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Peter stood up and placed his arm around the young man's shoulders. "You've a good heart, Samuel. Don't let go of your hope. It may yet profit you something."

Samuel looked back at Peter, frowning. "We're in this together now."

Peter nodded silently, then walked back to his tree and slid down into the mud. The other men were whispering together a few yards away. The smallest man, the one whispering most violently, turned quickly toward Peter and beckoned him to come into the little huddle. Peter turned back toward Samuel to find him standing defiantly, looking straight at him. His blue coat flapped against his muddy pant legs, and he gripped the musket tightly in his hands, rolling it back and forth, as if testing its quality. Something about the boy's posture exuberated the fiery spirit a seemed undimmed by Peter's pessimism. Samuel looked like a hero where he stood- so ready to face the hidden foes that scurried just beyond his vision. Peter, looking at the gallant face, felt suddenly self-conscious. He became suddenly aware of the fact that he was still crouched low, though he was only a few feet from Samuel, pushed up against his tree like a frightened kitten. He felt suddenly ashamed of his weak spirit and the secret, silent death wish that he had unconsciously developed. Samuel saw the other men beckon Peter, and looked for another moment at the man before facing the fog with his musket held low and ready.

Standing up slowly, Peter held his weapon close. He looked out into the fog for a moment, desperately straining his senses to decipher movement, shapes, anything... but there was nothing beyond the shifting shadows of heavy fog. He cocked his musket, then walked carefully over to his waiting band of fellow soldiers. 

"Peter," it was Weatherfield, the smallest of the three. "Peter, we've got it all figured out," he crouched down and began pointing to various places on a makeshift model of the morning's battlefield, laid out with twigs and pebbles in the mud.

"Look, the British were here... here" The man's whispering was becoming more and more intense. Peter could sense the tension increasing among the group. "We picked up Jean and brought him here, before the fog set in, and that's when the redcoats overran our first position. We moved here," he pointed to a collection of small twigs that represented the forest in which they now stood, "and unless I'm a fool..." Peter looked up at him, suddenly understanding.

"We're dead men." Peter realized with sharpened clarity that their position, masked by the woods and the fog, placed them in the center of an entire company of British soldiers, angry and hostile from the skirmish that ensued that morning. They were completely surrounded.

The three men looked at Peter questioningly. It seemed that they were looking at once to him to make a decision. They seemed to place themselves beneath his guidance, electing him as their leader with their eyes, and begging him to somehow guide them from this impossible deathtrap. A sudden wave of dread swept over Peter as he saw the faces of these expectant men. They were surrounded. Surrounded. The word pulsed in his head like a drum beat, pounding the realization of death deeper into his consciousness with every beat. They were all going to die. There really was no more hope- they were surrounded. They were all going to die.

Shuddering, Peter looked back at the men. He trembled visibly, his musket shaking in his hands, his vision blurring. The earth spun around him, and stars wheeled into his vision.

"There's nothing we can do..." Peter looked at the men, who stood begging him with their eyes - wanting a leader. But he couldn't lead them- to where could he lead them? Death was all they had now. Death was among them. It was close, marching through the fog, marching, marching, marching...

CRACK!

A piercing snap rang through the air, jolting Peter upright, hurling him all at once back into reality. Every muscle in his body instantly seized up, the hair on his arms and neck became rigid, and paralyzing fear rippled throughout his body.

"A shot!' Weatherfield screamed and the three men instantly turned. "Get out!" They bolted toward a depression in the ground that they had carved out a makeshift bunker.

"Peter!"

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