My Brother Sam is Dead: Chapter 13–Epilogue

I found a stick in the treeline at the edge of the field and began driving the cattle home. It was a terrible job. They hated floundering around in the deep snow and balked constantly.

“I have a terrible foreboding, Timothy. I want to pray.”

General Putnam is a great and dedicated patriot and he does not take defection from duty lightly.

General Putnam is a great and dedicated patriot and he does not take defection from duty lightly.

She left. I was glad; I didn’t want to dwell on Sam. There were plenty of things to do to keep myself busy.

She slumped down in a chair by the fire.

He was curt; he really didn’t want to take the time.

“A regular court-martial. There’ll be a presiding justice and a board of officers acting as the jury. But we have to face the fact that the board will do whatever they think General Putnam wants. And if they decide that Putnam wants to make an example of somebody, they’ll hang—they’ll bend over backwards to satisfy him, regardless of the evidence.”

“A regular court-martial. There’ll be a presiding justice and a board of officers acting as the jury. But we have to face the fact that the board will do whatever they think General Putnam wants. And if they decide that Putnam wants to make an example of somebody, they’ll hang—they’ll bend over backwards to satisfy him, regardless of the evidence.”

I shuddered, but I said nothing.

“Mrs. Meeker, I have bad news. They’re going to execute Sam.”

The Sunday before there would be a compulsory church attendance.

“I can’t help you,” he said bluntly.

He’s thinking that he can’t keep the people on his side if the troops are running amok among the civilian population...

He’s thinking that he can’t keep the people on his side if the troops are running amok among the civilian population...

The one thing Putnam cannot do at this point is show clemency.

I arrived at the gate, my breath rasping in my throat so hard I couldn’t speak.

General Putnam was sitting behind a rough trestle table they’d set up for his desk.

Then he shouted, “Sergeant, take this boy up to the stockade to see Sam Meeker. See that they stay six feet apart and pass nothing between them.”

I guess nobody wanted to be around us, it was too gloomy.

Then I went out into the kitchen, took the steel out of the rack and began to whet the bayonet.

There were corrals for horses and livestock, but hardly any people.

He jerked his head up and stared at me, sort of dazed.

They had built a gallows up on a hill to the west of the encampment.

Nathanial Bartlett, the Presbyterian minister, stepped up onto the scaffold and said a prayer.

I heard myself scream, “Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him,” and at that moment Sam slammed backwards as if he’d been knocked over by a mallet.

I have written this story down in this year 1826 on the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of our nation, to commemorate the short life of my brother Samuel Meeker, who died forty-seven years ago in the service of his country.

I have written this story down in this year 1826 on the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of our nation, to commemorate the short life of my brother Samuel Meeker, who died forty-seven years ago in the service of his country.

I married and had children, and with work and God’s will I prospered, so that I am able today to enjoy my children, my grandchildren, my orchards and my gardens in peace and comfort.

Free of British domination, the nation has prospered and I along with it.