(no subject)
Title: Yuletide
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 14 December 2010
Summary: Two soldiers return home after war's end. Boston, December 1783.
Author's Note: Strout and Leech finally come home.
A fresh dusting of snow lay sparkling across the landscape, marred only by the well-used track that was the Upper Post Road. On either side of the road, the early morning's snowfall was as yet undisturbed by foraging deer or the odd winter-bird. The air held a crispness to it, a refreshing bite as it filled the lungs. Clean. That's what it was. Clean. New. A fine winter's morning, as reviving a thing as the weak sunlight peeking through the pale-grey smearing of clouds.
Throughout the frost-chilled night, the pair of travellers had huddled together in the straw heap, just inside the barn behind the tavern. They had not been able to afford an actual room but the proprietor had been generous enough to permit them to stay in the barn. It was nothing less than they had become used to over the course of their journey. With the news that the war was over having spread with startling speed weeks before, the road had seen many men like them, all making their way northward to their separate homes.
The shorter of this pair dusted straw from his hat before mashing it carelessly onto his head. He had risen before dawn, unable as ever to sleep for long despite the aching exhaustion that weighted down his mind. His companion was much less burdened, but there was precious little that could get Jack Leech down. He was much too simple for the grander cares of the world. It was his persistent wonderment at the more trivial things, things that Benjamin Strout often overlooked, that helped innumerable times to preserve both their spirits.
"There's frost on my hat," Jack observed cheerfully, retrieving the oddly-cut cap from where he'd forgotten it on the hitching post the night before. It was a prize taken from a redcoat prisoner many long months ago. One of those peculiar leather hats favoured by the British light infantry. The stiff front flap of the cap still bore the regiment's numbering. The 17th Foot. Jack was inordinately proud of the cap and refused to give it up. Major Hill had eventually abandoned the effort to make Jack wear the regulation cocked hat. It was one more trifling curiosity unique to their former regiment.
His companion smiled. "Lucky it wasn't stolen. Come on. It's only nine miles to go. Then we'll be back in old Boston-town. It'll be Christmas soon, too."
Nine miles left. They had walked for days, all the way from New York City, heedless of the snow, cold, and distance. Each day's progress simply brought them that much closer to home. Now they were within a single day's brisk walking. The last travelling either of them cared to do for a very long time.
"Home." Jack was grinning happily. "I would like to be home again. For Christmas."
"Then let's be off," Strout replied cheerfully. It was only nine miles and they had marched much further in their time. One mile to Cambridge then eight more to Boston. Then toward Treamont street, and his family home. He had little idea where Jack himself lived, other than it was near Long Wharf. He did know that Jack would not go there. Not as a first stop, anyway. Strout knew that just as certainly as he knew Jack would follow him to his own home, though his friend had never said anything of the sort.
The frozen, muddy ruts in the road were hard and unforgiving under their feet. Both, fortunately, had shoes, but only in varying states of disrepair. Strout's were too small and one was missing its heel, while Jack's were failing around the sole. To have shoes at all was too much a blessing for either of them to mind the shortcomings. Any protection from the cold and snow was welcome. Jack carefully fitted his prized leather cap over his snarl of hair and set off, his long legs providing the same brisk pace as they had since the pair had left New York. It seemed that Jack was tireless. He could hold that pace all day without apparent effort.
Strout tugged his tattered coat a little tighter across his chest and stretched his legs out to keep pace with Jack. Nine miles. It would be dark when they finally reached Boston Neck. The lamplighters would be out, taking care to keep out of the way of carriages and horses. Small sprigs of holly would be displayed in windows or on doors. Tabitha the cook would be in the kitchens, preparing one of her marvellous Sunday dinners. The family would be in the sitting room, most likely entertaining guests, with a prime roaring fire warming the room. Wine would be served out by Mary, the senior maid. It was scene he had imagined, dreamed of, often for years.
"This is almost like Trenton," Jack said, drawing Strout out of his reverie. "But in day-time."
