Revolutionary: Chapter 1
Hi all! Here’s the first chapter of my new fic set during the American Revolution. I spent DAYS doing research to make this as historically accurate as possible, but I apologize if there are any errors. I plan to update once per week, so keep me accountable and let me know what you think! I try to respond to everyone :) It’s also available here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13326173/1/Revolutionary
Rated: M (for future content)
I stood gazing out at the deep blue of the ocean as the waves rolled onto the rocky shore, rushing in swirls of white foam around my bare feet. The water was icy cold as spring had just begun to thaw out the frigid winter, but I didn’t even flinch as the water splashed midway up my calf. The sun was finally shining, breaking through the overcast skies, and seemed to smile down upon me.
I looked out across the water and noticed the bustle of activity in New York Harbor. I could see the tall white sails of the ships, stretching to the sky as if they eagerly awaited being taken out to sea. They mirrored my own feelings and I took a deep breath of the salty air before I turned back toward home.
“Where have you been?” Mother asked as I opened the door to our small, modest cabin. It was little more than a shed: a single room with a hearth overtaking most of one wall and the two beds taking up another.
“Just getting some fresh air,” I replied, taking off Father’s old hunting jacket and hanging it on a wooden peg by the door.
“Not hunting, though,” Mother said, gesturing with her head toward the musket resting above the mantle, as her hands were busy crushing herbs presumably for a depleted remedy. Being the only healer in this area of Brooklyn Heights, she did her best to keep her supplies fresh and in stock, especially since we’d heard General Washington and the Continental army were headed this way from Boston. I pushed the thoughts of bloody soldiers and deadly battle aside.
“I thought I might go fishing today,” I replied a bit defensively. She had probably meant it to sound like a question, but it came off more as an accusation. I sat down in one of the chairs at the big table Father had crafted when I was a little girl, feeling that familiar, yet vague ache of his absence.
Mother made some kind of noise of acknowledgement but I sensed she didn’t approve. We tended to get more when we traded game, not fish, but I felt like being out on the water today. Normally I preferred hunting, but being under the sun and clear sky, floating peacefully in the ocean in Father’s canoe sounded more appealing than hiding in the shade of the trees today.
My little sister, Prim, suddenly opened the door to our cabin, hauling a bucket of milk from her goat, Lady. I rose from my chair to help her carry it, but she shooed me away, insisting she could carry it. I shook my head at her stubbornness, but hid it by sitting back down and reaching for the loaf of bread wrapped in cloth on the table. It was the last loaf. I made a mental note to trade with the baker today.
He was usually generous with his trade - even with fish. His youngest son, Peeta, was even more generous. He was around my age, a little taller than me, with dark blond hair and a kind smile. He always seemed genuinely pleased to see me - or, rather, to see what I had brought. Of course, I understood the appreciation for having food to put on the table, but he made it seem like I had won the war against the British single-handedly when I gave him the pheasants, fish or occasional venison. I never expressed my thoughts on this aloud, though, not wanting to deter the bountiful trade. Five loaves of bread was more than a fair trade and usually lasted the three of us a week, if not more.
As Prim began to divide the milk into jars to store in the cellar, I picked up the knife next to the butter dish on the table and scooped some onto the piece of bread I had already sliced. That goat had caused a lot of trouble in the beginning, constantly running off and refusing to be milked, but as I savored the salty creaminess of the butter combined with the sweet, dense bread, I felt grateful for the trouble.
As much as Father was missed, we had done well for ourselves. It had been nearly a year now since he died on the town green of Lexington, Massachusetts. We heard mixed reports on how the battle - if one could call it that - began. Some say the redcoats fired first, while others say the militiamen did. And other reports have, of course, embellished the story, or maybe it just got confused in all the gossip and distance it had to travel before reaching us. But whoever shot first didn’t change the fact that eight militiamen had been killed - one being my father.
This winter had been hard without him. He had been the provider of the family. He was a carpenter, having learned his skills from his maternal grandfather, who was part of the Lenape tribe. They were known to make excellent boats called canoes, vessels that easily glided in the water, the sharp point at its bow cutting through waves like a knife through butter. The one Father made was the one I would take out to fish today.
I finished off the last bite of the bread slice, picked up a dried piece of venison and munched on it as I stood from the table and walked toward the door.
