by Cliff Graham
Then he saw the Philistine chariots, out on the plains, suddenly burst into movement. Dust clouds rose as the horses pulled their riders swiftly east, converging on a wide opening on the eastern slopes of the mountains.
Gareb could only stare hopelessly as their chances at victory began to flicker out.
Jonathan saw that all was lost. One moment there had been jubilant war cries and hope, and now there was nothing but the inevitability of catastrophic defeat.
The fighting had spread out across Gilboa all the way to the eastern slopes, where the ground was more level and broad. Jonathan and the other commanders had not realized that the Philistines had simply been drawing them to where the Philistines’ chariots could finally be used in the attack.
There would be no getting out of this today. Yahweh had willed it.
His eyes sought out Gareb, still carrying instructions to their flanks. Gareb caught Jonathan’s eye and read his intent. They looked at each other silently for a moment while shouts and clanging swarmed the air around them.
“Gareb,” he shouted, “I must do this!”
Gareb did not reply, only looked back at the Philistine chariots charging up the mountain on their left. He started walking toward Jonathan.
Jonathan shouted again. “I need to hit their flank and delay them! If our army goes down, escape and find David!”
“David? I will die before that!”
“Honor my orders!”
Gareb kept staring. Jonathan felt the anger ebb as he looked at his old friend. The two men had drawn closer together as they talked, and now Jonathan lowered his voice. “Only he can save the nation from this, and he will need your help. Yahweh is with him. Do it for me.”
Gareb looked as though he had been speared. Jonathan nodded once and then turned and ran, unable to look back at his friend. Both men knew what was coming now.
Jonathan sprinted toward the far left flank. The crash of metal told him that the tip of the Philistine formation had struck Israel once more.
He shouted encouragement to the men and urged them forward. When he reached the far side of the mountain field, he stopped a squad moving in from the flank and asked them where his brother Abinadab was. A young man pointed up the slope, and Jonathan spotted his brother, directing the reforming of the Israelite lines. Jonathan ran to him and tugged his arm. “Come with me.”
Abinadab nodded, told his armor bearer to direct the fight in Abinadab’s absence, and followed Jonathan as he flew along the rocky slope across the rear of the Israelite lines. As they ran, Jonathan to the left, the Philistine chariots were almost all the way up the slope and ready to crush their flank.
He collided with a boy stumbling down the slope, and both of them crashed to the ground. It was Eliam. “Are you all right?” Jonathan asked.
Eliam nodded, eyes blurry and unfocused.
Jonathan saw the blood on his foot. “Get to a physician immediately.”
Eliam looked back at him, confused, and then Jonathan remembered that there were no more physicians. They had left for David’s army.
Jonathan pulled the boy to his feet and gripped Eliam’s arm. “Be strong.” He held Eliam’s arm a moment longer, then motioned for Abinadab to follow.
Malchi-shua, their other brother, was below them, trying to reform the thinning ranks of the center. He saw them and sprinted up to them.
Jonathan knelt with both men, all of them panting and sweating, each far beyond the limits of his body. Jonathan picked out a group of small stones from the ground and laid them out in the formation of the battlefield.
“I will be in front,” he said, pointing to the stones, “and we will rush down the left flank, in full view of the men. Make sure they see you. When we hit the Philistine side, we will try to isolate their archers and infantry from the chariots.”
Abinadab and Malchi-shua looked at the rocks and said nothing.
Jonathan was irritated. “Well? Do you understand?”
“You have done this sort of thing before, brother. We have not,” said Abinadab. He had the height of their father, and Malchi-shua had the face. As boys, they had teased Jonathan because he more resembled their mother, and they claimed that he was sired by another. Happier days, long gone now.
Jonathan saw the defeat in their faces and let his shoulder sag a bit. The line was still holding beneath them and the reinforcements from the flanks were converging successfully to the center, but it was only a matter of time until the chariots overwhelmed them and broke through their line, and when that happened, it would all be over soon.
“We will not live through the day, you both know that. Neither will our father. Yahweh has ordained it. But many of our men will. And our men must fight again one day. We must show them what courage is.”
His voice wavered, and his brothers looked away. They had never seen him so emotional. He wiped his face and blinked, then shook his head to regain his focus. Though the sun was now hidden behind the hills, there was sweat pouring from his face, burning the corners of his eyes.
Malchi-shua, who had been looking furtively down the mountain at the battle, said, “I am not leaving our father’s side. Yahweh be with you both, but I cannot join you.”
Jonathan nodded. He had forgotten about his father in the past hour. How was that possible? Was their father of so little value in the battle? Jonathan had not seen him since that brief glimpse earlier, and he had no guess as to where he might be now. If Jonathan was to die, then let him die before he saw his father again.
Malchi-shua gripped his hand, did the same with Abinadab, and then ran toward the fray. Jonathan was overcome with sorrow at the last glimpse of his brother, then pushed it away again. He looked at Abinadab. “Are you with me?”
“Until the end.”
He meant it. There was no scorn or resentment. Neither Malchi-shua nor Abinadab had been close to their older brother through the years, resentful that Jonathan always seemed foremost in the people’s minds. But here there was none of that. Here they were two brothers who loved each other, regretting how petty their past arguments had been. Jonathan let the moment linger longer than he should have.
