Years of War

[Nosb]

Private Benedict A. Larson had been lucky; he had been in Washington, on leave from the front, barley 20 miles away, with a minor leg wound during the massive, failed, Potomac offensive. Things were bad at the front; they were recalling a whole lot of man back to the trenches. The Rebs had had more reserves then the High Command thought and had launched a devastating counteroffensive but luckily the rebs hadn’t yet made a breakthrough, at least according to the papers. Larson was being shipped back to the front, back to the trenches. At daybreak the day before he got up, dressed himself in his uniform and sneaked out of hospital.

He wandered the streets of the disserted, partially destroyed former Confederate Capital. As he walked to the famed White House, the one time US capital, before the Confederate desertion and the US government’s flight to Philadelphia, he noticed the outline of a perched, enlarged body.

Larson walked to it trying to get a better look. He eventually stood before the large, towering statue. It was a twenty foot tall, marble, monstrosity. The figure stood like a Roman Emperor standing on its pedestal. Located dead in the center of the Washington plaza, it was utterly amazing that the statue had remained unharmed when everything around it, including the White House was at least partially destroyed.

The untouched statue was almost angelic above all the carnage, almost as if the hand of God had protected it. Larson was transfixed in its gaze. Its gray, unflinching eyes were mesmerizing. He slowly took his eyes down from the statue. The man was dressed in the ragged uniform of soldier/mountaineer, his musket held at his side with one hand, the other pointed north with an outstretched index finger. He read over the inscription out the bottom

“The immortal hero of Quebec, directing the Continental Armies of Independence, at their triumphant entry into Quebec.”

Larson had seen the man’s likeness before in his class textbook, the mini-statues in New York and Philadelphia and in numerous patriotic paintings made after the Southern betrayal. He walked away from his namesake’s statue, hoping he could see were the Washington Monument remaining foundation remained before the Sun set. He glanced back at the statue one last time. A thought passed through his head. Were would we all be if old Benedict had lived? He asked himself, it was a pointless question, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

[wolfram]

Very interesting.