Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

bear hate for the Hessians as I have never known men to bear hate. I’ve seen them torture dying Hessians, kick at them, prod them with bayonets, and taunt them in German.
    I turn round and walk back. No words of parting. I glance over my shoulder and see him toiling and sliding down the slope. I see him as a picture of myself, and I try to forget the picture, closing my eyes and stumbling forward.
    At the other end of my beat, I stop and stand for a while, leaning heavily on my musket and gradually dozing as I stand. I am falling asleep. A delicious sense of parting with the world creeps through me. Bit by bit, all sense of cold vanishes. Through half-closed eyes I can just make out the half-buried dugouts of Scott’s brigades. This night merges with other Christmas Eves, and I hear my father’s slow, monotonous voice reading the story of a Man. With that, the whir of my mother’s wheel. The lulling hum of the wheel puts me to sleep. Outside is the great flat forest of the Lake country, the mysterious kingdom of the Six Nations where we have made our home. All that is mystery and dread, but foot-thick log walls close it out.
    My father’s voice: “Allen—” And my mother, gently: “You wouldn’t sleep while the Words are being read, Allen?”
    I come to myself with a terrible, heart-stabbing fear that I am freezing. I try to move and I lack all power of movement. The fear runs through me and exhausts itself. I give way, and the delicious apathy creeps over me.
    Then a hand, stabbing from the far outside, beats down my shoulders. I give way and crumple forward in the snow, bruising my face on the hammer head of my musket. The snow in my face brings me awake. I roll over and Edward helps me to my feet. He’s big and strong, and it’s a relief to feel his wide hands under my arm.
    â€œI was sleeping,” I say.
    Edward spits on his sleeve, and we watch fascinated as the bit of water freezes.
    Edward shakes his head. “A cold wild night—get in to the fire.” He shivers and shakes himself, like a huge, tired dog. “Get in to the fire,” he repeats.
    I nod and stumble away. He stops me and gives me my musket. Mechanically gripping it, I make my way toward the dugouts. Tears come easily; I feel them on my lids, freezing.
    The Pennsylvania brigades are quartered on the hilltop facing the road to Philadelphia. A first line of defence; the attack will come from the direction of Philadelphia. We built the dugouts the second and third days at the encampment, half in the earth and half of logs, log fireplaces lined with mud. Ten or twelve men are crowded into each dugout. The doors face the forest, and the forest offers some shelter from a west wind. But the storm winds blow from the east and bite through the spaces between the logs.
    I came in and stood with my back against the door. I let go my musket, and it crashed against the dirt floor. The water began to run from my feet in little puddles.
    Ely was sitting on the edge of his bunk, watching me. Jacob picked up the musket, wiped it carefully, and put it in its rack. Ely poured me a drink of rum.
    â€œThe last, Allen.”
    I gulped it eagerly. It burnt my throat and warmed me inside. I started for the fire, but Jacob pushed me back.
    â€œYou’re frozen, Allen.”
    I dropped to the floor, stretched out my legs before me. Slowly, feeling came back, darting pains in my hands and feet. Ely bent down and peeled the outer layer of bandages from my feet.
    Charley Green lay in his bunk with his woman. Charley was no man for fighting; he was the sort of man who is only half of himself without a woman. God knows what took him away from his Boston printer’s shop to this hellhole where we were. When I think of Charley, I think of a small, fat man with children round him, of a small, fat wife. But the fat had gone. His skin hung in loose folds. Now he lay in his bunk with his woman, and they must have