. Nothing serious-and certainly not for anyone’s entertainment but their own. Richard was skilled at playing the piano and would always bang out ridiculous songs while the two of them would belt out-mostly scream and shout out, really- the words at the top of their lungs, unable to breathe between all of the shouting and laughing. For the most part, they had done it just to annoy their father-especially when they were singing songs that Richard had heard at local taverns. Their mother mostly ignored them, at least until all of their noise and energy just encouraged the other children to start chasing each other around the house, screaming, and she would put a stop to it.
Remembering things like that tended to make Gabriel feel sick.
His brother wasn’t dead. Well, at least not as far as he knew. And, he felt certain he wasn’t-something in his gut told him that Richard was still out there, alive. Gabriel liked to think he would be able to sense if his brother-his best friend, really- died. That his dying would register as some sort of prick in Gabriel’s chest, or some sort of twist in his stomach. That there would be a feeling in his heart and the idea in his head and he would simply know. He had to believe that. He had believed it about all of the men he had seen die-that, somewhere, their families or loved ones had felt it. How could a soul leave this world without someone feeling the pain of the ties being cut without having someone tell them they should? The idea that you couldn’t made Gabriel feel uneasy. Especially on nights when the morning came and he was left with a dead man, the idea that no one else knew that someone had died made him feel very alone.
And, Richard was probably in no worse danger that Gabriel-or, unthinkable as it still was: Emily- was. Especially not with him being on the more well organized and trained side of the fight. But, the feeling of having lost something irrevocably was still there. All of the trust and loyalty they had shared had been shredded apart. Made obsolete. He had lost something, and thinking on it hurt worse than how he could think to explain, and far worse than he would ever be able to show.
Gabriel glanced over at Emily. He thought of all of the times that he was worried about Richard and he probably would should have worried about her instead. Richard leaving-while it had hardly been alright with Gabriel- at least was expected, though Gabriel had still felt betrayed regardless.
But, Richard was Gabriel’s older brother. They teased each other mercilessly, they had gotten into fist fights, they had worked together, become men together. There was something so much more equal about their footing. His regard and relationship with Emily was just so different in his mind. He didn’t think any less of her, on the contrary, it was almost that he thought more. While Richard was similar to him, Emily was supposed to be better-he wanted better for her. While Gabriel had certainly argued with Richard about his decisions, in the end it wasn’t his place to tell him what to do. With Emily, he couldn’t shake the idea that he had an inherent responsibility to make sure she didn’t fall in harm’s way, that nothing hurt her. He tried to give her credit as someone who was mature, who could think, who was intelligent-probably smarter than him, really. But, whenever he thought about Emily he could scarcely imagine anything past the young girl who would bring him her broken toys so he could fix them, the one who had asked him to get down things from the highest shelf in the pantry, to twist the lids off of stuck jars, the one he had comforted with stories after she had nightmares. He thought of dresses, big doe eyes, fingers sticky with jam, and high pitched laughter.
She was a girl.
She was his sister.
So, when Corporal Alexander started to talk to her about the people she had killed, he could barely keep himself from turning and trying to throw him to the ground.
Emily didn’t really respond to what the Corporal said, she had a faint smile, but it disappeared quickly and she continued forward without really responding. Gabriel could tell that the Corporal was still at a complete loss over her behavior-or, rather, their behavior combined. Because he knew the Corporal caught Gabriel glaring at him before he could turn away and try to force himself to act more natural.

[Prudence]

Charlie watched Hallewell’s smile fade and he felt his elation deflate slightly. Nat had never been the talkative type but this brooding was unlike him. He caught, almost in the same moment, the doctor’s eye, glaring almost venomously at him and wanted, for what must have been the thousandth time, to punch him. Apparently swollen fists, a reprimand from Captain Foster and scut duty hadn’t cured him, one whit, of the urge. His conversation, if it could be called that, in the woods with the doctor, and the lack of conversation with Nat afterward had left him even more confused, he couldn’t imagine what had passed between them—though that didn’t stop him from speculating. It must have had something to do with a girl, or something between their families…It was enough to make a man’s head hurt. He meant to glare back at Wright but the doctor looked away too quickly to give him the opportunity. He opened his mouth, about to same something, the urge to provoke him almost too great to resist—until he saw the dark expression on Nat’s face and decided against it. Instead he uncorked his canteen and took a long swig, letting the warm, slightly fetid tasting water slide down his throat.

