THAT EVENING —

My Spirits being much depressed by this Spectacle, so soon as I had Discharged my Duties, I sought out Prince’s Work Detail, that we might Sup together. I returned with him to our Camp, bidding him to bring his Violin, for we had need of Cheer.

That Night, we all desponded, a Melancholy Crew, all overtaken with a Vision of what it would mean for the Camp to be over-run, did the Army sally forth from the Town, say, at Dawn the next Morning, & we had to confront their Pitiless Ranks, who are the foremost Men for dispensing Death in all the World.

It is their Inevitability that most we fear: the Scream, terrific in the highest Degree, & the Unstoppable Ranks of them, the Blare of their Uniforms, & the Bristle of their Muskets, offering their Bayonets, & the Slow Approach, first in Ferocity, when they reach our Ranks, & begin to stab & to stab & to stab.

Our Company were low, much hypp’d by the Bloodshed of the Day. We sat by the Fire.

Mr. Symes raised his Voice & bid us remember Worcester at the Close of last Summer, he being there, in those glad Ranks, when the Men came down out of the Hills to see that there should be Fair Play in the Courts; & the King’s Lackeys were made to march from out the Court-House; the Judges & Sheriff & Gentlemen of the Bar parading before the joyous Crowds, their Hats in their Hands, their Pates hung low for their Crimes & Preferment; & amongst that Clamor, it was determined that WHEN JUSTICE IS ADMINISTERED, IT SHALL BE ADMINISTERED BY OUR COUNTRYMEN, SELECTED FOR SERVICE, & NOT BY THE TOYS OF MINISTERS & DISTANT DUKE.

I rose then, on an Inspiration; & I spake of what we fought for — Our Homeland — and the Beauty of my New England, of the Hills & Forests; & the Broad Fields cleared for Bounty & the Vales with Pools where Boys kick at each other’s Shins to force a Slip

& the Rock of the Coasts

& the Summer

& the Winter

& my Cooperage in the Morning, when the Work is sharp & neat

& Clabber-Girls with their Skirts tucked into their Waists for Work

& Threshers catching breath against Stone Walls

& the Orchards where the Apples sour

& the Affability of our Insects

& Birds walking up Spires

& Our Devil-haunted Woods

& our Lakes

& our Coves

& our Barns

& our Groves

& I invented a Thousand Idiocies, speaking faster & faster, laughing, as if it were all Delightful, but almost in Tears, until finally I burst out, “Sirs — Prince — Does New England SNOW not make you hungry? Pray tell me if I am alone: Does it not look most delectable to eat?”

“Mr. Goring,” says Prince; & his Voice was kind. “You bid me always to speak; yet there are times when Sorrow is best spoken through Silence.”

Bless you, my Friend — for he knew exactly why I run antic — and I ceased. And in the End of Speech, we found Companionship at last.

He picked up his Violin & began to fiddle upon it; one of his Sonatas; & those resting around the Fire come closer to listen; & as he then played country Tunes, I joined in Song, & we played the music of my Meadows and the City’s Alleys; & from other Fires, Men came — the Men of my Homeland, Shun — & we sang together as Prince played. When he did not know a Tune requested, he quickly conned it, & we all begun singing together; & so, singing of Village Maids & of Men on Drays & Nags headed into Battle, we felt the whole of the Nation beneath us — the Birches of the North — the quiet Lakes — the Rivers that lead to the Sea and the Roads that wind to the Mountains — the Villages — the Smoke — the Air.

Is this not worth dying for?

         So thinks

thy Timid & affectionate Brother,

Evidence Goring