The Fighter

You will find this page somewhere in my fourth book.

“Ho, Mick, this bugger’s alive!” Heime stopped the wagon loaded with the bodies of dead fighting men from the Battle of Brandywine. General Washington, General St. Claire, and the other big wigs had moved on, retreating fast from the Pennsylvania battleground. Heime and Mick were left to help gather, identify and bury bodies. They both leaned over to take a look at the scalped soldier, barely wiggling in the mud.

“By God, it’s the fighting Irishman,” Mick identified the muddy man. Few men survive a scalping, but James Hare had a reputation for beating the odds. Heime and Mick were about to help him do so one more time. Their cart, loaded with bodies, had barely enough room for a casualty, but one took the injured man by the shoulders and the other by his feet and boosted him to the top of the pile of bodies.

“That head’s not worth saving. I say we put him out down by the creek. If he rouses, he can scooch for water until someone else comes along with supplies to bandage him up. We can tell the medic about him when we run into him. It’s all I can do to look at that bloody head. We’ll drop one of our rags for him to cover it up.” Heime put forth his solution for saving James.

That doesn’t seem Christian to me. I hear Jimmy studied to be a priest back in Ireland. It gives me a worry to dump him” said Mick.

“I guarantee he won’t survive this trip we are making to the burying spot. We’ll look for Doc John on our way and tell him where we left the bloke,” Heime ordered, and Mick, with his doubts, fell silent.

The spot for James was on the bank of the creek, untouched by the recent battle. It looked like a watering place for the natives of the area, protected by trees and brush. James was hoisted by shoulders and knees from the wagon to the soft earth. He gave a small moan and rolled to his good side, the one not scraped and bloody from the scalping.


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