[Prudence]

Late afternoon sunlight filtered down through the trees, scattering green-gold over the forest floor. Nothing was still, branches swayed in the slight breeze, making their leaves flutter, birds chirruped and sang, calling to one another from their nests, small animals, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, quail, scurried through the underbrush, while the larger ones, deer, black bear, and wolf stalked among the ancient timbers, silent and swift as phantoms. In the valley over a river ran, lazy in the summer heat but still swift enough that its coursing waters could be heard miles off. Henry never understood the white men when they called the forest, “quiet” or “calm”, it was as alive, as busy as any of their cities…This, he thought, was what made them such terrible trackers. They didn’t understand how to use the forest, its sounds, its movements, to camouflage their own.
He ran, swift and fleet-footed as a young deer through the dense trees, up a rise, pausing briefly at the crest to scan the landscape, the valleys and hills stretched out before him—there. He’d heard them long before he saw them, of course…their bedlam of stomping feet and clanking of gear, the clomping hooves of warhorses and their jangling bridles, their shouting, laughing and—was that meant to be singing? If there had been any calm or quiet to be found in these woods they surely would have obliterated it by now. And they were meant to take St. Leger by surprise? He smirked to himself, barely waiting to see them come fully into view before he disappeared back into the trees.

The sun was just beginning to dip low into the western sky when he reentered camp. The English were no better than the Continentals at keeping their whereabouts secret. The smoke from their cooking fires alone could be smelled, even seen, from miles off, not to mention the noise…drills, drums and those ridiculous, monstrous things the Royal Highland regiments played mingled with their constant raucous shouting and chatter. He passed between the long, orderly rows of tents toward the General’s apartments, dodging soldiers and clansmen alike.
“Little brother!” He heard George’s high whoop before he saw him, appearing between the tents followed by a group of younger boys from dispossessed clans now dependant on the English. “You missed the match,” he said, twirling his racket, “my team won.” There was an affirmative whoop from the boys behind him.
“They wouldn’t have if I had played,” he taunted, sidestepping his brother as he made to grab him ‘round the neck. “Is the General in his tent?”
His brother’s face became serious, “I think so, why?”
He shook his head, glancing around at the children, “I’ll tell you after…”

[concretegirl]

Onatah looked up from the food she was helping to prepare when she heard the children laughing.
She loved when they would laugh. The littlest ones, especially, their small, airy voices dancing through the otherwise bleak and serious camp. She imagined the plants and trees around them soaked up their happy energies, brightening and strengthening from it. Besides the children belonging to her own people, there were no children in this camp. The English certainly hadn’t brought any with them, and the children of Loyalists were kept safely in actual homes.
She smiled as a group of children rushed by, following her older cousin George and a couple of older boys. They had just finished playing a game and were thrilled by their victory.
However, he smile dimmed when she looked in the direction they were heading, and saw her cousin, Henry coming back into the camp, his mood only lightening for a few moments when he talked to George and the others, but then he took George aside and his expression returned to something grim before they both headed to the General’s tent.
Onatah felt her stomach tighten, slowly lowering the bowl of cornmeal she had been mixing. She knew what Henry did for the General-for the English. She never said a word about how she felt about it-she couldn’t. The English here would probably cast her out as a sympathizer for the Patriots. And, her own family was so dependent on them, she couldn’t jeopardize either their safety or their reputation. But, every time she thought of the Patriots, she didn’t have the same distaste or even animosity as those around her did. All she could think of was scattered memories from months past. The way that two doctors had tried so desperately to help her father, restlessly dedicated to helping everything they could, working themselves to exhaustion day after day. The young man had stayed up for night after night with her, sitting by deathbeds. Keeping each other awake, calm, and even sometimes entertained when things became almost too miserable to bear, she learned her first few words of English from him. Any time someone said the word Patriot or Rebels was how his presence had helped her through some of the worst moments of her life-after she lost her father, as things became more and more uncertain. She couldn’t hate him, or any of the people who had helped her and her people during that time.
So, every time she saw Henry going about trying to help the English destroy them, she wanted to be sick.
She moved away from the kitchen area, despite the fact that someone was calling to her about how she had a job to finish. She went straight to George as Henry disappeared into the General’s tent. “George…” she said quietly. “What’s happening?”

