The gunshot...

It was the one thing Gabriel Harris couldn't get out of his mind as he trekked through the snow, his blood boiling enough to keep him warm as he made his way back home.

The scene replayed in his mind repeatedly, his ears continuing to ring with the sounds of the gunshot as the wind blew against him. The darkness that engulfed him and his surroundings didn't compare to the dark he had experienced.

John Morris, a patriot, a business colleague, a christian, a friend, pulled forcefully from his home and shot by the order of a British general for supplying food to the Virginia Militia. His wife and their seven children watched in horror from the doorway. Fear swallowed their small town wholly, seeming to keep even the bravest, most honorable men from doing something about it. He regretted he was too late.

The light from his one bedroom cabin shone in the windows as he picked up his speed, urging himself forward. Upon arriving at the wooden door, he flung it open, struggling to shut it back thanks to the wind. His wife watched from her rocking chair as he grabbed the oak block and set it in its holding, locking the door.

"You lock the door?" Charlotte asked, her dashing blue eyes looking up at her husband in concern. A huff escaped Gabriel's lips as he tried to calm himself.

"I'm afraid we aren't safe any longer, dear," he replied, turning from the door to face his wife. He walked to her, setting his tricorn hat down on the table. She set her knitting to the side as he knelt down in front of her. He rested his hand on the growing bump of her stomach. He contemplated not telling her for the sake of the child. His mother had told him she wasn't to stress about anything or it could cause her to miscarry. Yet, he knew she would find out sooner than later, and it was necessary for her to understand this news before making his next proposal.

"John's dead. Murdered."

She gasped, holding her hand to her heart. "I'm so sorry, Gab," she whispered after a moment of silence. "I know you were close with him. When did you receive the news?"

His frown deepened. Never would she have imagined he almost witnessed it, nor the brutality.

"A British commander shot him. I heard the shot from the postoffice."

She bit her lip and turned her face away from him. A tear rolled down her face, and he was quick to pull her into his embrace. The words he thought would be easy for him to say after the events of the day stuck in his throat. He knew what he needed to do, but the thought of leaving her and possibly subjecting her to the pain the Morris family was experiencing was unbearable. Leaving his child without a father and his wife alone to raise it was dishonoring. Yet, he knew his time would come. 

"Love," He gently took her hands into his, "I haven't a choice now."

"You don't," she agreed, inhaling and wiping her face. "You should go tomorrow while you can. It's better that you enlist now before you have to travel even farther."

"Tomorrow."

His heart pounded against his chest. He had a temper, but had never killed anyone in his life. He hadn't a wish to kill. He wished to stop the evil, not help it along. That had been their discussions. Was killing for a cause necessary? The moment of the gunshot was the moment his mind had found the answer, and he wasn't going to stand by and watch any longer.

"Tomorrow," Charlotte mumbled, beginning to mess with the fabric of her petticoats.

He tightened his embrace. "Tomorrow will pass before we are aware, and so will the next few years," he whispered. "I will be home to you soon, I swear by it."

He took her face into his hands, pressing a gentle kiss against her lips as if to seal the promise.

That's when he awoke.

A shaky breath emitted a cloud into the air as he stared at the canvas of the tent. The light from outside hurt his eyes. He could still feel the imprint of her lips pressed up against his. And after a year of being away from her, he was eager to see her again and meet his son.

"Get up!" He heard one of his tent mates shout from outside. He shared the tent with eight others, and he couldn't complain that month. The cold winter would freeze him without the extra body heat, and he was lucky to have a tent to begin with.

He turned his attention to the sixteen-year-old lad that laid curled up in a ball beside him. He shivered in his sleep, his eyes tightly shut as if he were having a nightmare. He could guess what it would be about, for everyone had at least one.

General Washington, only a few days before the enlistments ran out, decided to attack the Hessian forces encamped in Trenton. While most everyone in camp considered the man to have gone mad for killing the army a few days before the time to re-enlist, he trusted his commander had a plan. Every time Gabriel closed his eyes, he dreamed of his wife and a family while everyone else had nightmares about dying to a Hessian sword. Yet, he had plans to re-enlist. Even if it were just him and General Washington, he would fight until the death.

"Edward," Gabriel said, sitting up and stretching his neck. He grabbed his musket, strapping it to his back. "Edward," he repeated when he saw the boy didn't stir.

