Last Letter Home

My dearest Catherine,

My love, I hope you are well and safe this Christmas, for it’s a glorious Christmas night here as I sit penning this letter to you. While I dream of being with you and the children at the lake, sitting beside the fire, drinking wine with you as William and Mary play at our feet, there are things happening here in Trenton, and it’s a dream that I do not dare dream, for it makes what comes next that much harder.

Today was a glorious day, one of such majesty I dare say they will be singing its triumphs for Christmases to come. They said the cause was over, but today, through what must be a certain amount of divine intervention, I believe our righteous cause renewed with a force of will hitherto incomprehensible.

I was awoken suddenly on this frosty morning by the thumping of the cannons, a veritable cacophony of violence that, I must admit, gave me quite a start. Steeling myself, knowing that you and the children were safe, I sat near that little window upstairs. Don’t fret–I had my musket handy and watched them gloriously sweep through the streets.

But it was not the glory of the guns that stirred my soul more fiercely than I could ever have imagined. Nay, It was him.

Taller than a territorial oak, he rode at their head, bellowing, "March on, my brave fellows, after me!"

Despite the swirling rumors of their ruggedness, Washington and his army rode with such passion and bravery that any notions of their inevitable defeat I held shattered.

Not even the Sunday preacher could match his authority. Tomorrow, I will go to enlist in the Continental Army and join in this great struggle.

I pray for you and the children.

Yours,

George

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A/N:

This was written in response to Real Poetic's Holiday Jamboree! Challenge, details below:

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