I put Father’s warm hunting jacket back on and said, “I’m going to trade in town when I’m done fishing. I’ll be back by supper.”
Mother nodded her head to acknowledge that she heard me, still busy with the herbs and Prim turned to me.
“Be careful, Katniss,” she said with a sweet smile.
“I will, Little Duck,” I responded, walking over to her to plant a kiss on the crown of her golden head.
I walked out the door and retrieved the fishing supplies in the little shed near Lady’s pen, giving her a quick scratch behind the ear as a show of appreciation for her milk. I remembered last summer when I had traded a whole deer carcass for her. I could tell that the farmer thought he was getting a good bargain - Lady wasn’t in the best of shape, being a bit malnourished and thus, small for her age. But I was confident between Mother’s healing abilities and Prim’s tender care, that Lady would be just fine. Obviously, I was glad I had trusted my instincts. She had definitely been a good investment, providing milk that we used to make butter, cream, and cheese, most of which we traded as well.
Gale, Father’s apprentice, had even offered to build the shed to keep her warm in the imminent winter. In return, we gave his family a generous portion of the milk every day. Even after he had enlisted in the Continental army under General Washington we continued to share the milk with his mother and three younger siblings. His father had been killed alongside mine in Lexington and that had somehow formed an unspoken bond between us. Since he had begun his apprenticeship with Father, we had gotten along, but after our fathers joined the Sons of Liberty and then were killed, we became indescribably close friends.
I thought about how much I missed Gale’s companionship as I pulled the canoe out onto the shore and jumped in, using the oar to paddle out further. The times we shared in this canoe, whether laughing about something his younger brothers did or sitting in companionable silence, it was comforting to know someone was looking out for me.
In the aftermath of our fathers’ deaths, we worked together to make plans that would help our families thrive and survive. We were not going to let our families starve to death or lose all they had worked for. Gale and I would hunt for game, we shared the milk from Lady and we traded together in town. That is, until Gale caught the same patriotic spirit our fathers had and joined the Continental army.
He did write letters to his family and to me, keeping us updated on his welfare as well as the state of the war. In fact, that was how I found out General Washington was headed to New York. Gale had written to me about the end of the siege of Boston and that Washington’s next plan was to defend New York as he had a strong notion that the British would attempt to set up a base for the Royal Navy at the harbor. I hoped that meant he could visit us, even briefly, but I worried about the trouble this could bring to New York. The worry that more people I cared about would get drawn into the war always plagued me despite my efforts to push it out of my mind.
For now, though, I was enjoying being out on the water, and I put all of my mental energy into catching fish. After a couple of hours, I felt I had a sufficient amount, so I rowed back to shore and then headed toward town with my bag of fish.
After making a stop at Seeder’s farm to trade for eggs and Twill’s for some linen, I stopped at the bakery. I did my customary two knocks, then stepped back and waited. As the door began to open, I smiled in preparation for the kindness that usually greeted me. I wasn’t disappointed as Peeta’s eyes fell on me and he smiled his typical warm, almost shy, smile.
“Good afternoon, Miss Everdeen,” he greeted me, exiting his home and walking down the two steps so he was on level ground with me.
“Mr. Mellark,” I replied in kind.
“Peeta,” he corrected with a chuckle. “I feel old when you address me that way.”
“Then you should address me as Katniss for the same reasons,” I retorted with a smirk. “We must be of similar age.”
“Fair enough, Katniss.” He said my name is if he was tasting a piece of candy for the first time. A bit hesitant at first, but then pleased as the sweetness rolls over your tongue.
I nodded to show that I appreciated his acceptance to address me by my first name then said, “I’m afraid I only have four fish left to trade today.”
“Fish? I’m surprised you weren’t out hunting in this fine weather,” he remarked. The familiarity with which he spoke to me caught me a little off guard.
“The weather is precisely why I chose to go fishing. It’s also nice to have a change of scenery every once in awhile,” I replied, drawing the fish from my bag.
“Indeed,” he said, taking the fish from me, our fingers briefly making contact. I ignored the uncharacteristic flip that my stomach did. The beautiful weather was having an odd effect on my mood. This was the most Peeta and I had ever conversed, but I had to admit he was pleasant to talk with. I felt oddly at ease around him and found myself hoping we would talk more often.
