“Get up,” Bouchard barked at me as he gave a kick to my ribs. I gasped, grabbed my side, and rolled away. I thought we had moved beyond the kicks. My sleep had not been this good in a week. Sleep had been restless; being tied to a tree would do that to a person. I almost forgot that I was being held captive, but my aching body and a kick to the ribs ensured they reminded me that my life had been turned upside down. By then, I figured out their routine and was ready to go after my morning rations, albeit small rations. I ran the edge of my dirty shirt over my teeth and pried my fingers through my tangled hair. It was the closest I could muster as a morning hygiene routine. When we trailed along the stream, they allowed me to splash cold water and clean up. That morning, they did not afford me that luxury.
The unit packed up, and we headed out, with me in tow at the back of the group. I didn’t understand what caused the big change in my treatment last night, but I couldn't understand most of what happened to me. Daily, few scouts left earlier than the group, returning by the end of day. They would often come back with what looked like bloodstains on their clothes. When they would return with a cow, pig, or chickens, the entire camp feasted, and they would give me something solid to eat.
I remained observant, that's all I could do. Other than being interrogated by Jumonville or the abuse from Bouchard, I remained untouched and ignored. For that, I was grateful. I realized the situation could have been worse for me. They barely tolerated my presence. At least there was not a vicious hate for me or the use for their sexual gratification. Always posted nearby, a guard prevented my escape. Not that I could muster enough energy or know which way to go. They would not speak to me except for the occasional grunt of something in French, which I could only pick up a word here and there and was meaningless to me. What good was “vous” when I didn’t understand the five hundred words before it? I was certain the need to watch over me did not thrill any of them, and they would rather be with the rest of the soldiers.
I walked along with the soldiers; it was uneventful, except for the occasional stream crossing. We had crossed the Potomac, at least I believed it to be, days ago and through mountainous terrain. Those crossings had slowed our progress and left me exhausted. That day was like most days; however, there was an uneasiness amongst the men. I could see Bouchard speak to Jumonville and glanced back at me. Bouchard limped over to me. “You will stay hidden in the woods with LaRue. You will not make a sound or try to run. If you do either, it will bring me pleasure to slice your throat. Comprends?”
“Stay over there and be silent, or you will enjoy killing me. I understand.” My voice was direct. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me days ago. I knew this was a scare tactic. “Where are we?”
I hoped he would share more information, to give me something to go on. Bouchard remained silent and picked up his pace to get to the head of the detachment. I knew he would not answer me—he never did—but I thought it couldn’t hurt to get some answers.
The rumble of voices, the bray of horses, and the crackle of wheels as they rolled over rocks and dirt sounded in the not-too-far distance. My mind was refreshed by getting rest by sleeping on the ground and not freezing while being tied to a tree. My body still ached from the abuse, but at least I did not have the exhaustion of lack of sleep while tied to a tree. If I could get someone’s attention, this would be my opportunity to be rescued. I took a deep breath and relaxed. The end of my torture would be soon. I could sense it. It was what kept me going.
The roar of the men grew louder. I peeked from behind a tree to see a congregation of hundreds of men dressed in uniforms, horses, and other equipment. This must be the end of the reenactment, and it would be over soon. I still wasn’t convinced that I had, somehow, wound up in the year 1754–that would be illogical.
The groups made camp, and they hid me in my usual tent. Later in the night–later than I had found to be typical–they summoned me to Jumonville's tent. “We are going to take the British fort tomorrow. Why is this date not in your book?” He held the book in my face, as if I didn’t know which book.
“I don't even know the date.” I shook my head in confusion. “Where are we? Which fort are you talking about?”
“Today is the seventeenth of April. We are taking the new fort on the Ohio being built by the British.”
“New fort on the Ohio? April seventeenth. Are we still acting as though it's seventeen fifty-four?” For the love of all that is good. “Fort Prince George? It will end up becoming Fort Duquesne.” I searched through my mental notes, since he kept my notebook at a distance from me. My book surrounded the battles that involved George Washington, but I had done preliminary research involving the forts and locations. I did not include those in my notebook and could not remember all the details. “I believe, I already told you about it.”
“Yes, and I do not understand why you continue to act confused. Perhaps Bouchard has hit you too hard in the head.” He patted me on the head as if I was a child. “It is seventeen hundred fifty-four, and it is you that does not seem to understand the situation.”
“Right. Well. Then, there's your problem. George Washington is not here. I told you I was writing a story about him, so if he wasn't in the battle, then the battle is not in my notebook.” It exhausted me to repeat what I felt was the same information, night after night. This time, the line of questioning was more intense. I could tell there was a sense of urgency. “Why are you so obsessed with my notebook and George Washington? You already know what is going to happen—French and Indian War, War of Independence, first President—none of this is new information. You are acting obtuse with this charade.”
“This is no charade,” Jumonville struggled to maintain his voice in a low tone. His face flushed, and the nostrils of his long-pointed nose flared with every exasperated breath. He clenched his fists. He wanted to scream at me and hit something. I hoped I was not the something he wanted to hit. My body felt as though it was in a constant state of being bloodied and bruised. I needed to escape tonight. I knew I needed to be sent back to the tent and not tied to another tree if I was to sneak away from my captors.
“Of course, my sincerest apologies,” I said. I was desperate to diffuse the situation and to get out without being hit. “You know war is coming, and I am quite certain that I am not a part of it. I am assuming you are going into battle soon, since we have joined a larger group.” I looked over my shoulder, as if I could see the commotion outside of the tent. He knew I wasn’t a fool. “What is the plan? Just so I know what I should do during that time.”
“Tomorrow, we will take the new fort that is being built. There is a small British force. Our mission will be complete before the day is through. You will stay in your tent, out of the way. There are more dates and locations in this book.” He pounded his thick finger on the cover. “I will need to know more about them.”
“Of course, until tomorrow.” I held my breath, turned on my heel, and headed out of the tent. I faked my confidence. My ever-present escort waited for me. I let out the breath I held and inhaled a shaky breath. I finally felt as though I could maintain a sense of control. Walking back to my tent, my head spun with information and confusion. I thought back at our conversation, he said something about a glen of Jumonville. There was a sound of concern in his voice. Urgency. I shook the thought out of my head again. It can’t be possible. Or is it? He was determined that it was the year 1754 and he did not know dates of the battles. Time travel? Is it true? Am I really in 1754?