Elizabeth Clark Wessel

A girl loves Johnny Tremain so much she wants to marry him. She wants to be descended from him. She invents a family tree. She wants to save him from the evil machinations of men who are lesser, who are no Johnny Tremains. She hates to think how much longer the war will have to go on. She studies the war, and wonders where he's fighting now, and his hand, his hand, his beautiful hands.








I wrote this poem after a visit to the Old Stone House in Park Slope. I highly recommend stopping by there some time, or at least taking a look at their interactive map of the Battle of Brooklyn. Here's an excerpt: After fleeing Flatbush Pass, American soldiers attempted to reach the redoubts and forts at Brooklyn Heights. They passed down Porte Road (now 1st Street) and tried to cross the bridge over Freekes’ Pond. At some point, however, fire engulfed the wooden bridge, and troops were forced into the waters of the Gowanus marshes. Weighted down with rifles and equipment, many drowned.