Liberty Bell and The Last American by James Stoddard
THE BATTLE OF YORK
From Liberty Bell and the Last American
by James Stoddard
This is my original short story, which is part of the mythology of The Americana, later used in my novel, Liberty Bell and the Last American. The novel is written in a much different style.
Three thousand years have elapsed since the passing of America. Though scholars have uncovered multitudes of valuable archaeological evidence, little written literature exists from that era. It is indeed unfortunate that books made of paper were replaced by magneto-optical storage by the middle of the twenty-first century. The world-wide magnetic field disaster of the last decades of that century did more than herald a new Dark Age—it erased the literature and history of the world, even as the accompanying geological disruptions obliterated cities and landmarks.
Fortunately, near the end of the twenty-fourth century, an unknown scholar passed through the American regions, collecting the stories and legends we now call “The Americana.” Though we can expect little accuracy from a people dependent on electronic data storage rather than oral tradition, we believe there is always a grain of truth concealed within the tales. But to quote one of the figures from the Americana itself: “When the Legend becomes fact, print the Legend.”
***
Young General Washington rode alone on his white stallion through the vast forest of Yoosemitee. His battle-axe, Valleyforge, hung glistening from the pommel of his saddle, the blood fresh-scrubbed from its edge. He had slain too many soldiers in the war against the Gauls and American Natives, and was glad to be going home.
I will never fight again, he thought, but will return to the Mount of Vernon to become a surveyor and farmer. There was no pursuit more important to any country than to improve its agriculture and its breed of useful animals. How he longed for the simple cares of a husbandman.
He brooded on the horrors of war, his dead comrades, and the American Native maid, Pocahontas, whom he had loved. He loved her still, though she had betrayed him to the Gauls.
In his people’s language his name, General, meant pertaining in common to all, and that was what he had become, a leader to the American tribes in Virginia. As a youth, an enchantment had been laid on him by the Wise Woman, Betsee Ross, the Star Weaver, that he could never tell a lie. Because of this, some called him “Honest Gen.”
As the last rays of twilight turned the ancient American forest golden with dust and sent the shadows streaming east, he heard the cry of the hawk and the distant howls of wolves. He shivered uneasily. The sequoias rose all around, hundreds of feet tall, the trees the American Natives called the Silent Giants. His men had accompanied him through most of his journey, until he had chosen to shorten his trip by going through the woods. Even the bravest had refused to follow him then, for the forest was said to be haunted. At the time he had thought it just as well; he had wanted to be alone, to try to forget. He had intended to pass through the woods and into the safety of Virginia before nightfall, but weariness had overtaken both him and his mount, and in his brooding he
had dawdled.
He dared ride no farther that night for fear of losing his way. Already shapes grew gray and indistinct. The howling of the wolves sounded nearer.
If I continue, I will lame Silver, he thought. He stroked the stallion’s neck, then reined him to a stop. He dismounted, then led him forward a few paces, intending to make camp beneath one of the great trees. The shadows seemed to close around him.
The hoot of an owl overhead startled him. “My nerves are frayed,” he murmured.
General removed Silver’s bridle and saddle and let him go free. He was unconcerned about the stallion wandering off; the horse was loyal as a hound. Silver nickered uneasily, as if he too distrusted the woods.
“Easy, boy,” General murmured automatically. Though he preferred traveling unseen through Yoosemitee, he needed to start a fire to ward off the wolves. Picking up twigs and dead limbs, he soon had enough wood to last the night.
He knelt with flint and steel. Sparks flew and a tiny flame sprang up. Before he could fan it into a full fire, Silver nickered again.
General looked up, then stood, his hand to Valleyforge. A spectral green light haloed the enormous tree trunk. Washington crept around it and looked across the forest floor.
A man approached, a tall, inhumanly broad figure carrying a lantern that glowed with an unearthly luminance. Washington felt his mouth go dry; his heart pounded against his chest, for he thought he recognized the intruder. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go if the Pilgrim sought him. He drew Valleyforge and held it close.
The figure paused a few feet from Washington. The lantern light spread at General’s feet, turning the ground emerald and olive.
“General Washington,” the figure said, his voice a deep drawl. “I am Waynejon. Some call me the Pilgrim.”
“Have you come for me?” General asked. Despite his best effort, his voice trembled.
The Pilgrim rumbled a laugh. “I’m not Death, if that’s what you mean. I’m a man. I put my pants on one leg at a time.”
Washington remained unconvinced. According to legend, the Pilgrim had died many times, but death could not keep him, for he was cursed to walk the earth until the end of the age because of an ancient wrong. He stood a head taller than Washington, who was a tall man himself, and wore a square, black hat with a buckle at its front, a black cloak, and ebony riding chaps. A black eyepatch covered one eye and a rooster stood on his left shoulder. He carried an ancient blunderbuss.
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