[Prudence]

George could feel the excitement, the anticipation creeping into his limbs, giving him a new strength and energy he hadn't even realized he lacked. John would disapprove of course, he didn't like the fighting the way George and Henry did, but their eldest brother had more cares...a wife and children to think of, their whole family, even himself and Henry, even their cousins, they all looked to John, almost as if he were their chief...silly as that seemed. A chief? Was there such a thing anymore? Not without a tribe, and their tribe, their whole world had been scattered, lost. Why should he not take a little pleasure in avenging that loss? And this "siege" had been going on too long, forever it seemed, why did they not simply take The Fort and be done with it? He would never understand these white-skins and their ways... It would feel good to fight once again, to be a warrior, as he truly was.
His smile froze, half formed on his lips when he saw his cousin, Onatah, her eyes dark with concern as she moved toward him. "What's happening?" She said, almost in a whisper.
"The rebels have sent a relief force to combat the siege...Henry saw them not twelve miles off," he looked up toward the darkening sky for a moment, then shook his head, "They won't try to take us yet, not at night, this gives us time to form a counterattack..."

The tension inside the tent was palpable as Henry finished recounting what he’d seen. St. Leger had listened to him with surprising calm, though one could see the muscles in his jaw stiffen and his hands, posed as they had been in the act of writing, tighten into fists. When Henry finished, amid the outbursts from his junior officers and exchanged looks between his senior ones, the General himself remained silent.
“You are dismissed,” a Captain said to Henry after a few moments, a little sharply. Henry started to turn but the General raised a hand, stopping him.
“Wait. I assume your presence went undetected?”
“Of course!” he started, insulted—would he be standing before him now if he had been detected? But caught himself, “Yes, Sir.”
“Then we retain the element of surprise….Gentlemen,” he stood, “these rebels think to outwit us, to take us by surprise, what say we turn the tables?”

Henry sucked in a deep breath as he slipped out from the oppressive heat and closeness of the General’s tent—and nearly directly into his older brother. “George!”
“Well?!” His brother’s anxious excitement was palpable, Henry crossed his arms as a grin split his tanned face, his white teeth shining in the fading light.
“Well what?” He teased, it was good, for once, to know something George didn’t, to have the upper hand… his smile faltered slightly when he noticed Onatah beside him, looking even more somber than usual. He and his cousin had been close once, more like brother and sister, but lately, since her father’s passing she seemed different, distant…lost in her own world. Of course he didn’t blame her for that, he knew what it was to lose a parent, but it wasn’t just that…he felt somehow that she disapproved of him, of what he was doing.
George slugged him hard in the arm, bringing him out of his thoughts, “come on little brother!” He slugged him back, leading to a brief scuffle that ended with Henry in a headlock, “just tell me!”
“Just let me go and I will!” George released him and Henry straightened, “St. Leger plans to ambush the rebels in the morning. He sent me,” his chest puffed out with pride, “and two other scouts to map out their location and the best place for the ambush. Chief Joseph has of course volunteered to lead the attack, I imagine we will be numbered among his party.”

