Beats echoed across the plain, rebounding off tree and rock, making John look up from his plowing. It wasn’t long before he spied them. They were a red blur in the distance.

He unhitched Star from the plow and led her to the barn. She followed, but was a bit agitated, sensing his haste. He found Molly, his wife baking loaves for their supper.
“Douse the fire!”
“But the bread!”
He threw water on the fire before her.
“The British are coming!” Molly’s eyes grew wide. Each pioneer ran to grab a weapon. They knew the soldiers would take whatever they pleased, donkey, food, women, men. They each took a stand, backs to the the left and right of the door.

John heard the drum beats over the cacophony his heart made in his ears. He tried to breathe quietly, but every sinew in his body was ready to fight and they wanted oxygenated blood.

The troops marched into the farm yard, perfect lines, and solemn faces. John peeked out of his window while they headed straight for the garden. His stomach dropped.
Not the beets!