“I’ve never been out to sea,” he continued, breaking me from my thoughts. I noted the hint of longing in his voice. “What do you do if your boat tips over?”
“Swim, of course,” I answered, as if it were obvious.
“You can swim?” Peeta asked incredulously, his blue eyes wide.
I realized how rude I must have sounded. Most people did not know how to swim. I was a rare exception. “Yes, my father taught me…before he died.” I felt the familiar but brief pang of grief.
It must have showed in my eyes, though, because Peeta’s perpetual smile suddenly fell. It wasn’t an expression of pity that I saw, but one that truly conveyed his deepest condolences.
“Right,” he said quietly. “I had heard that your father passed. I offer my sincerest apologies. I’m sure you and your family miss him terribly.”
I nodded, suddenly unsure if I could speak.
“If you don’t mind me asking…how did he die?”
I swallowed thickly before I merely replied, “Lexington. He was in the militia.”
Realization came over his features and then a very brief look of alarm before he went back to his apologetic look. But I didn’t miss his fleeting glance toward the open door of the house.
I was confused for a moment before the reasoning for his look of alarm suddenly became clear to me. His family were Loyalists. I had heard rumors that the Mellarks were Tories, but had never confirmed them. I had assumed it was public knowledge how Father had been killed and neither Mr. Mellark nor Peeta had ever made comments to me regarding their beliefs on the war, but now I was discovering that they had not known Father’s cause of death.
“Are you a Tory?” I practically spat the word.
“I…yes…I mean, not exactly,” he fumbled to reply, no longer attempting to conceal his glances toward the open door.
“Thank you very much for your previous trades, Mr. Mellark,” I added with spiteful bitterness as I yanked the fish back from his hands. “But I will no longer be able to do business with you.”
With that, I stormed away from him, not glancing back as he called after me. I ignored the unexplained regret I was feeling over leaving him that way and, if I was honest with myself, over not being able to see him again. However, doing business with a Tory when my own father had lost his life fighting against the bloody British felt treasonous to me.
I barged into my home, slamming my satchel on the table, cringing as I realized I likely broke some, if not all, of the eggs I received from Seeder.
“What’s wrong?” Prim asked, approaching me and putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. For being only fourteen and four years my junior, she was incredibly good at calming me.
I immediately relaxed at her touch and sat down heavily in one of the chairs at the table. The regret over what happened at the bakery seemed to be weighing me down.
“I’m afraid we won’t be trading with the baker any longer,” I stated quietly.
Mother stopped stirring the pot over the fire and looked at me. “Why?” she inquired.
“They’re Tories,” I responded with disgust.
Prim looked at Mother but neither of them had the reaction I expected. I assumed they would share in my fury and maybe utter a few unkind words about the Mellarks or Tories in general. Instead, Mother took a deep breath and stood up straight to address me.
“Not everyone here is a patriot, Katniss,” she began quietly. “We’ve been fortunate so far that the war hasn’t reached us, so most haven’t felt the need to express where their loyalties lie.”
“But it is on its way here now, Mother!” I practically shouted. I’d kept my fears of the war at bay, but now I realized that I couldn’t any longer. The Continental army would be here soon, and the redcoats would follow. It was inevitable that war would find us.
“The Continental army could be here any day,” I continued, a bit more calmly. “And the people of our town will no longer be silent. We have to make our stand now and make it known that we are patriots.”
“But at what cost?” Mother said urgently, her hands flying. “We’ve already lost your father to this war! Must we lose more? Our home? Our livelihood? Our survival? Do you think that’s what your father would have wanted?”
I honestly wasn’t sure what Father would want. There was no doubt that he was a patriot. I’d heard him talking with Mr. Hawthorne and even with Gale about the Sons of Liberty and what happened at Boston Harbor. I even remembered his outrage over the Sugar and Stamp Acts when I was only five or six years old. He was hot-headed, a trait I inherited from him, and nothing infuriated him more than injustice. But would he expect us to sacrifice everything to stay true to the patriotic cause? I didn’t know the answer. I could only trust my instincts on the matter.
“I don’t know what he would have wanted,” I admitted, calmly. “But if the war is really coming here, I don’t believe we can remain neutral any longer. And if we have to pick a side - it needs to be the right one.”
I could see the worry in Mother’s eyes as she searched my own. She finally let out a breath and said, barely above a whisper, “You’re so much like him.”
