The Captain knew we wouldn't get a truce without a little bloodletting. So when he chose men to lead the charge, he chose carefully. Rash men, feckless men. A few family men, but no pillars of the community. None with much promise. Men who would provoke sympathy and righteous indignation but who wouldn't, on balance, be too big of a loss.

Down the line we went, him calling out names, and me waving them forward. Sutton, Holland and Lichtie: young, unmarried and unschooled. Sieber and Bloch: immigrants, respected but not well-loved. Miller, Vaughan, Tate, and Halsey: back-talkers, pugilists, petty criminals all—on a first-name basis with the sheriff, and not for any good reasons. Linden, Cokely, Shipp and Crouch: men who had stopped attending Church in the past year, none with displays of remorse.

And on. Our vanguard of the damned began to take shape. I knew many of the men, and not just in passing. Being on friendly enough basis with Sieber and Holland and Floyd Miller. Having hired Edwin Sutton and Jon Cokely last autumn to help bring in the harvest. Tipped a whiskey with Tate and Crouch.

God bless them, I thought: Some would lose an arm. Or a leg. They might get gut-shot and die slowly. Or die quick, but end up the same: bound in cloth, tossed in the wagon and buried in the cemetery. Sermonized, sure, but that was small consolation in the grand scheme of things.

We mustered at the edge of Keller's Wood, just under the big pine boughs. And stared out across the field to where Williams' army was doing the same. Eagerness, fear and sturdy resolve danced across the faces of our men as they checked their rifles and secured their bayonets. Emptied their bladders and said their small prayers.

"Sir, the men ready themselves for your command," I reported.

"You should do the same," said the Captain, surveying our enemy through a field glass.

A warm breeze stirred the boughs. Behind us, the balance of our small army confabulated idly. They speculated about our chances. A few played dice.

"Yes sir," I stammered, "but to what purpose?"

"Surely, Lieutenant," he said without turning, "you didn't think they'd lead themselves?"

.

Tyler Womack lives in San Jose. He's had stories in Across the Margin, Jet Fuel Review and others.

Read his postcard.





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