Trenton. That was a campaign Strout didn't miss. Miserable cold, inadequate clothing, unending shivering. And the river. Good Lord the river. "Almost, aye," he agreed grudgingly. It was close on to Christmas, even. That was one similarity, anyway. That and the snow, though this fresh snowfall was cheerful and inviting. Also the daylight. It was early morning instead of late night.
"We done some travellin' since then," Strout added, thinking of the hard night's marching just before the battle at Princeton. They had stayed for some weeks at Princeton before moving on toward a place called Saratoga. The time their regiment had served in charge of the British prisoners' camp had been monotonous and enlightening at the same time. It was during that time when both of them had received unlikely gifts from their prisoners. Strout was given shoes and Jack a carving knife. Later, Jack had taken that odd leather cap from a redcoat being sent south. With his new knife, Jack had carved bits of spare wood for several prisoners, for he was never one to turn down requests for trinkets. Then they had been ordered to march again and the camp given to another regiment's control. "A fair bit of damn fool travellin', at that."
Jack seemed not to have heard him, though. He was whistling a fast marching tune and looked nowhere but at the road ahead, as if he could already see the outskirts of Boston. It was hardly a surprise. The long time spent away from home, the hard fighting, the loss of friends, largely failed to leave any lasting mark on the big man. Man. Strout shook his head. Both of them had left Boston as little more than boys, having no idea what they were getting themselves into. It had only been... seven years. God. Longer than he had even thought. He was twenty-six now. Jack was just a year shy of three and twenty. A smile warmed his face. No going back to apprenticeships for either of them. They were much too old for such foolery.
"Ben," Jack said after a while, seeming to grow weary of whistling as they strode briskly along. "Dan Cross was from Cambridge."
"Aye?"
"I miss him. He was kind," was all his big companion offered in reply.
The simplicity of the words made Strout look down at his feet. Dan Cross had indeed been a well-meaning fellow. He'd been older than most of them and had quickly come to be regarded as a second father by many of the younger men, Jack in particular. His loss at Long Island had devastated the company. Strout himself had done his best not to think about it since that winter. He'd done well enough at that, until Jack mentioned it now. "Aye. He was."
That seemed to be enough for Jack, who said nothing more. The silence gave Strout time to resettle his thoughts. He had never liked thinking of those men from their company who'd died, whether in battle or from illness. Invariably they had been friends. No. He shook his head. Not a trail of thought he should be pursuing. The war was over. The cares of the war were over too. They were on their way home. It was better to look forward to knocking at that stout oak door and waiting for Mary the senior maid to open it. That would be the moment when he would believe the next part of his life had arrived.
Cambridge came and went, with only the odd look passed their way from townsfolk. Tattered soldiers travelling on the Post Road were a common sight. It was only Jack's hat that aroused any true interest, but he was completely oblivious to it all. He simply nodded at anyone who met his eye and occasionally smiled if the passer-by was a young woman. Neither of them had money even for a half-loaf of bread, so they passed on through the town without a halt, ignoring the faint rumbles in their bellies. They had grown used to being hungry. It was simply a fact of life.
A carved stone mile marker near the road informed them they were six miles from Boston when Jack spoke again. "It's a nice day. I like fresh snow. It's like a painting."
Strout smiled. "It is. A fine country scene. We're blessed for bein' the only ones part of it."
"A gift," Jack agreed happily. "One of God's little kindnesses."
How true was that, Strout thought. He looked away at the snow-blanketed earth on either side of the road and nodded. A little gift of kindness tucked away inside a larger one. Or several little gifts, really. They were alive and walking steadily toward home, with the unpleasantness of war falling away behind them, and with splendid scenery all around. The air was still brisk and chilled the exposed skin of their hands and faces, but it seemed the sunlight was strengthening through the paling gray clouds.
"I remember," Jack said, after half a mile had gone, "a day like this'un. Down on Long Wharf. It were still snowin', light-like, an' there was only a glow of light behind the clouds. There was snow all on the masts an' yards of the ships in the bay an' the water was the colour of flint. Just a bit of chop to it, so it looked like there was snow sittin' still on it."
