Exposition

“Then the general was beside me, mounted on his burly bay charger, and I struggled to my feet, though my leg hurt terribly. He hauled me up behind him, on the quivering back of that strong, proud horse, and I thought I might scream with pain as he jarred my leg. The general wrapped my arm around him and kept a firm hand on the reins as he coaxed his horse into a steady canter.” The elderly man, Jasson, paced like a caged lion, limping heavily on the right side. Several spellbound youngsters in knee pants and bare footed sat in a cluster on the ground of the hut. Suddenly, the man spun left and surveyed them majestically, then continued on.
“I could feel myself slipping, but every time the man in front of me reached back and by pure will kept me in place. My vision began to swim and I knew I was close to losing consciousness. My leg felt sodden, heavy, and when I reached to touch it my hand came away coated in blood. I felt sick. I could feel the break, and it made my stomach flip back and forth.” Again the man stopped, his dark eyes burning a hole into the crowd. One young boy was slowly moving forward with each passing minute, and Jasson held a smile behind tightly clamped lips.
“I don’t know how long we rode, but when he finally pulled up at the field hospital I was woozy with blood loss and babbling incoherently. Though the general was no larger than I, he was a great deal more powerful and he lifted me down from the bay and carried me into the large white tent. A doctor was with him at once, and motioned us over to an unoccupied cot, where the general laid me down. I don’t know what happened after that, but when I woke, my leg was afire again and I believe I moaned for a time before dropping back off to sleep. I do not know how long I slept, but the next thing I remember, the general was standing over me. I saluted as I lay on my back, squinting as I peered up at him. He helped me to sit, and handed me a tray of food. I don’t know what it was, but it was hot and I was grateful. He proceeded to tell me that, while I had lain comatose, he and others had signed surrender, thus ending the revolution, and we were going home.”
Jasson’s long, steel grey hair swung about as he moved his large, slender hands expressively. “The trip home was a long one, complicated by the fact that I could not move about as others could. When we came into port, I had wasted away to virtually nothing, and my now healed leg was little more than a stick. So I retired from the army and returned here.” A smile appeared on the deeply lined face, and he chuckled a bit. “Now I am little more than a storyteller. I cannot work; my leg will not support it. I cannot marry; I am old and tired, with nothing that would attract a wife. So I find solace in memories, and you youngsters.” His brown eyes rested again on the smaller boy, the one who was inching forward. The man that had paced and roared like a lion was now little more than a shell, the life that was the story now spent. “So, young Rabullione,” he said quitely, using the people’s pet name for Napoleon, “Will you leave me in peace now? The rest of you as well.” He added as an afterthought. The boys nodded vigorously, and all but the one he named ran off.
Napoleon di Buenoparte reluctantly got to his feet and started off, looking longingly back several times. Finally, he broke into a steady jog, forcing his numb legs up the slight slope to the castle, where his mother stood at the window with his father, all billowing skirts and rigid posture. She watched sadly as her young son danced and fenced with imaginary opponents, yelling wordlessly as he ran and twisted through tight corners and long hallways, pretending at the battles that old Jasson told him of.