Blindfaller

Wildfire

Mercy swiped a tear from her cheek as she stood on her tiptoes to give Joseph a kiss goodbye before he left for battle. She tried to conceal her anger at his stupid decision to fight on the front lines when his rank as major general could save him. She pushed the bitter emotion down, though it burned in her stomach. She didn’t want to be angry. Not with so many things uncertain.

Joseph cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard. His hands trembled. “Be brave, my love. An unborn country needs bravery.” He then turned to face his four children and embraced each in turn. Little Mary pouted her lip as her father tugged on one messy pigtail. He stood proud and tall at the door, his plain uniform pressed and starched. He saluted his family, his eyes misty as he left the small house in Worcester where Mercy and the children had been staying as refugees. He was to return to Boston on horseback.

After Joseph shut the door behind him, Mercy collapsed into her rocking chair. Rose, the family’s slave swept in with urgency to attend to her mistress. She was proud of her future husband. He’d accomplished so much in his thirty-two years on this earth, becoming a gifted physician, and a major general to boot. The bitterness of the situation threatened to turn her heart cold, and she chastised herself as she sipped the fresh tea that Rose poured for her.

She longed to return to their home in Boston, the large airy windows and the well-manicured grounds that she and the children loved to spend most of their time. She hoped to return as soon as the dreadful war was over. She hoped Joseph reported back soon with news of the victory at Bunker Hill.

Though the evening was young, Mercy hurried the children along to bed and sat in her chair near the fireplace. Rose poured her another cup of tea and retired for the night. The fire soothed her as she watched the delicate fiery tendrils reach up toward the ceiling. It was cold for June, or maybe she just felt cold from all the hatred and fighting in the world. She mourned for her old life in Boston. Joseph had been a physician back then. He’d made a few enemies because he cared for whites and blacks alike. She longed for the day that they could declare their own slaves free. She knew that to release them now would mean that they would quickly become slaves elsewhere, owned by people who may not be as kind to them as she and Joseph were.

As the night wore on, a storm picked up, the wind beat against the weather-worn shutters and whistled down the chimney. She watched the silhouettes of trees dancing against the starry sky out the window. Lightning flashed in the distance, and soon the orange glow of fire as dry brush ignited.

When morning came, the distant fire had turned the hillside black, and smoke filled the skies. Her eyes were swollen from the tears she didn’t know she’d cried. The cruelty of life, the war, her lover fighting for freedom, the lightning that stole the life from the flourishing trees and wildlife. She headed to bed as the youngest of the children began to stir, ready to start the day.

Mercy drifted off to dark dreams of hellfire and slaughter. When she awoke hours later, the air smelled of cremated forest, and her throat hurt from the sting of smoke.

The children helped Rose prepare dinner and then washed the dishes without being asked. She forced a smile and thanked her sweet dears. That evening, she soothed them with music from her violin.

An uneasy week drifted by, Mercy and the four children found themselves curled up together on the living room floor, tired of the close quarters of the meager cabin.

Rose sat in Mercy’s chair beside the fireplace, her face grim and gaunt. Frightened at the site of her usually cheery slave, Mercy rose, careful not to wake the children. Rose offered her a small slip of paper. Mercy gasped at the site of the official letter.

The news of her lover’s death didn’t shock her. She’d known already, or at least, she thought she did. The news of the British victory at Bunker Hill left her bitter and sad. Had her Joseph died for nothing?

She sunk into her chair and stared out into the gray smoky abyss. Joseph loved the outdoors, had spoken often of his fondness for the trees, how the frequent wildfires couldn’t stop them. The trees always came back.

She wondered if the same could be said for her family and her country. Would hatred consume them all?

Mercy blinked away tears. It should have been different, it could have been easy...

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814 words
Sources ▼

https://www.wunc.org/post/blindfaller-hits-close-home-mandolin-orange
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Warren
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Bunker_Hill

Brave men fall with a battle cry
Tears fill the eyes of their loved ones and their brothers in arms
So it went, for Joseph Warren
It should have been different, it could have been easy
His rank could have saved him, but a country unborn needs bravery
And it spread like wildfire
Wildfire
Wildfire
From the ashes grew sweet liberty
Like the seeds of the pines when the forest burns
They open up, grow and burn again
It should have been different, it could have been easy
But too much money rolled in to ever end slavery
The cry for war spread like wildfire
Wildfire
Wildfire
Civil war came, civil war went
Brother fought brother, the south was spent
But its true demise was hatred, passed down through the years
It should have been different, it could have been easy
But pride has a way of holding too firm to history
And it burns like wildfire
Wildfire
Wildfire
I was born a southern son
In a small southern town where the rebels run wild
They beat their chest and they swear: we're gonna rise again
It should have been different, it could have been easy
The day that old Warren died, hate should have gone with it
But here we are, caught in the wildfire
Wildfire
Wildfire