Then he rose with Abinadab after him. After adjusting his grip on his sword and asking if Abinadab had a worthy enough blade himself, he ran down the mountainside yet again that day.
Gareb thrust his sword forward, pulled it back, then thrust it again into the first face he saw emerge through the opening in the line. Someone screamed next to him, a lance in his belly, and Gareb jerked away from his own target and caught the falling soldier. Dust and sand flew around him.
He lowered his head and backed away from the ranks, pulling the wounded man behind him — less out of concern for the man than making sure no one tripped over his body. When he was far enough away, he dropped the legs and rushed back to the center. The wounded man cried out for help behind him, but Gareb ignored him. Mercy would come soon enough.
Gareb shouted to the men around him to close ranks, and they obeyed, but the surge of relentless power kept pushing them backward up the mountain, rendering useless every advantage they had in terrain and defensive maneuvering through sheer force and number. Soon they were pushed back over the fallen man, and, screaming, he was trampled to death. The line would burst at any moment. The sound of the chariots thundering up the mountain was getting louder and closer.
A few things went right. The Israelites had been able to reach a small boulder field near the crest of the Gilboa summit, and the chariots were forced to swing farther to the east, delaying the onslaught, since the horses had to pull the rigs up steeper ground.
The ground was so rocky that the Philistines were unable to penetrate the ranks fully, being forced to scramble and climb over boulders, which were savagely defended by Hebrew fighting teams. Whenever an opening would appear, Gareb would plug it, but he knew that eventually they would be overrun. The Hebrew archers were firing into the Philistine column, but the pagans wore so much armor, it was having little ef
fect. Eventually the archers turned and ran, and no amount of yelling stopped them.
Gareb kept the men moving and fighting, shouting at them and kicking them when they needed it. When one unit was exhausted, he replaced them with another. Still the Philistines came, and he hated them. Even though his arm felt as though it might fall off, he put the full weight of that hate into each strike.
Unsteady on his feet, Eliam tried to grasp what had just happened with Jonathan. He watched the Israelite prince run from him and felt inspired to move again. He would get water down to the line or die doing it. The loss of blood left him strangely brave and free of fear. His mind did not process things quickly anymore, only pain and sounds. Sounds hit him again and again: clanks, crashes, screams, gurgling as blood erupted through the throats of dying men. He found himself at the line once more, near the fiercest fighting as all the ranks tried to hold back the penetration of the Philistine bludgeon formation.
It finally occurred to him what the Philistines were doing. By concentrating all their forces in one spot, they would break the line and then split, each side of the wave enveloping the remaining Israelite soldiers. The Philistine chariots would prevent any retreats.
Eliam fretted and worried over it through foggy thoughts, then gave up and decided that whatever else happened, he would bring the water.
A soldier bumped into him, knocking the water from his hands, spilling it out in the sand. It seeped into the ground and disappeared as Eliam watched in horror. Something about the empty water skin, the sound of death nearby, pain in his foot, and now Eliam was frozen.
Eliam could see and hear nothing but the flash of bodies moving and hoarse shouting. Now everything was happening so much slower, even slower than before. How odd that battles seemed to slow down so much right when they were about to be decided. He thought vaguely that there was enough time to escape.
Fear—awful, consuming fear—crept into his heart. With every lance thrust into bowels, every sword cut across a neck, courage fled from him. Eliam suddenly did not want to feel the pain. He was horrified of death. Sheol awaited him if he died, and he did not know what it would be like.
He started to reason with himself. There was no point in dying this day. There was no chance for any of them anyway. If he escaped, he might be able to come back later. Jonathan might survive, and he would need an armor bearer.
But not one who abandoned his brothers on the field. Not one who escaped.
He tried to shake off the thought but couldn’t keep his eyes from the hills to the north. If he left now, there would be time. The line would hold awhile longer, and no one would notice his leaving. His foot would need tending, but he would undoubtedly pass through some village.
He felt the sudden coolness of the evening on his face. His eyes stung, and he wiped them, cursing his sweat and the dirt. And then he wanted to run, so quickly and so far away that it surprised him how selfish he was. He wanted nothing more than to turn and leave that field of despair and death and flee to the woods and deserts.
He looked up the slope, past the abandoned water holding spot, to the very top of the mountain. The forest bordered the field on all sides the entire way to the peak of jagged rocks far above. He could make it to the shelter of the forest if he went now, then he would get to a village for help.
Weak, desperate, slow of thought, Eliam reasoned and prodded until at last he gathered a plan of action. He would leave. Others were leaving; surely it would not be cowardly. The pain was too much now, and he did not want to die. The cause was lost.
The decision was made, and having made it, he was too tired and weak to reconsider. Eliam simply could not bear the thought of a blade piercing his gut. Gareb had said that many men die because they choked on their own bloody vomit. The vultures would eat them and peck out their eyes. The Philistines would cut off heads and arms, then parade them around the streets of their cities as sacrifices to their heathen gods. Perhaps Eliam himself, a member of the royal court, would have his body torn to pieces while still alive.
