December 1st, 1775
All hands to fortifying the town. In the afternoon, drills.
Supped with Slant, the gentle, timid arrival of the other day, and another youth, Pomp. The boy Slant suffers some disorder that causes him to choke upon his words. In the course of common speech, ’tis but a hesitation. When he is excited, however, some fist doth clutch his jaw or some finger pinch his tongue; no sound comes forth from the working mouth, and shame fills his eyes, that he cannot speak. I fear to think out of what grim circumstance this arises.
We sat upon the dead grass and ate our rations as we watched Will and John, who are the favorites of our company, engage in their antics by the berm.
This amiable Pomp hath a fund of stories, delighting particularly in those most horrible to hear, and I, giddily diverted not only by his wonder-tales but also by this hour of companionship, begged him to favor us with descriptions of the world’s chiefest monstrosities. He thought hard upon it, smiled widely, and informed us of his two most favored water-beasts: the Scottish water-bull which lurks in Highland tarns and waits to devour the child dangling his fingers in the peat; and the ninkenanke, the dragon of the Gambia, which devours goats and men, pulling them shrieking into the mangrove swamps. The latter beast hath, says he, a diamond in its head.
Slant, who is tall in stature but still a boy in years and spirit, was much affected by these tales, thrilled with fear and pleased with the discomfort; after our dinner, when we sate about the fire, he asked Pomp whether he — . . . believed such monstrosities.
“I don’t reckon so,” Pomp answered. “Except saving when I’m out with my cattle in the swamp at night, and no stars. Then I believe everything.”
Slowly, friend Slant nodded. He kept his eyes fixed upon the flames.
“I don’t mind to tell you,” said Pomp, “and this is truth: There’s a lake near where I keep my cows, and each night, a column of light come straight down from the sky and search out the middle of that lake.”
Greatly intrigued, I asked whether he had seen this illumination and sought its source, saying that this was a worthy object for the inquiries of philosophy.
He nodded solemnly. “One night,” he said. “I went to see it.”
Asked Slant, did he know what it — what it was?
Pomp said, “If I seen that there’s a light sometimes come down from the stars and burn on a lake, you reckon I go paddle out and see where it come from? After the once, I never seen that damn lake again after dark.” He laughed; then, seeing Slant’s fear, he took pity and said, “I sleep better, nights, knowing that light’s an hour walk away from my tent, sitting on the water. If there ain’t no light, I wouldn’t sleep so good. Then there ain’t nothing but darkness. Then you don’t know where the danger’s really hiding.”