Free Conceived in Liberty by Howard Fast Page B

softly. “We’ve come the length of the world——”
    â€œDriven!”
    â€œNo—we’ve come here. We’ve come for a dream of a place for all men. This is a new world. The day of the old world is over. A long time—maybe two hundred, maybe three hundred years. But it will make the men who live in it. This is only the beginning. This army is nothing—nothing, only a dream. Do you understand? The army goes; the dream never goes. I stayed at the home of a man in Philadelphia who is making this revolution. His name’s Haym Solomon. He came out of Poland too. Poland was a school for us. Poland will go on fighting, but Poland won’t be free. A school. Here’s the land for the dream of God in man.”
    The doctor glanced at us. “Not a clean god. Come and talk again. Man can’t live by bread alone or without it. No bread. I won’t last the winter. If you make your land, tell your children about a man of science who wouldn’t believe. Damn lies!”
    We went back to Clark. He was still sleeping. His face, where it showed through his beard, was white as snow.
    â€œWill he live?” Ely asked.
    â€œHow do I know?” the doctor snapped. Then: “It doesn’t make any difference. He won’t be far from any of you.”
    We take the clothes that Clark was wrapped in, two coats and a petticoat. I give a coat to Ely and the other to the Jew. I wrap the petticoat round my neck and face.
    We go out, and the cold hits us in the face, like knives ripping. Out of some forlorn curiosity, I spit on my sleeve. The others see me, and watch fascinated. I count, only once, and then the little balls of spittle snap with the frost.
    â€œMy God,” Ely whispers.
    We have never known such cold as this. Ely has been to Canada. I have been, in winter, in the highlands of the upper Hudson. I have seen bitter cold weather, but never such cold as this. Neither has Ely. It is a cold that has come on the face of a planet stripped bare of all protection. It is a cold living and malignant. It is a cold that has become a force to destroy soul and body. In all the memory of men in America, there has never been such cold.
    We go on slowly, forcing our way through snow that is like dry sand. We move a step at a time, bringing one foot up to the place where the other has been. It is night already, no moon, but stars that glitter like bright jewels. The snow is a sheet of white—no sentries, no living thing except ourselves.
    To go back to the Pennsylvania dugouts, we must climb a hill—not very high, no more than two hundred feet. But the hill is the difference between life and death. The hill is a slope that leads to hell. We make a step, stumble, and slide back two. We roll over in the snow, feel it slide into every crevice of our clothes. We spit it out, and our lips freeze and go numb. We stand up and go on.
    I don’t think any more. My mind is gone. Only my body moves, and my body is a machine apart from me. It will go on until the spark of life in it flickers out.
    I turn round once, and the Jew is lying in the snow. He doesn’t move. Ely calls to me, but his words are lost in the rush of wind. I stand above them and watch Ely go back to the Jew. Suddenly, my mind comes alive. I think to myself, ten steps down, ten steps back. I keep thinking that—ten steps down and ten steps back. The words rush in my mind. I begin to cry, and the tears freeze on my lids.
    I go down to Ely. The Jew says: “Leave me. They’ll find me soon.”
    We help him up, and the three of us go on together. We go on into endless night and endless distance. I lose all conception of time and all conception of movement. Someone must be leading us.
    Then we are at the dugout. We drop on the floor. The Jew is senseless. Ely stares at the fire with wide, terrible eyes. I cry bitterly.
    Bess is rubbing my hands, kissing me, trying to work the cold out of my limbs. She