De Hessians

By CB Calsing

 

Give me something, just a little to wet me throat, and I’ll tell ye why ye gentlemen would find an old man such as meself so eager to join with ye.

We lived outside of Wexford Town, naught but de tree of us. Twas a small stone hovel to be sure, but Fahder owned it outright before he passed. Dey said he was part of de United Irish, but none ever proved dat. Still, he stood in front of de squad and took his bullets as good as any man before or after, I’ll wager. I was a babe in arms, so I can’t right say that I remember, though me muhder claimed she took me dere and held me up, for de soldiers to see de boy who’s fahder dey murdered. She must have been pregnant with Alma at de time. Ye remember our Alma?

But what threat, den, were deh tree of us, I’d like to know? I was old enough to watch sheep, tend a crop, but carry a rifle? Nay, and little Alma barely out of her cradle. And me muhder…

Aye, me muhder, may de road rise up to meet her. I remember de day as well as I do de love in me muhder’s eyes.

Those Hessians came storming tru our door. Dey’d got that thirst for blood fighting de Americans, sure enough, and den straight to us, straight into our little home. Dey grunted at us, motioned toward de hearth, to where our dinner cooked, made eating motions with deir hands. Spoke not a word of Gaelic or English, just low, guttural sounds. Ack, those voices still haunt me quiet times, dey do.

Me muhder, saint that she was, she pushed little Alma and me behind her, back into de shadow of de cupboard. I held Alma dere in de shadows, and thank St. Bridget, those bloody soldiers seemed to forget we was dere. Muhder fed dem. All de meat and bread we had went down those black gullets.

And den, well, I put one hand over little Alma’s eyes, my other over me own, and gritted my teeth against de sounds.

When dey had deir fill, dey left her, sprawled on de sod floor. She wept fit for a banshee, but before Alma and I had crept out of our hiding place, me muhder was on her feet. Twas truly as if she had de spirit of St. Menuas in her blood. She took up me old fahder’s musket, loaded it with the shot and powder that still hung nearby, and followed those hellions through de front door, cursing deir muhders and de swine that raised dem. I ran after. In de yard, one Hessian had already gained his horse, and de other had one foot in de stirrup.

Me muhder lifted that musket to her shoulder and pulled de trigger. I head that shot and de smoke filled de air. I watched that horsed Hessian look down, chin falling to his chest, and he must have watched that bloom of blood where de musket ball got him. After a moment, he toppled from his mount and into de dust.

De other Hessian took his foot out of de stirrup and turned to me muhder. He had a knife in his hand. She tried to turn back into de house, but she saw me standing dere. She tripped on de hem of her skirt, fell into de dirt…

De animal fell upon her, raised de knife above his head, and drove home. He stood after he finished the deed. I saw me mudher’s blood on his hand, on the blade of the knife. He looked right at me. The devil smiled, his face splitting to show his teeth, the remains of our dinner still stuck dere. He loaded his friend onto de horse, and dey road off without another word, without an offer of help to dig me muhder’s grave.

Well, I was too young to have thought much of politics or independence at de time, gentlemen. But that day, by de grace of God, did I make up this mind that I would never again call a fucking George my king. For what king would send men such as that onto his own soil now?

And dat’s why I’m here, take it or leave it. For de sakes of me muhder and Alma. Fuck de Unionists, say I, and arm me, gentlemen. Though I may be old, I can still load a rifle. And many thanks for de whiskey.

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CB Calsing lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. She is currently completing her MFA in fiction at the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. She also teaches middle school English.