[concretegirl]

Onatah watched as George ran to Henry, excited once again. She stood, frozen, feeling as though her body was slowly being turned to cold, thin glass, while her heart picked up pace in her chest, threatening to break through and shatter her.
“…Chief Joseph has of course volunteered to lead the attack,” Henry was saying to George, pride already coloring his tone, both of them appeared so happy. “I imagine we will be numbered among his party…”
Onatah felt her stomach twist and tie inside of her, the pain spreading up into her heart and lungs. Lead an attack. Her English still required work, but that was one word that had been seared into her mind from the beginning. A word with sharp edges and a venomous bite. Laying danger to all of the other words-friend, peace, life, love.
She pushed back the last word out of her mind. She couldn’t afford to think about her she did or didn’t love outside of her own family or tribe. The lines became too tangled, her heart would only hurt that much worse.



“You should let me look at that…” his voice was light, fluid. He was so soft spoken, a seemingly impossible combination of fierce and gentle.
Onatah turned to look at the younger Doctor Wright. He had just finished re-dressing the wound of one in her tribe. He was trying to wipe the blood of his hands. When she gave him a quizzical look he gestured towards her shoulder. “That. It looks a little bad.”
Onatah looked at him for a moment, trying to sort out the words in English. Some of them were still so jumbled to her, she had to pick each one apart carefully, running it through her head multiple times before it became comprehensible.
The young man didn’t wait for a response, he simply moved towards her, then gestured at a bench in front of one of the windows. They were all holed up in an old cabin that hadn’t been wholly destroyed in the massacre, it was dark out, the room only lit with lamp-light, and the bluish light of the moon that came in through the windowpanes. Onatah had been there, trying to help with the wounded that were laid about the room. Whatever medicine she knew she tried to share with this young man and his father. All three of them were bent on tarrying through the night, despite their exhaustion, though the young man insisted that his father at least lie down for a few minutes and the older Doctor Wright had obliged after a while.
Onatah sat down cautiously on the bench, and the young man grabbed a couple of items off of a table before sitting down next to her.
He said something in a careful, warning voice before he moved back some of the ragged, bloody fabric surrounding the deep gash. She breathed in sharply as he pushed the fabric away, his hands cool against her bare shoulder which was warm with injury.
She gritted her teeth as he went about dressing it more properly. All she had had on it was a rag tied around her arm.
She stayed very still until he finished wrapping it, the pressure on it tight and constricting. “Done.” he said, pulling his hands away, and she turned to look at him. He breathed in sharply as she turned, their faces were less than a breath apart, their noses almost touching. He slid away just slightly, and her face reddened as he remembered how unconventional this was for him, to be so close to a girl, alone. It was unseemly in his world. Something of a scandal.
But, he smiled at her, quickly changing the feel of the air between them.
“I-… I don’t know how much of what I say you actually… Understand…?” he said, the smile still continuing, but more subdued.
Onatah didn’t understand most of what he said, her brow only furrowed in confusion. The words, so different from her own language, sounded so soft on his tongue. She wanted to know what they meant.
“Uhm…” he started, moving his hands more as he spoke. He gestured to his heart. “I… I wanted to thank you…” he said, his gesture suggesting some transference from his heart to her. Somehow, she understood the expression of gratitude.
She nodded very lightly.
His face was cast in all of the different lights of the room, the shadows playing on the elegant planes of his face. And, he was so pale. Over time she was getting used to how fair skinned some of these people could be, but what made his paleness stand out all the more was the dark, blackness of his hair and his blue eyes. The contrast was stark and fascinating. She wondered if their skin felt any different, but refrained from reaching out and running her fingertips across the lines of his face.
“I’m Gabriel.” he said. He looked at her, questioning in his calm blue eyes. “But I don’t know your name?”
She gave him a questioning look back. “Know…?” she repeated.
“Your name? What do people…” he gestured to his mouth, then to her. “What do they call you?” he then gestured to himself. “I’m Gabriel, you’re…” he then gestured to her, and she was able to understand the meaning.
“Onatah.” she said quietly.
“Onatah.” he repeated it carefully, then smiled back at her, his gaze meeting her full on. “It‘s nice to meet you, Onatah.” he said, and though Onatah couldn’t gather the words, she understood his meaning.

Onatah moved forward, towards Henry and George. “Henry, this is dangerous, I-…” she tried to find the right words, though she knew it was failed from the start. No matter how terrified she was for them, for their safety: her cousins would never concede to stay, least of all Henry. “I don’t think you should go.”

