To celebrate the Festive Season I have two gifts for you. The first is my novel WEOLEY is free on kindle until December 30th. you can get it here:
https://www.amazon.com/Weoley-Derek-Coleman-ebook/dp/B00HJIICFQ/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&qid=1514292052&sr=8-15&keywords=derek+coleman
I hope you enjoy it. Please leave a review.
The second gift is a festive historical short story. It's called Christmas in the colonies, enjoy:
Martin Baum was hungry, lost and far from home, very far
from home. When he first took up a musket to serve his Prince he had little
thought within weeks he would be transported half a world away. Now he was in a
country whose language he did not speak, fighting a war he did not understand
against a rag-tag army who didn’t seem to know when they were beaten.
Martin had been hungry more or less
permanently since deciding the army was preferable to the never-ending labor of
the farm but these last few days were particularly bad. The British sent them
from the great port of New York into the New Jersey countryside to wait out the
winter but supplies were intermittent and those that were sent to them were
subject to attack by the American rebels.
That was why Martin was lost. He’d
wandered away from the camp at Trenton because
these American woods reminded him of those he’d grown up in back in Hesse . He’d always been able to find something to eat
when he was there and hoped he could do the same here. He was usually pretty
sure where he was in the forest but here he had managed to get turned around
whilst following the tracks of a deer and now it was getting dark and he was
lost. He was sure the deer he’d been tracking was ahead of him but he was by no
means as certain where Trenton
and his comrades were.
He had little fear of the enemy
finding him. The last time he’d seen them they were a sick, beaten rabble who they’d
chased across the Delaware River to die in the deep snows of Pennsylvania . The idea they might come back
into New Jersey
was ludicrous. He was afraid of the weather though; the north wind was blowing
strongly and was bringing further flurries of snow to add to the accumulation
already underfoot. He had his greatcoat but Martin knew he could not spend the
night out here in the forest without freezing to death.
He stopped and slowly turned in a
circle. He was sure the heavy grey sky was lighter towards his right, which
meant he was probably facing south. If that was so then Trenton
was somewhere behind his left shoulder and the Delaware should be close in front of him.
What should he do? He was sure the deer was near by and the boys in his company
had been living on hard tack and rancid salt beef for a week now. Could he risk
going on a little further?
The decision was taken from him.
Just ahead the trees opened out into a little clearing and out of the corner of
his eye he saw a heavily laden bush suddenly shed a blizzard of snow as the
deer brushed past it and stepped daintily out into the open. The animal was
nervous. Head up, nostrils flared and ears alert, its muscles were bunched
ready to flee at the least sound. That sound was the clicking of the flintlock
on Martin’s musket. The deer leapt but Martin was brought up to hunt and the
animal was dead before its feet hit the ground again.
Martin ran forward as fast as the
calf deep snow would let him. He was grinning with excitement and anticipation.
Venison stew was just the thing to warm a lonely sentry on a cold Christmas
Eve. He propped his musket against a tree and then dropped to his knees beside
the steaming carcass as he took out his bayonet ready to clean the kill.
It was a messy job but he’d done it
hundreds of times before and made short work of it now. He was on one knee
rubbing the bayonet clean with handfuls of snow when the twig cracked behind
him. His reaction was instinctive. He made a diving roll over the butchered
deer, grabbed his musket and finished on one knee in the snow facing the
direction from which the sound had come.
Luckily the twig had snapped before
the enemy was able to see the clearing. Now he stood at it’s opposite edge, a
tall, gaunt young man, his lank hair whipping in the wind, his clothes worn and
ragged, his boots cracked and tied round with cloth and the Pennsylvania rifle
at his shoulder gleaming, well cared for and pointed straight at Martin’s head.
For nearly half a minute neither of
them moved. The Hessian knelt in the snow, the dead deer in front of him and
his musket pointed at the tall, ragged American. Martin knew how lethal these
rebels could be with their long rifles and he also knew how defenseless he was
because he’d stupidly not reloaded his musket after killing the deer. Fear made
his stomach churn and his throat feel dry.
