First For Freedom

About mid-afternoon, Sam was called to stand guard over ten prisoners captured at Guilford.  The prisoners were held under guard at the south end of the camp.

After taking a long-rifle from a thin Continental, Sam walked to the backside of the camp where the prisoners were huddled under a large oak tree.  The wind was fierce and the prisoners were scantily clad.  Sam had been fortunate enough to find some burlap to wrap around his feet after the burial detail but his clothes were as ragged and worn as the prisoners.  As he looked toward the huddled mass, he realized that they were more unfortunate than he.  Several men had severe wounds for which there was no treatment.  All the prisoners had beards and Sam thought they all looked alike

Most of the Continentals had grown beards, too--not because they wanted the growth--there was just no time to shave.  Sam had mentioned to one of the soldiers that his face was the only warm place on his body during long march from Catawba to Guilford.

There were many young, fuzzy-faced soldiers who were not mature enough to grow beards but were old enough to fight for their country. ---and old enough to die.  Some of these young soldiers had been left on the battlefield at Guilford.

As Sam moved back and forth, he could hear mumbles he thought were comforting words to those few who were in pain.  Some of the prisoners watched him and one of the men spoke.

“We’ve got a couple of men here who need help--I fear that one is dying.”

Sam turned to the voice.

“I can’t leave my post to help you. We, too, have lost many men, as you well know.”

Another man spoke,

“Will you see about a blanket?”

“I’ll see what I can do when I’m relieved,” promised Sam.

The prisoners did not speak again until Sam’s replacement arrived.  After speaking quietly with the new guard, Sam handed him the flintlock rifle.

As he approached the prisoners, two of the men stepped back for Sam to see the wounded.  He looked at the face of one young soldier whose right arm was resting across his chest. His left arm was severed at the elbow and wrapped with dark blue cloth that had turned crimson with blood from the wound.  The boy was breathing heavily and his eyes looked tired and dilated.  He couldn ‘t have been over twenty two years old thought Sam as he moved to the next soldier.

Sam looked down at the prostrate soldier.  His right hand clutched a bleeding wound just below his heart. Blood still issued from the wound and the prisoner’s hand was streaked with red lines.  Looking from the wound to the soldier’s face, Sam realized

that there was something familiar behind the dark, black beard.  As he leaned down for closer look, his knees buckled and he dropped to the side of George Hamilton.

“George----oh----George----George Hamilton----”

George opened his eyes and looked at Sam.  “Sam Pickett---Sam you mean you’re here, too.”

“I’m here, George.”

“Well, I’m not ----sure who won the battle---but I feel---I’m losing this fight.”