Track 7: The heat. The horse shot from under him. Heatstroke. The war ends for him physically, but mental scars remain.
Hot.
So hot.
The sun is a hammer.
The sky is a pot.
June twenty-eight. A hundred degrees.
There isn't a whisper of wind in the trees.
We’re wearing wool in the oven of god.
Marching through sand, marching through sod.
Lee orders retreat? Washington screams!
Everything’s moving in feverish dreams.
I see the Redcoats. They waver and float.
I taste the copper of blood in my throat.
Monmouth.
The world is spinning around.
Monmouth.
My horse hits the ground.
Boom.
I’m flying. I’m falling. I’m down in the dirt.
My head is exploding. My body is hurt.
Is this the glory? Is this the fame?
Or just dying of thirst in the devil’s game?
I try to stand up. The ground is a liquid.
My vision is blurred. The air is so thick with
Smoke and the sweat and the smell of the dead.
"Colonel Burr! Colonel Burr!" echoing in my head.
I wanted a command. I wanted to lead.
Now I’m just watching my regiment bleed.
Washington rides past. He doesn't look down.
I’m just another body on the burning ground.
Water.
Give me water.
The war is over for me.
My health is gone.
My body is broken.
The words are spoken.
Resign.
Resign.
Monmouth.
The world is spinning around.
Monmouth.
I’m leaving the battleground.
But the heat…
The heat never leaves you.
I’m going home.
To study.
To wait.
To heal.