Strout's eyes closed and he let his imagination paint the picture as Jack described it. A fine scene, without a doubt. Ships rising and falling on the light heaving sea, with snow drifting down onto decks and yards, seeming to rest even upon the water itself. A proper painting in its own right. Paintings could not capture the unearthly silence that came with a fresh fall of snow, though. That silence lay all around them, creeping in when they were not speaking to fill them up with a sense of insignificance amidst the splendour of nature.
Their steady progress carried them over the rough road toward Brookline, as the watery sunlight gave way to encroaching dark. Close. They were close. Jack's stride, already brisk, grew more determined. They had scarcely paused for rest all day and the long miles were taking their toll, but the distant glow of lights from houses in Roxbury drew them onward. Once they reached Roxbury, it would be no more than a mile into Boston itself. Across the Neck and back, at last, onto those old familiar streets. Neither of them spoke a word now, saving their breath for the near-running pace they had fallen into. The heel had long since fallen off Strout's shoe, leaving him curiously flat-footed, but he paid it no mind. Home was tantalisingly close.
In the distance, the horizon seemed hazy with faint golden light. Houses and streets would be well-lit by now. The pair hurried through Roxbury without noticing the town's presence. It might as well not have existed at all, for all the importance it held to them. They only paused midway across Boston Neck, as much to catch their breath as to marvel at the sight of their city before them. Strout rocked forward on the balls of his feet to ease a sudden cramp in his calves and gave an unsteady laugh. Home. Nearly. It was enough.
"Go!" He cried suddenly, stirring his tired, aching legs into a run. It was a goodly distance yet to his family's home, but weariness and hunger fell away within two strides. Home. Jack's heavy footfalls pounded along after him, a delighted burst of laughter breaking free. He felt the joy of it just as keenly. They were a wild sight. Two grinning, unshaven soldiers in tattered blue Continental coats, racing through the crowded evening streets like a pair of madmen. Neither of them cared. They were home at last.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 14 December 2010
Summary: Two soldiers return home after war's end. Boston, December 1783.
Author's Note: Strout and Leech finally come home.
A fresh dusting of snow lay sparkling across the landscape, marred only by the well-used track that was the Upper Post Road. On either side of the road, the early morning's snowfall was as yet undisturbed by foraging deer or the odd winter-bird. The air held a crispness to it, a refreshing bite as it filled the lungs. Clean. That's what it was. Clean. New. A fine winter's morning, as reviving a thing as the weak sunlight peeking through the pale-grey smearing of clouds.
Throughout the frost-chilled night, the pair of travellers had huddled together in the straw heap, just inside the barn behind the tavern. They had not been able to afford an actual room but the proprietor had been generous enough to permit them to stay in the barn. It was nothing less than they had become used to over the course of their journey. With the news that the war was over having spread with startling speed weeks before, the road had seen many men like them, all making their way northward to their separate homes.
The shorter of this pair dusted straw from his hat before mashing it carelessly onto his head. He had risen before dawn, unable as ever to sleep for long despite the aching exhaustion that weighted down his mind. His companion was much less burdened, but there was precious little that could get Jack Leech down. He was much too simple for the grander cares of the world. It was his persistent wonderment at the more trivial things, things that Benjamin Strout often overlooked, that helped innumerable times to preserve both their spirits.
"There's frost on my hat," Jack observed cheerfully, retrieving the oddly-cut cap from where he'd forgotten it on the hitching post the night before. It was a prize taken from a redcoat prisoner many long months ago. One of those peculiar leather hats favoured by the British light infantry. The stiff front flap of the cap still bore the regiment's numbering. The 17th Foot. Jack was inordinately proud of the cap and refused to give it up. Major Hill had eventually abandoned the effort to make Jack wear the regulation cocked hat. It was one more trifling curiosity unique to their former regiment.
His companion smiled. "Lucky it wasn't stolen. Come on. It's only nine miles to go. Then we'll be back in old Boston-town. It'll be Christmas soon, too."