Edward hummed, flinching from being startled from his sleep.

"Job will come drag you out by your feet like he did last time if you don't hurry it up." Gabriel warned.

Edward hissed at the memory, moving to lie on his back. "I almost shot him." He put his arm over his eyes.

Gabriel's looked to the lad's feet, wrapped in gauze like his own, blood seeping through the once white material. Both Edward and himself lost their shoes to the leather becoming brittle. They broke, and eventually cloth couldn't keep them together anymore.

"I would have shot him too." Gabriel smiled, standing up and making his way out of the entrance of the tent, leaving Edward to awaken himself before he angered the twenty-five-year-old merchant with his disobedience.

"Eat heartily my friends," Job began, his brown hair falling out of its ponytail as he took a small patty of fire cake from the campfire. "Tonights going to be a long night."

"Aye, tell me somethin' I don't know, won't ya?" Francis's Scottish accident boomed as he stuck the reminder of his flour into his bowl. Gabriel took a seat in between him and an African named Oceanus King, who refused to be addressed by his master's last name not only because he was fighting for freedom, but because the name wasn't very patriotic.

"Merry Christmas," Oceanus smiled at Gabriel as he sat down. "I pray we both celebrate it at the victory in Trenton tomorrow."

"I doubt it," Job mumbled, taking a bite of his cake. "I doubt we will survive the crossing. It's rumored it will take longer for us to cross than it will for the sun to rise again. We will be shot like ducks in a row and this madness will all be over. I regret I won't even get to see my wife and children."

"And if it isn't?" Oceanus spoke up, weighing a small sack of flour in his hands. "What if Washington is right? I trust this will be an easy victory."

"I don't say one thing about Washington, but I say if we do win we will have many supplies." Francis scowled, snatching Oceanus's bag of flour and dumping it into his own bowl. "So, I say you should stop using it for ya nerves, and use it for ya stomach. You've been rationin' it for the past month. Sleeping with it and hidin' it from all the others."

"He's a wise man," Gabriel said, clasping Oceanus's back.

"For saving his flour?" Edward emerged from the tent. "I'd agree. I haven't anymore to spare. Francis took it all."

"It's Mr. Dunnegan to you, lad," Francis reminded, beginning to stir the mixture in the bowl. "And if you know Gabriel, who I consider myself to be very much acquainted with, you know he never complains about flour."

"And it's not what I mean," Gabriel said. "He is wise because he doesn't worry. If we lose the battle and die, so be it. Freedom comes sooner for the dead. And, if we win the battle, we re-enlist and fight more."

The word re-enlist was a sore topic for everyone, holding enough weight to make one hiss underneath the pressure. They had endured the weather, illnesses, poor hygiene, and lack of personal respect and privacy for the cause.

"Do you mean to tell me you haven't plans of re-enlisting?" Gabriel asked. "Come men, aren't we all patriots?"

"No, we are pathetic, weak, scrawny, naked men who haven't bathed in months," Francis replied. "Better for me to return to my bookshop in Boston. I was livin' better there with the British in my bed than I am in Washington's camp." 

"And I return to my store as well, provide for my family," Job added, tossing the cake back onto the fire. "My wife has three children and a babe back home. They need food in their bellies."

They all turned to Edward, who was busy tying a knot with the frayed ends of his coat.

"And I guess I will rot either with Washington or in the streets of New York," The boy answered, giving a lopsided smile. "I'm too poor to receive an education, can barley write my name. I am lucky to have escaped my indentured servitude."

Oceanus gave him a small smile, knowing the cruelty he had experienced with his master. The two had grown rather close, and had agreed to open a store together after the war was over to help them both get on their feet. Gabriel was the only one who enjoyed listening to their plans and fantasies, while all the others complained about how all they ever did was dream. Gabriel thought it was good to have something to hope for, just as he hoped for a family and a nice plot of land to farm.

"And I still have two more months until I am a free man," Oceanus said. "If I don't re-enlist, I will go back to slavery. I would rather die than return to that hell."

"And then there is Gabriel," Job said in a sing-song-voice. "The man who would fight the redcoats alone before surrendering to any form of control. I already know your stance on the matter."

"Well, I won't fight it alone." Gabriel smiled. "I know Oceanus, Edward, and Francis will fight it with me."