He looked at the battle one more time — the lines of brave men, still holding together, driving their weapons forward with weariness and heart. They deserved songs and honors and praises. He felt a throbbing in his head.
He deserved none of that. He could not disguise from himself his cowardice. How he had wanted to be brave. He would leave them on this field of honor. He would not disgrace them with his presence. He hated himself. His father would be angry. No, not angry. Only sad.
Eliam took a bandage strip from his waist pouch and tied a new knot on the arrow wound in his foot. It would be enough to show that he’d been here. He would tell the people of the brave warriors who died in this place, how he had been charged with carrying the message of defeat.
In a fog, Eliam staggered toward the distant trees. He shouted at himself to turn around and die like a man. He cursed his foot. He was thirsty.
He gave a last glance to the lines where the brave men were and then walked into the forest, sobbing.
Jonathan felt it once more. It had not been there in so long, but it was there now, as the suddenly cool evening breeze revived him while he and his brother leapt from rock to rock back down the mountain. The great army winding up the valley below them was biding its time, knowing it could not fail. The chariots lurked.
Jonathan had not felt the surge in his breath and quickening of his heart in so long that he almost did not recognize it at first. But it was there, and it spoke to him and pushed him forward to his death.
The covering had returned.
The men saw Jonathan and Abinadab running along the edge of the Israelite lines and began to shout. Their voices were weaker than before; after the afternoon’s slaughter, fewer remained. But they sensed his heart and fire. His body protested, but he kept it moving because he needed it one last time.
The Philistine archers were ready for them. They had learned a lesson earlier, and this time Jonathan was in the open where they could fire freely. They did. He saw the swarm of arrows rise up from the metallic snake of the enemy forces and descend on them. It would be over soon.
But as the arrows landed, nothing happened. He felt no piercing of his flesh, no thrust of force knocking him back. Not a single arrow had struck them; they only clanged harmlessly against the rocks. He raised his eyes and screamed to the sky, feeling the covering in his blood and courage in his step. Shouts and war cries reverberated everywhere from his men up the slope, and he drank them in like cool water, letting them fuel him as he descended with his brother on the black masses of soldiers.
He hit them at full charge, an attack so brazen that the Philistines shirked away. A few men tried to swing a blade at them but were quickly cut down. The two brothers kept close and penetrated deep into the lines of the enemy, neatly separating the archers from the main force for the second time that day.
Jonathan tore at them with his sword. The power was coming, ever more, wrapping him in its terrible strength, and many Philistines fell before they knew they had been hit. The enemy was so intent on what was in front of them that they were not expecting an attack by two men on their flank twice in the same battle.
Jonathan and Abinadab breached the far side of the line. The archers had backed away from the fight and regrouped while the infantry pressed on ahead unaware. Jonathan’s men saw him again and the yelling continued louder. He laughed with battle rage and looked for his brother—then saw the body lying on the ground behind him.
He turned away and kept running. Abinadab gone. Soon he would be gone himself.
Jonathan felt his terror return. His attack slowed. Many Philistines lay dead in front of him. Suddenly, oddly, he regretted their deaths. It was a strange thought, and he pushed it away. The smells of blood and metal hung in his nostrils. He charged again.
This time they were ready and formed a line on their flanks to receive him. He stumbled toward it, picked up a spear, and threw it into the ranks. It struck a shield and fell harmlessly to
the ground. He raised his own shield to dodge the lances that flew toward him in response. Then a group of men broke away from the Philistine ranks and charged him. The shouting from the Hebrew lines died. No doubt they thought this was the end. And no doubt they were right.
He found strength and swung the blade. As each man came, he dodged just enough, ducked enough, and avoided each blow while delivering his own. He was weaker now, but he aimed well and men fell. The fire of Yahweh poured through him in a final rush. There was a line of men directly in front, and he crushed them, picking up a broken shield and flinging it at an officer’s head, then driving the end of a lance through the eye socket of another in one motion.
Philistines died all around him, terrified of him but sent forward with the threats of their commanders.
Jonathan was not on the slopes of Mount Gilboa but out in the valleys with David, living in the days of fire, the old times, feeling the warmth of springtime and hearing the songs of his friend as they plotted campaigns and admired women in the villages. He saw his father in the old days as he destroyed the enemies of Yahweh, back when he was worthy of the crown, and the good times when David came and went from the royal court with tales of his exploits.
Jonathan no longer felt the impact when his sword struck. A dull throb had entered his head, blocking the noise of the clanging metals and the smell of dead flesh and smoke. He killed them, these brave men who had families, but he struck them down regardless. David was there smiling with him, and they gazed at the fire and talked of Yahweh and things too deep for words.
There was a shout and a grunt, and he felt the shaft of a lance enter from behind and exit his belly.
All fight left him, and he fell to his knees. The Philistine who had impaled him gave another shout. He heard, dimly, the line of Philistines cheering his demise. He tried to move his arms, feeling the need to kill the man who’d killed him, but they would not move. All strength was gone.
Jonathan’s face struck a rock as he fell, and it put him in a mist, sounds no longer cohesive and his body suddenly numb. He tried to resist, tried to yell, but it came out as a mumble.