I was uncertain whether she meant it as a compliment or not, but I chose to believe that she did.
The next morning, I awoke just as the first faint streaks of dawn painted the sky in the east. I decided to hunt this morning. I wanted something more familiar to me in the wake of the change that was bound to be happening.
I dressed in a pair of my father’s trousers, donned his jacket and retrieved the musket from above the mantel. I opened the door to our cabin and stopped as I nearly trampled on a bundle that lay on our doorstep.
It was wrapped in cloth, with a letter placed on top. I bent over and picked up the bundle, recognizing the familiar shape of bread loaves wrapped in the cloth. There were five of them.
Feeling a slight twinge of regret, I gently placed the loaves on the table and picked up the letter. It was addressed to me, Katniss, not Miss Everdeen. There could be no mistaking who wrote the letter.
I hesitantly opened it and found it was written in elegant, flowing handwriting.
Forgive me if this is too forward, but I found that I could not shake myself of the incident that occurred yesterday afternoon. Finding myself in a state of shock after your, shall we say, discovery of my family’s loyalties, I was unable to properly explain the situation. I hope that you will allow me to explain with this letter.
My family are, as you put, Tories, however, I do not share in their position. You see, I have a dear friend by the name of Finnick Odair - perhaps you’ve heard of him, he was a fisherman - that joined the Continental army several months ago. He has secretly written to me during the time, detailing the events and battles he has witnessed and participated in. His courage and letters have changed my perspective on the war we are currently facing. My family does not know my position. However, with the Continental army on its way, I find that an opportunity is drawing near.
If you still do not believe that I am of like mind with you, then let this convince you: I will be enlisting in the Continental army when it comes to New York. I find this the perfect opportunity to inform my family of my position, as I am rather cowardly and won’t have to face their wrath upon the revelation that their son is a patriot. I think battle with the redcoats will seem like a toddler’s tantrum in comparison to my mother’s temper.
I chuckled quietly at this, but my fingers trembled a bit as I read the remainder of Peeta’s letter.
As I will be joining the Continental army for an indefinite amount of time, I realized with some regret that I will no longer be able to enjoy the pleasure of your company. To remedy this, I was hoping that you would allow me to write to you while I’m away. If you agree, please accept the loaves I have left with this letter and leave something from your hunt at the back door of the bakery this afternoon. If I find nothing, you may keep the loaves regardless, and I will assume you have declined my request and wish you and your family all the best.
I reread the letter several times, attempting to assess my feelings on it. It seemed that all this time I had assumed Peeta was happy to see me because I brought meat for his family, he had actually been happy, well, to see me. The thought gave me an inexplicable thrill and I couldn’t help the smile that spread itself on my face. I blushed and tried to force it away. I folded the letter and stuffed it in the pocket of Father’s jacket, then rose from the chair and left for the woods.
The sun was just rising on the horizon, but the forest was still dark when I reached it. It was quiet and calm, the smell of earth and pine filling my nostrils. It normally calmed me, but despite it all, I couldn’t force the thoughts of Peeta’s letter out of my mind.
If I was honest with myself, the thought of writing to him sounded appealing. I thought of the future our writing could lead to when the war was over, but another thought stopped me in my tracks.
He was going to war. What if he was killed, the way Father was killed? I could hardly tolerate the thought. I barely knew Peeta Mellark, but something in me was drawn to him. Maybe it was the steadiness, the kindness, the warmth, the authenticity, but how could I let myself fall for someone who might not ever return home?
I debated with myself during the entirety of my hunt. I thought I had made up my mind by the time I was done, only two pheasants to show for my time due to the distraction. I had every intention of going back home, but my feet wandered to the bakery. I willed myself to go back home, we could use the pheasants for our own meals. However, my hand was suddenly laying one of the birds on the step, being careful to make sure it didn’t seem haphazardly placed there. And then my body finally listened to my insistence and ran back home. But even then I tried to will myself to go back and pick up the pheasant. I didn’t need to get attached to someone else that was going to fight the British. I’d already lost my father and now Gale was fighting too.
But I couldn’t help the extra thump I felt in my heart that wasn’t caused by running, and the wide smile that now seemed permanently set in my face. I undeniably felt something for Peeta Mellark. I just hoped the war ended soon enough, and in our favor, so I could discover where those feelings would take me.