[Prudence]

Henry stopped short, glancing over at his cousin as she approached them, there was something strange in her eyes, a shadow, as of remembrance, coupled with fear. “This is dangerous—I…” She seemed to have to force the words out, “I do not think you should go…”

He dismissed her fears with a light laugh, “It is a war Onatah.” Dangerous? She talked of danger as if it were something foreign to them—they were in danger either way, and if the English lost this war they would be in even more danger. Danger of a different sort, of being cut off from their homeland, of being separated from their tribe, scattered across the land like leaves in the wind…it would mean their utter destruction. He had no love for the English but he would fight their war, fight to keep his family together, fight to keep what was his. She talked of danger…was death so much worse than the way they lived now?

“You think I shouldn’t go?” His voice was hard now, sharp and biting like steel across flint, it only needed a bit of tinder to ignite. “What must I do instead?”
“Henry...” George’s voice held a warning.
Henry ignored him, crossing his arms over his chest, “Well Onatah?” his tone was patronizing, “What must I do? Tell me.”

[concretegirl]

Onatah looked between George and Henry for a moment, feeling her limbs start to tremble. She hated how fragile she had become. How weak. Her father hadn’t raised her to be this way, but his passing seemed to take all of her courage with it.

She used to be brave, at least she thought. She used to have an energy that pushed her forward to act, speak, and think boldly. But now, while the rest of her family went on to fight, she retreated backwards, inwards, sideways.

She struggled to feel anything besides the aching where her heart used to be. At night she relived it all in vivid nightmares. She couldn't rest, and she couldn’t catch up. Maybe she really didn't have any place to tell Henry what to do, to ask him for anything.
She had been so removed from what was going on around her that she didn’t understand it, and she couldn’t even make a suggestion.

She quickly tried to push her worry for Gabriel out of her mind, along with the life and family he had described to her. She had only mentioned Gabriel to Henry once and it hadn’t gone over very well at all. She didn’t dare breathe a word about her concerns for him-for his people-now.

She tried to form a response for Henry, but her heart was beating so quickly and loudly that her thoughts became muddied. She glanced around and saw that others in the area had taken notice of their exchange, and she felt herself backing down. She couldn’t risk their thinking she sympathized, that she might be a traitor.

“I-… I can’t tell you what to do.” she said, and it still felt a little strange. She and Henry used to be so open with one another, so honest.

But their relationship had been so altered, and tension permeated their entire camp. Onatah was becoming accustomed to trying to hold things together, she had slowly become used to dropping arguments or confrontations that she normally would have thrown herself into with every ounce of energy she had. Instead she could barely muster the last thing she said. “I just don’t want to see you hurt…”

[Prudence]

Henry softened slightly at Onatah’s hasty retreat and the hurt in her eyes now as she tried to explain herself. A wave of guilt washed over him, sweeping the anger away, it wasn’t his cousin he was angry with and it wasn’t her he should be taking it out on…but she was so fragile these days. Onatah used to be so headstrong, nor argumentative exactly but she would never yield an argument if she believed she was right, now she balked like a frightened mouse at the least sign of confrontation. It only showed how much she’d changed lately; she seemed a mere shadow, a mere ghost of herself.

He wondered if he was like that, changed—he knew he was. He was harder now, colder, quick to lose his temper and quick to pick a fight. This white man’s war had changed everything, not just where they lived or how they lived but who they were, as a tribe yes, but also as individuals. He wondered, when this was all over, if it was ever over, if anything would ever be the way it was—if Onatah would smile and laugh and tease again the way she used to, if he would ever feel content, at peace.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt…” She murmured, barely managing the words. But there was more to it than that, he knew his cousin well enough to know when she was lying--or telling partial truths. Of course she didn’t want to see what little family she had left hurt, neither did he, but it was the nature of war, a fact of life now. No…there was more to this, he wished he knew what!

