Rebels

The militia set their positions. Behind the trees, logs and bushes of the swamp, each man thought of his target. Each man visualised the shot. Each man watched his target fall to the ground.

They lay down their weapons in the tall grass and lay beside them. Each one listens to the approaching caravan. They gathered intelligence for months. Now they had grouped to execute.

The company ducked behind buildings and horse carriages. They slide under porches and dimmed the lights. Quietly, they waited for the patrol to stroll by. They each ready their muskets. Slowly, the patrol crept closer, not knowing of their inevitable deaths.

The men in the swamps crept out from behing their safe hiding places. They all took aim. A single shot cracked out, then twenty more. The red coats fell to the ground, the blood blending in to the uniforms. The of smoke enveloped the swamp, and the militia disappeared, never to been seen again. Like ghosts.

The men in the field waited until the caravan was surrounded. With a command from the lieutenant, all jumped up. The crossfire of bullets ended the lives of the suppliers. Horses whined and bolted. The men fell back on to the grounded and disappeared, like a disease.

The town was as still as night, the warm summer air was wet. The rebels waited. With three rasps on a door, the signaled men formed a wall. They opened fire, sending a swarm of bullets like angry wasps at the advanceing army. They dissipated into the alleys and roads. Like wolves.