Johnny's Short Story: The Cold War

Johnny was lost in thought, staring down the path that Grandsire Silsbee had just ridden down. Today nothing could affect him. Rab was dead, and there was nothing that he could do about it. He couldn’t change that, and now all his feelings were numbed. Perhaps that’s what gave him the courage to allow Dr. Warren to operate on his hand. Rab’s death had changed him. He was no longer a boy, but a man. And as a man, he would pick up Rab’s gun, and do what Rab never got to. He would go fight in the war. Not for himself or his future, but for Rab. “Johnny! I’ve gotten my instruments ready.” Dr. Warren called out, bringing Johnny out of his musings. “All right, I’m coming inside.” Johnny inhaled a deep calming breath, preparing for what would be

Warren was finally wrapping Johnny’s hand, making sure that the fingers were separated so it wouldn’t heal closed in on itself as it had before. Johnny knew that his recovery would take a while—at least six weeks—but at least the surgery was over, though the pain was still quite severe. “You stay and rest over in that chair, Johnny. I’ll get someone to clean up all this blood,” Dr. Warren said, turning to leave. Johnny sighed despondently. He knew it would take a while to heal, but waiting around while there was a war to be fought seemed so depressing, not to mention boring. He was in for a long, dreary recovery. The woman of the inn entered the room startling Johnny out of his thoughts. Johnny stared blankly at the woman as she cleaned the blood off of the table. He absently wondered if it was possible to get back across the river and live out his recovery in his old room above the print shop, but scrapped that idea because the regulars had wrecked the room in their search, and his hand was in no state to clean it up. Perhaps he could stay with Cilla and Miss Bessie at the Lyte estate. Yes, that was a fine idea; there was plenty of food, he would have a nice bed and he could spend his days talking with

He had to be able to shoot straight. It was a miracle that his hand healed quickly, but if he couldn’t manage to shoot a gun properly, he would be of no use to the army. He could still enlist, sure, but just enlisting wouldn’t satisfy his need to be the good soldier that Rab never got to be. Every day since his hand was unwrapped he had practiced and practiced his shooting skills, trying to get better before the militia attacked the British again while they still had them surrounded. Johnny took his shot and once again missed the target. “I give up!” Johnny cried, dropping down at the base of the tree stump in frustration. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for war.” But somewhere in his mind he heard the voice of Rab telling him not to give up, but to fight in the war. Growling in frustration, Johnny ground his teeth together, got up, and picked up his gun to try again. I’m doing this for Rab, I’m doing this for Rab. That’s all he could say to himself to keep going, and stay sane. It was his motto and by the time he enlisted after the battle at Chelsea Creek, it had carried him through, and he became a much better