“Me hurt?” He scoffed, his sudden change in tone and attitude would come as a bit of a shock, “Those yankees won’t even see us coming, white men don’t use their eyes.” He studied her as he spoke, hoping she might somehow give away her other reasons…

[concretegirl]

Onatah was surprised by the sudden change in Henry’s demeanor. While part of her was bothered by the fact that he had to cater to her soft, almost cowardly reaction, she was more grateful than anything else. Others around them had already started to lose interest and she felt as though she could breathe a little more freely. Though, not completely. Part of her ached to tell Henry the root of her fears.

Yes, she was afraid for her cousins, her family, her people. She wanted whatever was best for them. But her concern for Gabriel Wright came with actual, physical pain. A tightness in her chest, an irregular strum in her heart, a loss of breath. She couldn’t explain it. She had never felt it before.

And, it was irrational besides. Gabriel wasn’t a soldier, at least he hadn’t been. He hadn’t made it clear that he planned to be, either. But Gabriel was the sort of man that would go where he was needed, and his side of this war needed all of the help that it could get.

It was thinking of Gabriel that made her dislike the last thing that Henry said so very much.

“…white men don’t use their eyes…”

She was used to hearing those kinds of things. She had heard white men and women say worse things about her own people. But, for some reason, with the thought of Gabriel in mind it bothered her more than usual.

“They see more than you give them credit for. They are more than you give them credit for.” she said, before she could stop herself and instantly regretting it afterwards.

[Prudence]

Henry stared at his cousin. Her expression was serious, her eyes hard and there was a burning light behind them that almost reminded him of the old Onatah, but she couldn’t be in earnest… How could she have any good word, good feeling, toward the white man? The men who had torn them from their homeland, murdered their clansmen and kin, forced them to give up their traditions and live lives instead of degradation and servitude—it was his private hope that with all the warring between white men that they would eventually wipe each other out, that there would come a day when there were no English, no Patriots, no French…and yet here was his own cousin, his own flesh and blood, defending them. How could she? And then he remembered the doctor…She had only mentioned him a couple times, just in passing, but the way her voice had softened, the way her expression had changed…he’d suspected even then that this doctor was more to her than just a “skilled healer”. It made him sick.

“They are nothing Onatah! They only know how to be cruel, how to take! They are thoughtless, mindless savages!” he shouted, “Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool!” He shook his head fists clenching, he would never hit her, but that didn’t stop him wanting to, “You disgust me...” He growled lowly before turning and stomping away.

George stared after his brother, then back at Onatah, then after him, confused, “He doesn’t mean it…” he said after a long moment, putting a hand on her shoulder, “you know he doesn’t mean it.”

[concretegirl]

“… you disgust me…”

Onatah watched Henry as he left, her eyes burning as water threatened to brim over with tears. George put a hand on her shoulder, telling her that Henry didn’t mean it. But even as Onatah nodded lightly, she didn’t know that she believed it.

Henry hated the white men, and she understood why. There were some that she hated, too. Ones that Henry now aided. And, she had tried to see Gabriel through Henry’s eyes, but she couldn’t shift her perception of him. It was remarkably solid and clean. He wasn’t the barbarian that Henry said he was. He cared, not just for the well-being of his own people, but for hers.

And she cared about him. In a way that she didn’t completely understand, and that she hadn’t even allowed herself the time to try and sort out. But she did. And the more that she and Henry argued or disagreed, the more obvious that became. She shuddered to think of telling Henry of the extent of her emotions. Something that would normally have been first nature, now made her shudder. What Henry would say…

Onatah swallowed hard. “Maybe not about me,” she said to George. “But that is how he sees them, and I just…” Onatah cut herself off, glancing around once again at anyone working or talking nearby, the words drying up in her mouth. If it hadn’t been for the disconnect between herself and Henry, maybe she could have at least considered telling him about she truly felt about Gabriel if it weren’t for the fact that she lived in a cage. One false move, one wrong word, and she could be tainted in the eyes of her people, the way that she already was to Henry.

