CHAPTER 12

Every muscle and bone in my body ached. My nose swollen two sizes too big. Whatever passageway that was not swollen shut was clogged with congealed blood. I tried opening my eyes. My left eyelid and cheek were enlarged to where I could not open my left eye. It hurt too much to force it open. It did not feel as though Jumonville had broken the skin when he had hit me with the leather-bound book, but the thwack across my face was going to take some time to heal.

My shoulders ached. My wrist burned from the ropes that Bouchard bound me with to the tree. I was tied in a position that caused my shoulders to be awkwardly twisted behind me and around the tree, making it impossible to find any comfort. I could not shift my position throughout the night, where my bottom had been spared the torture from Jumonville and Bouchard. It did not survive the torture of the cold ground all night. I shifted my weight to check what else they injured and if I had any broken ribs. Bruised not broken. My tongue was swollen. I wasn’t sure if I could speak or eat. If they are going to give me breakfast. What the hell was all the madness from last night about?

The early morning fog gave me an eerie feeling as I looked towards the camp. The dawn was upon me to celebrate a new day. Or to remind me I lived through the night and would have the pleasure of having the bajeesus kicked out of me. I hoped the darkness would keep me out of sight of my captors. Out of sight, out of mind. The fog that lingered across the field glowed a hue of faded blue. It was peaceful and would not last for long. I wanted to scream out for help. I hoped there would be someone that would be sympathetic to my pleas. There was always the hope that a search team was out looking for me and all I had to do was wait for them to arrive and let them know I was there, in the fog, tied to a tree, battered and ready to go home. If I screamed out, they would not hesitate to quickly kill me. I needed to remain quiet. It was not a game, and clearly, I was not dreaming.

I thought back to when Jumonville had taken my notebook with my chicken scratched notes and dates of George Washington's battles at the beginning of the French and Indian War. Why would anyone want my notes and information? I was 100 percent sure the info was available through Google. I talked through what I knew, to try and make sense of it. “Okay, Murray. Think. What are the details? You went to Fort Ashby. There was a penny. No, not a penny. A coin from 1754. Did it have George II on it? Yes. Things got blurry. I smelled cherry wood. Kyle? Was he there? Maybe. He wasn’t in the building. A bright light. Then, I wake up in a field. Coin no longer in my hand.” I questioned my reality. Was I in the past? There must be another solution. That didn’t make any logical sense. I questioned my bright idea to talk out loud to myself. That could be a dangerous habit.

Orders were barked out, and men roused. Morning meal had come early, and tents torn down and packed up. There were no questions and beatings for me that morning.

Bouchard stood outside his tent with his hands on his hips, he surveyed the commotion in front of him. One of the younger soldiers ran over to Bouchard and they spoke for a few moments while I strained to hear what they said. It didn’t matter. It was all in French. The young soldier untied me from the tree. “Thank you,” I mumbled through swollen lips. Last night's beating included a hit to my mouth that I did not remember. Maybe it was when I was hit with the notebook? It was a painful blur. I ran my tongue across my lips, bottom lip swollen and split. I thought I would lose a tooth. Not that I needed teeth with the broth and mushy, overcooked peas the soldier brought me for breakfast. He stood nearby while I sipped my breakfast.

He took my bowl from me before I could finish. “Please, let me go. If I get caught, I won't tell them it was you that set me free.”

I was not sure how much energy I would have to run. The time travel–do I dare to call it that?–lack of a decent meal, and the abuse over the past day left me weak. I was ready to pool all the energy I could muster and run as far away from there as my wobbly legs would take me, if he would just set me free. The young soldier looked at me and cocked his head to the side. He didn't understand what I said. I took his offered hand, thankful for the first bit of decency I had received since they had held me captive. I stood up, ready to run; however, he did not let go of my hand. I tugged. He refused to release it. I tugged again. He gripped my wrist. He motioned to me to give him my other hand, tossed the bowl to the side, and tied my hands together with the rope. A tear slipped down my cheek. My hopes of escape had disappeared within seconds. If anyone looked for me, they would never find me now.

I could not believe that no one had noticed my car at the old fort sitting there since yesterday and that I hadn’t checked into my hotel. Hannah and Beth knew where I was supposed to be and would have expected a phone call. Yet, there was no sign of anyone trying to find me. No helicopters overhead. No search parties. No one calling out my name. No sounds of cars in the distance. No one was looking for me. I was abandoned. Could this really be 1754? It didn’t seem logical. I shook off the absurd thought. Survival. That’s what I needed to think about. I need to survive.

As I was led over to the group, the soldiers finished packing up camp, and prepared to leave. The end of my rope was tied around the soldier’s waist. We would walk as a unit to wherever Jumonville and Bouchard led us. He was stuck with me, and I was stuck with him.

I hoped my body and my boots could handle the walk. My boots were comfortable but intended more for fashion rather than going on a hike, and I could not afford to get blisters in addition to their interrogation technique. I looked down at my blood-stained shirt. If someone was to come upon us, they could not ignore my swollen face and bloody shirt. They would know I was in distress. My blazer had blood on it, but the navy color hid the stains. I was thankful for my nearly empty satchel. As it continued to hang across my body, I would not have to worry about the weight of my notebook. I needed to figure out how to hide or dispose of my phone and keys. If my notebook, and not providing more information to Jumonville, got me beaten and tied to a tree. What would happen if they found my phone?

With the men together, I could get a better look at the party and assess my situation through my swollen eyes. Thirty-five men. Rifles. Swords. Packs filled with who-knows-what. And me. I trailed at the end, tied to my guard. If someone would have asked me a day ago, I would say with confidence that the rifles and swords were props. I no longer believed that to be true.