Vox Meditantis

6th September 1777

I write these words from the bell tower of St. Andrew’s, where I have come to tend Brother Marcus, who suffers still from the fever that has plagued him these three days past. The height of this place affords me a prospect of the countryside, yet I find no peace in what I observe. To the south, smoke rises where His Majesty’s forces have encamped, whilst to the north, the rebels marshal their strength. Both armies claim the righteousness of their cause, and I am left to ponder which side Providence truly favours.

The looking-glass in Brother Marcus’s chamber reflects not merely my countenance, but the turmoil of my very soul. I see a man grown grey before his time, hands that have bound wounds of both King’s men and rebels alike, for does not Scripture command us to tend the sick without regard to their earthly allegiances? Yet in these times of trial, such Christian charity is viewed by some as treachery, by others as saintly duty.

General Howe’s advance upon Philadelphia troubles me greatly. The laws of war, as I understand them, should protect those who serve God and tend to His suffering children. But war, I fear, makes its own laws, and justice becomes a shifting thing, like shadows upon water. When I gaze into the still basin where I cleanse my instruments, I see reflected not only my own visage, but the faces of all those I have failed to save – young men who died crying for their mothers, their life’s blood staining my apron whilst they babbled of liberty or loyalty with their final breath.

How do I find respite from such burdens? In former times, I would seek solace in prayer and contemplation of the Scriptures, yet now even the Psalms seem to mock me with their certainties. When David writes of the righteous triumphing over the wicked, I am confounded – for which army represents righteousness in this unholy conflict? Instead, I find what little peace I can in the ancient practices of my calling: the preparation of tinctures, the grinding of simples, the methodical cleaning of my instruments. There is something of the divine order in these rituals, a reflection of that greater harmony which once governed all things before this rebellion tore asunder the natural bonds of subject and sovereign.

The church bells below chime the hour, their bronze voices calling the faithful to evening prayer. Brother Marcus stirs upon his pallet, his fever perhaps breaking at last. I shall tend to him now, and tomorrow I shall descend once more into the world below, where men make war in the name of justice whilst justice herself weeps behind her blindfold. May the Almighty guide my hand and grant me wisdom to distinguish between His will and the will of mortal princes, for in these dark times, even the clearest glass shows naught but shadows.

The late 1770s, during the American War of Independence, saw British General William Howe’s 1777 campaign shift south toward Philadelphia, culminating in its capture that autumn after victories at Brandywine and Paoli. These operations drew British strength from the Hudson corridor, enabling the decisive American victory over General Burgoyne at Saratoga in October 1777, which persuaded France to formally ally with the revolutionaries. Clergy, surgeons, and lay healers often treated wounded from both sides, sometimes risking suspicion or reprisals under wartime law and local loyalties. The conflict’s aftermath included prolonged occupation, expanding international war, harsher civil-military frictions, and a path toward American independence formalised in 1783.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | 🌐 Translate