Nine miles left. They had walked for days, all the way from New York City, heedless of the snow, cold, and distance. Each day's progress simply brought them that much closer to home. Now they were within a single day's brisk walking. The last travelling either of them cared to do for a very long time.
"Home." Jack was grinning happily. "I would like to be home again. For Christmas."
"Then let's be off," Strout replied cheerfully. It was only nine miles and they had marched much further in their time. One mile to Cambridge then eight more to Boston. Then toward Treamont street, and his family home. He had little idea where Jack himself lived, other than it was near Long Wharf. He did know that Jack would not go there. Not as a first stop, anyway. Strout knew that just as certainly as he knew Jack would follow him to his own home, though his friend had never said anything of the sort.
The frozen, muddy ruts in the road were hard and unforgiving under their feet. Both, fortunately, had shoes, but only in varying states of disrepair. Strout's were too small and one was missing its heel, while Jack's were failing around the sole. To have shoes at all was too much a blessing for either of them to mind the shortcomings. Any protection from the cold and snow was welcome. Jack carefully fitted his prized leather cap over his snarl of hair and set off, his long legs providing the same brisk pace as they had since the pair had left New York. It seemed that Jack was tireless. He could hold that pace all day without apparent effort.
Strout tugged his tattered coat a little tighter across his chest and stretched his legs out to keep pace with Jack. Nine miles. It would be dark when they finally reached Boston Neck. The lamplighters would be out, taking care to keep out of the way of carriages and horses. Small sprigs of holly would be displayed in windows or on doors. Tabitha the cook would be in the kitchens, preparing one of her marvellous Sunday dinners. The family would be in the sitting room, most likely entertaining guests, with a prime roaring fire warming the room. Wine would be served out by Mary, the senior maid. It was scene he had imagined, dreamed of, often for years.
"This is almost like Trenton," Jack said, drawing Strout out of his reverie. "But in day-time."
Trenton. That was a campaign Strout didn't miss. Miserable cold, inadequate clothing, unending shivering. And the river. Good Lord the river. "Almost, aye," he agreed grudgingly. It was close on to Christmas, even. That was one similarity, anyway. That and the snow, though this fresh snowfall was cheerful and inviting. Also the daylight. It was early morning instead of late night.
"We done some travellin' since then," Strout added, thinking of the hard night's marching just before the battle at Princeton. They had stayed for some weeks at Princeton before moving on toward a place called Saratoga. The time their regiment had served in charge of the British prisoners' camp had been monotonous and enlightening at the same time. It was during that time when both of them had received unlikely gifts from their prisoners. Strout was given shoes and Jack a carving knife. Later, Jack had taken that odd leather cap from a redcoat being sent south. With his new knife, Jack had carved bits of spare wood for several prisoners, for he was never one to turn down requests for trinkets. Then they had been ordered to march again and the camp given to another regiment's control. "A fair bit of damn fool travellin', at that."
Jack seemed not to have heard him, though. He was whistling a fast marching tune and looked nowhere but at the road ahead, as if he could already see the outskirts of Boston. It was hardly a surprise. The long time spent away from home, the hard fighting, the loss of friends, largely failed to leave any lasting mark on the big man. Man. Strout shook his head. Both of them had left Boston as little more than boys, having no idea what they were getting themselves into. It had only been... seven years. God. Longer than he had even thought. He was twenty-six now. Jack was just a year shy of three and twenty. A smile warmed his face. No going back to apprenticeships for either of them. They were much too old for such foolery.
"Ben," Jack said after a while, seeming to grow weary of whistling as they strode briskly along. "Dan Cross was from Cambridge."
"Aye?"
"I miss him. He was kind," was all his big companion offered in reply.
The simplicity of the words made Strout look down at his feet. Dan Cross had indeed been a well-meaning fellow. He'd been older than most of them and had quickly come to be regarded as a second father by many of the younger men, Jack in particular. His loss at Long Island had devastated the company. Strout himself had done his best not to think about it since that winter. He'd done well enough at that, until Jack mentioned it now. "Aye. He was."