[Prudence]

Night had descended rapidly on the small clearing the Patriot detachment had claimed for their camp that night. The General had ordered no fires and so the men sat together in relative darkness, jawing their dinner of unsoftened hard tack and trying to put a brave face on their misery. At least there were relatively few bugs compared to their last camp. Charlie strode across the camp, having just finished brushing down Helios and presenting him with an apple by way of apology for deserting him to the Lieutenant that morning. His legs were sore, stiff, his back ached from the weight of his pack, his nose and lungs still clogged with trail dust, but his head felt clearer than it had in weeks, his heart sang with anticipation, excitement, his whole body, every muscle and sinew seemed to throb with it. Rumor had begun to trickle down through the ranks and spread through camp. There was a fort near here, Stanwix or Schuyler (the name varied depending on the teller) besieged by the British, and they were to be the relief column. A battle, that’s all Charlie heard, a real battle, after months of waiting, of running dispatches, he would finally be able to do again what he’d enlisted for---fight.
In the near pitch blackness he nearly passed his tent, stopping only because he recognized the slim shape seated in the doorway.
“What ho Hallewell?” he said by way of greeting, his voice almost too cheerful for the other soldier’s taste, as he flopped down on the ground beside him, not unlike a great dog, contented to rest beside his master’s hearth. Nat gave little more than a grunt in reply. “I see your mood has improved.” He kicked the bottom of his boot, “cheer up son, I’ve got news.”
Even in the darkness his white teeth shone as he grinned widely at him, Nat rolled his eyes, he was as giddy as a schoolboy, which could only mean one thing, “Oh?”
“We’re to ambush a besieging force outside Fort Stanwix.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow I would say, it’s only about three leagues off.”
“Official news Alexander, or hearsay?”
Charlie shrugged, “does it matter?”
Nat rolled his eyes again. The thought of battle didn’t thrill him the way it did Charlie, he was a good soldier but Emily’s father had always taught his children to value human life, to never take it for granted, and he could never quite manage to steel himself against bloodshed, even that of his enemy. Still, he believed in the cause and it was that he fought for, right must succeed, must prevail, no matter the cost. But this wasn’t his only worry now…he thought of Gabriel, Gabriel who’d never had very good aim, even as a boy, Gabriel who couldn’t take direction—and she was Emily again, her heart seizing with fear at the idea of her brother in battle. Hopefully they would keep him behind the lines, tucked safely into the field hospital where he could be of some good, and out of harm’s way.

[concretegirl]

Gabriel tried to stay sitting for more than ten minutes put together, but he couldn’t do it. He was exhausted, his body protesting every movement because of the march earlier that day. All of the other men were ready to call it a night, but Gabriel couldn’t shake the idea that he should be doing something. He was used to spending his nights up and around in the doctor’s tent. He felt uneasy, not having anything to do.
He gnawed his way through their meal of hard tack, which felt like a brick in his stomach. He had gone to check on Name, unable to help wondering how he fared after being ridden by a stranger all day. Though, he had only been there for a minute before he saw the Corporal checking in on his stallion, and then headed right back up towards the camp.
He took everything out of his sack and put it back in. He set up a place to sleep, then did it again. The night was growing darker, deeper, and his body begged him to sleep, but he couldn’t do it.
The men were all talking. About siege, about a fight. And every nerve in Gabriel’s body was humming, painful and hot. He tried to consign himself to the idea that, if the rumors were true: in a few hours he could be killing other men. The idea was gnawing at his mind, eating its way down his spine. When he pictured Emily there as well, the thought only worsened and he thought he might go mad. He tried to think of any possible way to keep her from going, but there was nothing feasible. He could fall on his knees and beg her not to go and, especially after their recent confrontations, he was sure she wouldn’t even consider listening to him.
He tried not to look for her in the camp, but he couldn’t help that, either. He wandered around through the camp, feeling out of place and unfamiliar with everyone. He felt some sharp glances on him, mixed in with some smirks. Everyone had heard about the brawl with the Corporal, and the way he had hit the Captain. The way he talked to the Colonel. His parents had raised him to avoid making a spectacle of himself, but he had clearly failed.
Finally, he saw Emily. His nerves burned even hotter when he saw she was on the ground next to the Corporal. He fought the urge to go and drag her up to her feet directly. Gabriel was going to turn back around to keep himself away from temptation, but then Lieutenant Singer caught sight of him.
“Doctor! Not yet settled in for the night?” Singer asked.
Gabriel shook his head. “Ah, no, not quite, Sir.”
“Used to sleeping in the Doctor’s tent?” Singer guessed.
“I suppose.”
“You’ve heard the rumors, I take it?”
“About Stanwix, or… Schulyer? Whichever?”
Singer nodded. “You ready for something like that?
Gabriel shifted his stance. “Does it matter if I am or not?”
Singer shrugged in agreement. “Suppose not.” he said, then gestured towards where Emily and Alexander both where, much too close to one another for Gabriel’s comfort. Other men were gathered in the area, some asleep on their bags, others still awake with low conversation.
“Some of the others are still up, including myself. There were some extra rations prepared, if you’re still hungry. Join me?”
Gabriel shifted again, ready to turn and go back to his tent. “Ah, I probably shouldn’t.”
“Come on, after all: you’ll need all of the energy you can get tomorrow if rumor is true. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to become a little more familiar with some of the men. You’ll be fighting side by side with them soon enough.”
Gabriel went to protest, but he figured Singer was right. And, wandering around the camp on his own wasn’t going to improve his situation. His movements a little stiff and begrudging, he followed Singer.

