Cutting a Favored Scene

I find that I cut out a lot of scenes I’ve written for various reasons—even scenes I like. Why? There are many reasons parts of a story are cut: perhaps it is poorly written, or doesn’t fit with the tone of the story. Other times the scene may get a bit long and need some tightening.

Then there are those scenes that I love—maybe for the place description, the characters, or the atmosphere—that still end up discarded. (But never truly deleted. I’ll keep these deleted scenes in a separate file in case I have use for them elsewhere or another story.)

One such scene I cut from the novel For Our Cause Was Just, was a favorite of mine because it combined character travel with a historical vignette.

It was a description of General Schuyler’s journey, along with General Hazen, from Valley Forge to Congress in York, just after Christmas. One reason I like this scene is the reflection about George Washington, then a colonel for the British, and his involvement in a battle that ignited the Seven Years War (known as the French and Indian War, in America). There are several historical accounts about Washington in this battle. His horse was shot out from under him, and multiple accounts describe musket balls piercing his jacket. We also know that every other officer on horseback was either killed or wounded. While the detail of him peering at his hat and placing two fingers through the holes may be an embellishment, it adds a visual that helps the scene come alive in fiction. I was saddened to lose the scene. But ultimately, the chapter worked better without the travel interlude—it simply wasn’t needed.

Below is the original scene:

General Schuyler left for York and Congress the following day, taking General Hazen with him. In his absence, General Wayne held command. Their journey on horseback was cold and wearisome, though not especially difficult. The roads, frozen in the morning, turned muddy by midday, slowing their travel. Several inns dotted their route, and they chose one midway to stay overnight and warm their chilled bones. The locals they met at the inn shared news learned from other travelers.

At the inn, they encountered an old man sitting in the corner of the tavern, eyeing their uniforms. His beard was white with age, his face weathered with wrinkles, but his eyes still twinkled in brightness.

“Have you seen much fightin?” he asked in a rasping voice. Before even waiting for an answer, he continued. “I was on the frontier during the Seven Years’ War. There with Colonel Washington hi’self at the Battle of Monongahela. The fightin was fierce,” he recalled. “Most of our officers lay dead or wounded. The forest was thick, and our way hampered. It was only through Colonel Washington’s courage that we escaped. Later, when we buried General Braddock along the road, I saw Colonel Washington remove his cocked hat in respect. He stared at it momentarily, then stuck two fingers through a hole pierced by a musket ball on the brim—just above his brow.”

The old man fell silent, staring at his mug, lost in memory. Schuyler raised his own mug in tribute and took a drink.