That seemed to be enough for Jack, who said nothing more. The silence gave Strout time to resettle his thoughts. He had never liked thinking of those men from their company who'd died, whether in battle or from illness. Invariably they had been friends. No. He shook his head. Not a trail of thought he should be pursuing. The war was over. The cares of the war were over too. They were on their way home. It was better to look forward to knocking at that stout oak door and waiting for Mary the senior maid to open it. That would be the moment when he would believe the next part of his life had arrived.
Cambridge came and went, with only the odd look passed their way from townsfolk. Tattered soldiers travelling on the Post Road were a common sight. It was only Jack's hat that aroused any true interest, but he was completely oblivious to it all. He simply nodded at anyone who met his eye and occasionally smiled if the passer-by was a young woman. Neither of them had money even for a half-loaf of bread, so they passed on through the town without a halt, ignoring the faint rumbles in their bellies. They had grown used to being hungry. It was simply a fact of life.
A carved stone mile marker near the road informed them they were six miles from Boston when Jack spoke again. "It's a nice day. I like fresh snow. It's like a painting."
Strout smiled. "It is. A fine country scene. We're blessed for bein' the only ones part of it."
"A gift," Jack agreed happily. "One of God's little kindnesses."
How true was that, Strout thought. He looked away at the snow-blanketed earth on either side of the road and nodded. A little gift of kindness tucked away inside a larger one. Or several little gifts, really. They were alive and walking steadily toward home, with the unpleasantness of war falling away behind them, and with splendid scenery all around. The air was still brisk and chilled the exposed skin of their hands and faces, but it seemed the sunlight was strengthening through the paling gray clouds.
"I remember," Jack said, after half a mile had gone, "a day like this'un. Down on Long Wharf. It were still snowin', light-like, an' there was only a glow of light behind the clouds. There was snow all on the masts an' yards of the ships in the bay an' the water was the colour of flint. Just a bit of chop to it, so it looked like there was snow sittin' still on it."
Strout's eyes closed and he let his imagination paint the picture as Jack described it. A fine scene, without a doubt. Ships rising and falling on the light heaving sea, with snow drifting down onto decks and yards, seeming to rest even upon the water itself. A proper painting in its own right. Paintings could not capture the unearthly silence that came with a fresh fall of snow, though. That silence lay all around them, creeping in when they were not speaking to fill them up with a sense of insignificance amidst the splendour of nature.
Their steady progress carried them over the rough road toward Brookline, as the watery sunlight gave way to encroaching dark. Close. They were close. Jack's stride, already brisk, grew more determined. They had scarcely paused for rest all day and the long miles were taking their toll, but the distant glow of lights from houses in Roxbury drew them onward. Once they reached Roxbury, it would be no more than a mile into Boston itself. Across the Neck and back, at last, onto those old familiar streets. Neither of them spoke a word now, saving their breath for the near-running pace they had fallen into. The heel had long since fallen off Strout's shoe, leaving him curiously flat-footed, but he paid it no mind. Home was tantalisingly close.
In the distance, the horizon seemed hazy with faint golden light. Houses and streets would be well-lit by now. The pair hurried through Roxbury without noticing the town's presence. It might as well not have existed at all, for all the importance it held to them. They only paused midway across Boston Neck, as much to catch their breath as to marvel at the sight of their city before them. Strout rocked forward on the balls of his feet to ease a sudden cramp in his calves and gave an unsteady laugh. Home. Nearly. It was enough.
"Go!" He cried suddenly, stirring his tired, aching legs into a run. It was a goodly distance yet to his family's home, but weariness and hunger fell away within two strides. Home. Jack's heavy footfalls pounded along after him, a delighted burst of laughter breaking free. He felt the joy of it just as keenly. They were a wild sight. Two grinning, unshaven soldiers in tattered blue Continental coats, racing through the crowded evening streets like a pair of madmen. Neither of them cared. They were home at last.