Washington stands
at the front of the bow like a mighty lion gazing towards his kingdom. The cold
wind whips through us like ice; even my bones feel chilled. Some men cough,
some grumble. The days stretch on like this: rowing and rocking in the boat.
Gunshots roar a deafening pitch and the sound of the flag cracking like a whip
rings in my swollen ears. My lungs heave and I taste the hue of blood pooling
in my saliva. The scent of death follows us, even haunts us in our sleep. “What
are we fighting for?” I ask myself. The man standing beside Washington is
holding the flag. His hands must be cold from clenching the rod.
I glance at
Washington again. He stands confidently, his body erect on the side of the
boat. His gaze is intently looking toward the morning light; toward land. He
confuses me, because although his men grow weary and tired, he shows no sign of
defeat. And I think to myself “This is what I’m fighting for; a land of
freedom, not of fear.”
