Scar by J. Albert Mann Page B

a guide, where he goes, you go. That is, if you’re still coming with us.” And with that said, he walks away.
    â€œYes,” I call after him, trying not to shout, “I’m still coming.”
    Dr. Tusten stands quietly. The men, the horses, and the dust seem not to touch him. Calmly, he watches me. If I’m supposed to say something, I don’t know what it is.
    â€œI hope that your family and home are well after yesterday’s attack,” he says.
    â€œMy home was burned, but my family is well,” I answer.
    He nods slowly, still watching me. He is taking me in; he is taking in my foot. I can feel it. I want to tell him that I’m able. That I can join this fight. And that I’ll fight for the same reason as any other man here: freedom from England.
    â€œNoah, it’s a dangerous thing that we propose to do,” he says, reading my thoughts. “This man, Joseph Brant, is not to be taken lightly. He’s a serious opponent. I will stand before these other men in a few moments and tell them the same thing I’m telling you. General Washington should have the chance to hear about the raid, and we should wait for reinforcements before we go running up the river.” He gestures to the scene before us, at the dust-choked road and the farming men hanging about it. “There aren’t many ofus, son, and there are even fewer of us with experience to match Mr. Brant’s. You could stay behind. You’re … young,” he finishes.
    I wince at his last word, understanding its true meaning.
    In an instant, I see this great mass of men moving upriver without me. And I see myself, trudging back to the Littles’ farm and proceeding with the cutting of hay and the chasing of loose cows.
    â€œDr. Tusten,” I say, trying to find the steady voice that Eliza Little told me I possessed. “If I were to ask these men sweating in the hot sun right now, each of them would own a good reason to stay behind, just as you believe I do.” I wave over at Mr. Jacobson. “That man has six children to feed. And the Reverend has a portion of his flock to put to rest after yesterday. And Jon Haskell’s wife is sick with fever.” There is no shortage of pain and suffering in the lives of poor farmers, and I could have gone on, but instead, I turn back to him. “And you, sir, you’re standing here before me, even though I’m sure that you must have a wife and children to think about. I will follow this militia, Dr. Tusten, whether you agree with my decision or not, sir.”
    And though I desperately want to turn my head away from him and calm myself, I stand as still as I can, trying to wear that look of determination my mother has worn on her face all my life.
    The doctor doesn’t speak right away. “Let’s gather the men and talk,” he says, finally. “We need to discuss our nextmove. You know what I think. Let’s see what these good men here have to say.” He turns and walks off toward the front of the fort. And I follow.
    Within a few moments we’re all assembled around the palisade. Josh joins me, and there is no more talk between us about what my mother will or will not allow me to do.
    Dr. Tusten raises his hand for silence and begins to speak.
    â€œWe have a decision to make,” he says with force, but not loudly. The men quiet. The women move off to the side of the crowd, huddling in their own little groups, and the children, sensing the change in the hush of the crowd, take their games up the road toward the blacksmith’s. What is truly unbelievable is that at this very same time yesterday morning, I was busy worrying about how I would cut, gather, and dry two crops of hay this summer instead of our usual one, due to all the rain in June. And here I am today standing in the middle of a road I’ve walked down all my life, surrounded by a group of mostly strangers, listening to a man I just met