If it’s my time to die tonight, I have no regrets, Marshall thought as he lay on his back looking up at the stars and full moon. When the smell of the nearby campfires reached his nostrils, it brought back pleasant memories of walks on a chilly autumn night with his family and dog. They’d normally be doing it again around this time of year.

“Marshall, get ready. We are going to get the signal very soon.”

The young man’s thoughts of home in Winchester, Virginia, and his family ended as he snapped back to reality. He sat up, turned to the soldier, and gave him an affirmative head nod.

While he had just turned twenty-one years old, Marshall Smith was no stranger to combat. When he was just a thin, lanky sixteen-year-old, he enlisted in the Continental Army and was placed under the command of General George Washington. Over the past five years, the rigors of military life transformed the blond-haired youth into a tough, strapping young man.

Rumors had been swirling around camp that this may be the last stand for the British. If they could take Yorktown, General Cornwallis may be forced to surrender. But these rumors sounded almost too good to be true.

How great would that be if America actually won her independence from Britain, Marshall thought. This filled him with great energy and optimism. He not only believed that the colonies had a right to govern themselves, but he also thought that the American Revolution represented the idea that every person had a right to determine his destiny in life. He believed that an individual’s future should not be determined by the social class they were born into or the importance of their last name but rather by the merit of their work. He believed that the American Revolution could change everything.

He checked his cartridge box then made sure his bayonet was firmly attached to his musket and that his tomahawk was securely in its brown leather holster. He reached into his white haversack and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment. He unfolded the note that his mother had given him and silently read it:

“Psalm 23—The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth

me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he

leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his

name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of

the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art

with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

He bowed his head in prayer.

“Let’s go! Move, men!”

Marshall raised his head and saw a burst of light shooting across the night sky. A surge of adrenaline rushed through his body as he rose to his feet and gripped his musket with clammy hands. Sprinting as fast as he could, he charged at the redoubt.

The sound of muskets firing and cannons shooting filled the night air. Musket balls whizzed by him, and behind him a fellow soldier yelled out in pain. As he got closer to the wooden fort, the smoke thickened and the smell of burned gunpowder wafted through the battlefield. Through the smoky haze, he saw a British soldier standing behind the fort with his musket ready to shoot. Marshall’s eyes widened as he dropped to one knee, raised his musket, took aim, fired, and shot the man who dropped to the ground, dead. Marshall jumped up and continued forward.

With their bayonets out in front, the first wave of Continental soldiers reached the fort. Marshall and his group fought the British in hand-to-hand combat. Swords, bayonets, and knives were drawn. Muskets were swung around like clubs as screams of pain and anguish echoed in the thick air.

Amid the melee, Marshall saw splintered and cracked lumber in the redoubt. The young veteran pulled out his tomahawk and began chopping away at the timber. As the Continental Army gained the upper hand, the second wave of Continental soldiers was deployed.

Marshall, along with five other soldiers, successfully breached the wooden fort and charged into a labyrinth of hilly trenches. They moved cautiously through the redoubts because of the many hiding spots where the British were lying in wait to ambush them.

Musket shots fired from somewhere in the fort as two of Marshall’s fellow soldiers dropped to the ground. He looked down at his comrades but caught a glimpse of someone running at him. He looked up to see a British soldier charging at him, his bayonet thrust forward.

Marshall deflected the bayonet away from himself with his arm as the soldier plowed him over, his shoulder sending him flat on his back. Before Marshall could react, the soldier was on top of him with two hands around his neck. Marshall mustered enough strength to wrestle his attacker under him. He reached for his tomahawk and, with one swift blow, struck the soldier on his temple, sending splatters of blood through the air and onto Marshall’s face. Marshall rolled off his dead opponent and onto his back, trying to catch his breath.

A Continental soldier came over to Marshall and extended his hand to help him up. “Come on. We got these bastards on the run.”

Marshall grabbed the proffered hand and rose to his feet. “Let’s send ’em back to England,” he replied.

Marshall gathered his weapons and joined his fellow countrymen as they continued to press on through the fort. A powerful blast sent him and the other soldiers into the air, slamming them to the ground. The explosion knocked Marshall out cold.

****

Marshall made out male and female voices that he did not recognize. When he searched the room, white tent fabric flapped above him. Female nurses and male surgeons walked around in white, blood-soaked aprons.

Oh God, I am in the surgeon’s tent! A wave of panic fell over him. He sat up in his cot and examined his torso, arms, legs, fingers, and toes. Thank God, they’re all there. He reached up to his head and felt bandages wrapped around it. He slowly slid his hands down toward his face. The cloth felt thick at his right eye. My eye! Oh God, what happened to my eye!

“Nurse! Nurse!” Marshall shouted.

A middle-aged nurse with a kind face walked over to Marshall. “What do you need?”

“My eye. What, what happened to it? Did I lose it?”

The nurse took a deep breath, sat next to Marshall, and put her arm around him. “I am sorry, sir, but your eye is gone. I am sorry.”

Marshall buried his face in his hands.

The nurse patted him on the back and walked away.

Marshall heard a lot of commotion outside the tent. Soldiers hooting, hollering, and the sound of pistols shooting. Curious, he grabbed a crutch then limped out of the tent and into the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Shielding his eye from the brightness, he saw men celebrating and dancing outside their tents.

A soldier grabbed Marshall by the arm. “Did you hear? We won! The British surrendered!”

A jolt of excitement shot through Marshall. At that moment, he forgot about his injury and was beaming ear to ear. In their exuberance, the two soldiers embraced each other. “I can’t believe we really did it,” Marshall said. “Do you realize what this means? We are no longer slaves to England. We have our God-given independence and freedom!”

Just as Marshall finished uttering those words, General George Washington leaned between Marshall and the other soldier. The movement was so sudden that Marshall startled, but the general only gave him a knowing gaze and said, “If you can hold on to it.”