[Prudence]

In the darkness—where the devil was the moon tonight? Charlie was hardly able to make out the figures approaching their group, two of them. As they drew closer he recognized the distinct set and slope of Lieutenant Singer’s shoulders, the left always slightly higher than the right, product of an injury he’d sustained in the early days of the War—before anyone even dared call it that. Before the Declaration had gone out from Philadelphia, before there was even a country, or the dream of a country, to fight for… There was something about the incident, about the injury and how he’d acquired it, that had made Singer something of a celebrity, at least for a few months, but now Charlie could hardly recall what.

The other set of shoulders were slimmer, and would almost have resembled Nat’s, if he didn’t know better. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed a certain resemblance between the hated Doctor and Charlie’s closest comrade, but it was the first time he allowed himself to acknowledge it. He felt Nat stiffen beside him as the two men came into clearer view, and he wondered again, for the thousandth thousandth time, just what had gone on between these two, it felt as though he were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing… Whatever it was, here was that damned doctor putting a damper on yet another otherwise pleasant moment and it was well and widely known that Charlie was sick of the very sight of him. It was the Lieutenant’s presence, and perhaps some concern for Nat’s peace of mind, that made Charlie sit up slightly, giving both gentleman a nod, “Evening Lieutenant, Doctor…” If Charlie’s tone held the faintest taint of acid, it could hardly be helped, and if his eyes were hard, no one could see anyway for the darkness.

She had been Emily again, thinking of her brother, of the dangers of battle, and it was in that moment of weakness, of course, Gabriel decided to show his face. Appearing, as it were, out of the gloom, like a vision from a dream, or a ghost from a nightmare—she couldn’t decide yet which. So far, considering what had passed between them, she was inclined toward nightmare. “Evening Sirs,” she chimed in after Charlie, nearly forgetting to gruff up her voice, trying to avoid Gabriel’s eye she looked down at her hands…she’d once had such pretty hands, delicate, soft and white, despite how she’d abuse them, climbing trees and playing stick-ball with her brothers, her friends used to envy her them and complain while they scoured theirs with lemon juice and wore kid gloves to bed. Now they were work roughened, tanned, calloused and scarred, at least she hadn’t lost any fingers to frostbite or suffered gunpowder burns like some of her comrades…still they’d never again be white and smooth as cream, and she realized with a pang deep in her chest that this upset her. She looked suddenly back up at Gabriel and wondered if he could see, if he knew…she hadn’t even thought of it, of any of the little things she was missing, that she’d given up, until he’d come. Why oh why did he have to come, dear God? And why now?