For his part the rebel held his
rifle pointed unerringly at the German’s head. This one looked young, little
more than a boy, he thought. He was too young to die but he wasn’t the first of
these blue clad invaders the American had seen over the sights of his rifle and
the others were all dead. Somehow though this one seemed different though. He
was obviously a good hunter who appeared to know how to live in the woods and
what was more he was pointing a musket unflinchingly back at him. The deer
distracted the American too. It lay in front of the Hessian and the gnawing
pangs of hunger kept reminding the rebel of his own need, making his eyes flick
from the enemy to the meat and back again.
It was Martin who broke the
impasse. He knew he could not hurt the American so he would have to use his
wits to save himself. He’d seen the enemy soldier’s eyes flicking to the deer
and noticed the way the tip of his tongue came out to moisten his lips as if he
could already taste the meat. He guessed the rebel was starving and that gave
Martin an idea.
Swallowing his fear, he forced
himself to smile and slowly raised the muzzle of his musket until it pointed at
the sky. Turning it sideways he showed the rebel he was lowering the lock to
make it safe, then, keeping his hands in sight, he stood up and propped the
weapon against the tree again.
The American tensed when Martin
began to move but he didn’t fire. Instead he watched in wary puzzlement as the
Hessian put his weapon aside and stood smiling at him. Martin was grinning but
inside he quaked with fear. Now he was helpless. The rebel could shoot him, take
the deer and be off but he had no other choice except to hope the man would go
along with this idea. Silently he pointed at the carcass then in turn he
pointed at the American, at himself and finally he made a chopping gesture over
the deer.
What was the German doing? The
American was puzzled. The enemy had deliberately disarmed himself and was now
making signs, what for? What did he want? He was offering to share the deer.
The rebel grinned, the thought that he could squeeze the trigger and take the
whole animal had already occurred to him but he admired the enemy’s courage. He
grinned, raised the muzzle of his own weapon and nodded.
The sweat was icy on Martin’s brow
but he felt a surge of relief at the American’s nod. He nodded back and reached
for the bayonet still lying half buried in the snow where he’d dropped it.
‘Wait!’
Martin didn’t understand the word
but he froze and raised his eyes to the rebel. The tall American reached for
his belt and pulled a long-handled tomahawk from it. Carefully he tossed the
weapon so it landed flat in the snow beside the deer.
‘Use that,’ he said, ‘It’s better
for getting through the bones.’ Again Martin didn’t understand the words but he
recognized the tomahawk and, after testing the edge with his thumb, he nodded.
Raising it high he brought it down onto the carcass.
In a few minutes it was done. The
sweat was running from Martin’s brow and he felt warm now as he looked up to
see the American leaning on his rifle watching him. Slowly he stood up, gripped
the leg of one half of the deer and hefted it onto his shoulder. Retrieving his
musket with his other hand he looked into the rebel’s eyes. Neither of them
spoke for a moment then Martin glanced down at the other half of the deer in
the snow before raising his eyes again and saying,
‘Ist das alles in ordnung mit dir?’ The American shrugged, he’d got a notion it was a question but he didn’t understand it.
‘That’s fine,’ he replied. ‘You get
the hell out of here now.’
Martin glanced round at the
deepening shadows. Darkness was coming fast, he’d got turned around and now he
had no idea where his camp was.
‘Trenton ?’ he said hopefully. The accent was
harsh but the American recognized the word. He pointed to a barely discernible
game trail that disappeared behind his left shoulder.
‘Trenton ’ he repeated. Martin nodded and,
hefting his half of the deer, trudged off without a backward glance. As soon as
he was out of sight a second rebel stepped from the bushes to one side of the
clearing.
‘Why’d you let him go?’ he asked.
‘That musket wasn’t loaded.’
‘I know but it was his deer,’ the
first American shrugged. ‘Besides, it’s Christmas.’
The German’s ate well that night.
During Martin’s absence, a supply train came in. There was fresh beef, fresh
bread, cake, beer and wine to go with the venison stew. They went to bed
replete and happy.
The American’s weren’t so lucky.
They stayed out in the snow on the north side of the river. The night was
freezing and it snowed again but the day dawned cold and clear. With the coming
of the light the rag-tag army George Washington had smuggled across the Delaware in the darkness erupted from the trees, their
bayonets gleaming red with the rising sun as they charged into Trenton to wish Martin
Baum and his sleeping comrades a Merry Christmas.
