Writer's block sucks.
After
An endeavouring silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the slow groans of the dying.
The pattern of red from the blood-stained ground to the faded crimson uniform, to the autumn leaves and the clouds, maroon before the fading sun.
A piercing smell from all angles; the scent of forgotten hope and loss. The salty taste of gunpowder lingers in the air.
There is no movement: the only life left to wither is already seeping into the cold mud. Sometimes there is a faint glimmer, a twitch of a hand or the lift of a head – but they fall again.
Everything speaks of a massacre.
***
Before
“The wind’s coming from the north-east,” his scout told him.
So we approach from the south, he thought.
He carefully checked his musket – is the barrel bare? He pushed his ramrod down and found the lack of sound and normal lay reassuring. Is it clean? He checked again, despite oiling and washing the pan, frizzen and pivots just this morning. Is it tight? He tightened the flint even more. You can never be too safe.
He looked up. “Corporal,” he said, beckoning the closest man behind him, “Order Lieutenant Brammer to take his men left, and then tell Sergeant Heald to take the right. But for godssakes, Corporal, tell him not to go too far. Remember, everyone moves on my signal.”
The breeze played with his hair, throwing long brown strands in front of his eyes. He casually pushed them away. Before him was a steep ridge, topped by long grass, swaying in an almost hypnotic manner. The sun was still out of the clouds, shining too much. He would wait for the perfect moment, when the light had dropped, and the wind stayed a little. Those were the moments to put fear in a man’s heart.
His fingers caressed the edges of his hilt. Not long, he told himself, not long now.
***
During
“Present!” the Captain barked.
The command seemed to penetrate through the sounds of the battle; from the clattering of metal, the battering of boots and the unordered shots that rang out. Suddenly they all seemed to stop, and a hundred brown muskets roses to shoulder-height and pointed at the mass of oncoming men.
Then there was a wait, like a hesitant breath before the plunge. It held for what felt like eternity, and time paused. Every sound was numbed. And then …
“Fire!”
The silence was torn asunder.
Triggers were pulled and men felled. Smoke blinded the battlefield and left it to seem nothing more than a fiery mess.
“Reload!”
There was a commotion as cartridges were bit and pans filled. The Captain looked upwards and saw the enemy closing like a relentless tide. They would not be halted by a single volley. It was debatable whether they would be stopped at all, he thought fearfully. There was hardly a man over one hundred here, and they faced at least five times their number.
Only God would save them now.
***
Before
“We’re going to wait until they charge?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, irritated by the young man’s apparent lack of intelligence, “Thank you for repeating me. I don’t particularly require a parrot, but by all means imitate one if you wish.”
“But won’t that put them in unnecessary danger?” said the young Lieutenant, undeterred by the sarcasm.
“I’m more concerned about putting my men in unnecessary danger,” he replied impatiently, “Now follow your orders. You will wait for my signal, Lieutenant, or you’ll be out of this army before you can say ‘court-martial’.”
“Sir?” said another voice. It was one of the scouts.
“What?” he said sternly.
“They’re coming.”
***
During
“Set your men up in double line formation. We move quick. We stop. We fire. We reload. They die,” he said confidently to the Sergeant. “Speed is the key. Go!”
Sergeant Heald nodded and darted back to right side, where his men were knelt behind the cover of the ridge.
The man glanced back to his left and saw the Lieutenant waiting tentatively with his men. They both waited for his signal. He inched closer to the top and watched as the two sides ripped into each other with ball and smoke. He grinned. Their flank was wide open.
Clasping his musket, he raised it upwards to the sky and threw himself over, landing onto the muddy field and immediately darted forward. For a second he felt he was charging towards the enemy’s flank alone but then there he heard his men drop behind him and follow. He didn’t risk a glance. It would be but another thirty seconds before they were at firing range. The blood pounded round his body; a shiver resonated through his bones.
Twenty seconds. Looking left and right he could see men catching up with him. They were in a long line to maximise the potential to envelop around.
Ten seconds. His breaths were shorter and harder now, and the blood pounded louder in his head. The enemy had seen them and were struggling to react. He heard orders amongst the musketry, and some of the blue-coated foe attempted to turn in their direction. But they were unorganised and unprepared. His men had caught them out.
Now it was their turn to learn how to die.
***
Before
A chance to kill two birds with one stone is how his Colonel had put it.
The plan was simply to dress in stolen redcoat uniforms and play the part of the British, pretending to help by fighting off the others and then turning on their would-be fellow soldiers. It was simple.
He sighed. Sometimes war can be so tedious, he thought. They fight for politics and I fight for food. A smile formed on his face. Once he had questioned what side he was on. Now he knew the answer.
I'm on no-one's side.
***
After
“My men and I owe you our lives, Major,” the Captain said. The outflanking manoeuvre had routed the enemy back to where they came from, and had saved the punishments the original hundred had received. “My name is Captain Richards and I am most grateful.” He bowed respectfully.
The man smiled. “Just doing my duty, Captain,” he said. “One more thing, though …”
“What is it?” asked the Captain. “Anything you require I will do my best to supply.”
The man’s smile grew. “Then please die quietly.”
But he didn’t. The scream was heard for miles, and so were the dying noises of his fellow soldiers.
They stabbed the wounded with their bayonets, and left the rest for the birds.
Silence; yet everything spoke of a massacre.
