The steep slope tried to shake him at first, sending several rocks and boulders to knock him off. But the man kept onwards, raising his hands and feet ti rhythm of the crashing waves as he climbed the cliff face. He paused only once, for a few seconds, to regain his grip, but he then kept moving.
This man did not know peace. He knew, as he pulled himself up the mountain, that whatever lurked behind the dense, looming fog would not bring him such kindness. For this man was a general.
During his days at Valley Forge, George Washington had suffered much. His men were dying, his armies shrinking, and his supplies dwindling, he had led his men with strength and determination. But recently he had heard tell of a sound. A sound so terrifying and dreaded, anyone who heard it would leap from the decks of their tall ships and plummet, weeping, into the ocean. This was a scream, a howling, shrill, scream that no man had heard and lived. And it came from the mountain of fog.
Washington, facing gusts of chilling sea wind, trudged with deep fear but motivation up the high fell, using one hand to grasp the rock and the other to hold his sword in place. As he progressed ever higher, he could sense a dark presence within the fog.
That presence, a malicious one, filled Washington with strong and never-ending terror. He had come to finish whatever was making his men lose their wits, but he wasn't sure if he was capable.
The frigid ocean winds soared over the mountain face, howling and holding the determined General back. He was only a some twenty feet from the cloud, and he did not feel fear any longer. He knew that if he could put an end to the dreaded screaming, then America would be safe once again.
Then the fog moved, and Washington's stomach plunged into the void, for he realized that there was something he hadn't accounted for: the scream.
A shrill, howling wail sounded across the tide, and Washington screamed with it. The fog swirled and twisted, and the General immediately whipped around in sheer terror. Hands cupped over his ears, he charged down the mountain, feet barely able to hold his rattling bones. Stones and boulders crumbled behind him, driving him onward. The scream bellowed across the sea, and Washington felt a deep fear that he had never felt; one that froze his heart and ran his blood cold.
The General, screaming and gripping his bleeding ears, leapt from the edge of the mountain and plunged into the sea, the scream leaving his range of hearing. He resurfaced a moment later, just a few feet from his boat, into which he clambered shakily. He was sopping wet with salt water and blood, clasping his sword. The scream had ceased, and the ocean was silent.
As Washington paddled away, he knew that America would have to make do...for now.
All he could do was cough.
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Happy President's Day!
c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.
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