Epilogue
Sarah Morgan

Wind whistles overhead, stirring the treetops above us and providing a much needed distraction from the platitude of waiting. Smoke wafts across the dense hay field from the enemy campsite, remnants of a redcoat bonfire long since past. It is nearly 2 in the morning, but liberty has no time, or so we say in Penn. So we stay.

Not one of us dares talk—the ground isn't as trustworthy as you might imagine, and even the slightest hint of an eavesdropping would permanently ruin or mission. Yet just because verbal communication is virtually nonexistent, it doesn't mean we didn't share information—in fact, the air was crowded with messages, five gleaming pairs of eyes transmitting soundless, phrase-less, treasonous messages; most dotted with fear, others luckily without.

In between this circle of correspondence, one might clearly view all of us, even in the dark of the morning: Sixteen-year-old Molly O'Brien, with her azure pools of eyes and ringlets of red hair; seventeen-year-old James Carter, tall and somber and strong as can be; fourteen-year-old Evan Greene, a free black with deep brown eyes and a crooked white smile; fifteen-year-old Isabel Sharpe, a fair skinned green-eyed wavy-haired blonde; and me, brown-haired brown-eyed seventeen-year-old Sarah Morgan.

Of course, the names are important. Names are always important. But they won't get us too far. What really matters are our skills. We all have our talents, and a war was never won with a name. True soldiers won't hide behind their reputations. True spies aren't held back by anything to get their information. True patriots aren't stopped by age, race or gender—these are not obstacles but tools, of which we are not hindered by but enhanced. We are colonists of Penn, New York. We are the real patriots. And we are fighting this revolution.