“Nay, Will went off to be a soldier, in ’77. My father nearly had apoplexy when he heard tell of it—he was that furious. But Will was set on fighting in the war, and there was no stopping him—not our Will. We always used to say, ‘Where there’s a Will, there’s a way.’”
“B-but Uncle George was killed at the end of Vietnam, and that was way before 1977,” I said, bewildered.
“’Twas the War of Independency, Lars,” Geordie said quietly. “And the year Will went away was 1777,” he added, giving me an almost sympathetic look.
My knees buckled and I sank down onto the dirt floor. “You don’t . . . you can’t mean the American Revolution?” My voice rose into a squeak.
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