"Ha!" Francis laughed, tossing a patty onto the fire, before going back to making another one. "I would rather return to Scotland, return to my mother and buy back my bagpipe before re-enlisting. It's either the boat across the Atlantic or another insane raft adventure like the one General Washington is forcin' me to participate in." 

"Are you going to give me one, Francis?" Edward interrupted the conversation.

"If he doesn't, you can have some of mine." Oceanus gave Francis a stern look. "He doesn't plan to re-enlist anyway. He will leave us in — what is it? Nine days? — and return to Boston and eat fresh fish from the harbor."

"Make me a deal Francis," Gabriel interrupted before Francis could defend himself. "If we win the battle, you survive, and General Washington asks you to re-enlist, you will do it."

"No," Francis replied, his eyes refusing to leave the fire. "I will make no such a vow."

"What if we win our freedom?" Gabriel asked, a sharp gust of wind blowing and chilling him to the bone.

"It will take more than this victory to win our freedom," Job said, shoving the last bit of cake into his mouth. "Why lose our lives when we could just adjust?"

"First it was unjust taxes, then it was soldiers sleeping in our beds. What will be next?" Gabriel leaned forward, and Job looked away. "I can't defend my family from soldiers dragging them out of our home and shooting us. I won't be able to find work because I stood up for what was right. They will take away your business from you because you fought. What will you do then? It's freedom or death, and you know it, Job."

Silence spread over the group. Gabriel's eyes stayed glued to Job while he began to shift uncomfortably underneath his stare.

"I do know," Job admitted, holding his hands out towards the fire. "To the devil with you Gabriel, you've made me face reality once again."

"Job Coleman, I never pinned you to be a coward." Edward laughed, quickly snatching the fire cake from the fire before Francis could do it. And, to Gabriel's surprise, Francis let him have it without protest. The Scotsmen just stared at the ground, a blank expression on his face.

"I am a coward," Job agreed. "But my pride shall only let me admit it once, Edward. You won't get rid of me that easily. If Washington survives, and myself, I will re-enlist."

Gabriel smiled, puffing warm air into his hands. Everyone's gaze turned towards Francis, who remained silent. Instead, he handed everyone a piece of fire cake and listened while everyone else talked. But Gabriel's gaze was never far from him as he wondered what the blonde-haired, twenty-two-year-old, Scotsmen was thinking.

"What are you wiling to give for the cause?" Gabriel asked. Everyone turned their heads to him, stopping their chatter.

"Pardon?" Francis asked.

"What is more valuable than freedom to you?" Gabriel repeated, thinking this would cause Francis to speak once again. He was horribly mistaken. The question only left Francis dumfounded.

"Nothing is more valuable than freedom," Oceanus answered. "For a man is merely dust without it."

"I think it strange," Edward began, twirling the rest of his cake in his hands, "that freedom is more valuable than anything. You haven't honor or respect without it. Men will kill for their reputations. Yet, while fighting for freedom, you lose everything else for the hope you will one day have it all."

Just as Job was about to respond, a commander shouted orders for the men to gather. Edward didn't hesitate. He immediately shoved the reminder of his food into his mouth before racing to receive his orders. Oceanus followed shortly behind, calling out to Edward jokingly, saying he lost his shoe buckle. Job only laughed, dumping a bucket of snow over the fire. But Francis stayed still, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"What are you thinking?" Gabriel asked, readjusting the placement of his musket on his back.

"I'm thinkin' we've got a long night ahead of us, Gab," he replied, his gaze finally meeting his. "I pray the gods are on our side. If not, I fear we will all give everything thing."

"God is on our side," Gabriel assured him, holding out his hand and helping him stand. "Even if we give everything for the cause, we are helping others receive their freedom. And we shall receive the same reward."

Everyone gathered and prepared to leave. Around 6:00 p.m., they began the crossing. The weather was harsh, not showing mercy to the freedom fighters. Some said it had "blown a hurricane". The crossing finished at 3:00 in the morning, and the troops weren't ready to march until 4:00.

The attack was successful. The Continentals had few casualties. Among them were Gabriel Harris, who's last words were the code to the sentry line he helped form, "Victory or Death."

Francis Dunnegan didn't think twice when signing his name to re-enlist.