I feel the pain but not the relief of death; just pain, I’m forever in pain. The pain causes me to black out, and when I come to I’m strapped to a cold wooden board as the putrid smell of blood fills my nostrils. I gag, opening my eyes to see a dirty white tent filled with doctors. I groan, shocking them. As they step toward me I look down noticing that my chest is a bloody gaping hole.
“He should be dead,” one of the doctors mutters.
“But he’s not,” another replies.
“Yes, I’m alive so sew me back up!” I demand.
They stand there shocked.
“Now!” I order.
They follow my command, scared almost to death. I feel bad for them but I must get out of here before they tell the others. If only I was normal. If only I could die, but this curse that has affected me since I was a boy is preventing that. I think back to when I was a young child, the memories still so vivid, but that was a long time ago. Almost 300 years now with it being May 11, 1775 and my birth on the 17 of March 1501 in Derby, England. As they finish the last stitches I rip off my restraints and rush out of the tent. Back with my regiment before people start asking more questions. As I arrive at the encampment, my men who look beyond shocked, begin to ask questions. I order them to hush as I return to my personal tent to change into my uniform and rejoin the fight for Fort Ticonderoga. As I rally my men for a charge, orders come in that Mr. Benedict Arnold has claimed the Fort for the Americans. Tonight we will celebrate this great victory. Returning to my tent before the badgering ensues again I pour myself a drink and prop my feet up thinking I can finally relax. Before I can even take a sip of my liquor a young man rushes in saying I have orders to move my troops South-East to Charleston and we must be there by the end of the month. I rip the letter from his hand as begin to read further.
“You and your regiment are needed to reinforce the troops at Bunker and Breed’s Hill. We expect the English to give heavy resistance to these encampments within the following months. You are requested to report at these stations before the end of May.” It was signed Commander Prescott.
I throw back my scotch and head out to once again rally my men to move out. The trip should be long but uneventful as we march through the American occupied states.