In which Samuel Wash­ing­ton (Jack’s Father) tells Jack a thing or two about being a solider, and we learn some­thing inter­est­ing about George.

 

Samuel said noth­ing, and they rode in silence again for about a half an hour. Then, “Why become a solider?”

 Jack thought about it for a moment. “Adventure.”

 Samuel snorted. “Since when is march­ing in a line, catch­ing the Pox from a camp fol­lower, and get­ting shot by red­skins adven­tur­ous?. Sound more like a death wish to me.”

 Jack sighed. “Father, there is also train­ing, and travel, and work­ing your way up the ranks. There is mak­ing a difference.”

 “We make a dif­fer­ence too, boy.”

 Jack shook his head. “Not in the same way. I want to lend my hand.”

 Samuel glanced side­long at his son. “To which side?”

 Jack flushed. “I do not wish to dis­cuss this any further.”

 Samuel shook his head once more. “There;’s talk in Fredricks­burg as much as any­where else. Some of the gen­tle­men in the House of Burgess are talk­ing as well. There is chat­ter about rebel­lion against the the Crown.” He gave the reins a shake and urged the horses onward. “You look­ing to become a trai­tor, son? The only way that ends is with you danc­ing at the end of a rope.” He paused. “Remem­ber, remem­ber, the fifth of November…”

 “I am no Guy Fawkes, Father.” Jack snapped.

 “And you never will be, *boy*.” Samuel laid heavy empha­sis on the last word. “I know where your sym­pa­thies lie, but I’m a good King’s man, and no son of mine is going to bring and more dis­honor upon the good name of Wash­ing­ton.” Samuel’s anger shown in his eyes. “That cock­sure brother of yours has done enough.”

 Jack bit his lip and looked down at the road pass­ing beneath the horses’ hooves. “You are too harsh, Father.”

 “Too harsh? He was charged with attempt­ing to assas­si­nate a a French Ambas­sador! He started a war. He’s a vil­lain in the eyes of those who died in that war. There is a black spot on his record from which his career will never recover.” He glared at Jack. “We bear the bur­den of that dis­honor, boy. Don’t you for­get it.”