From the prompt: "Death waits for no one..."
"Message From General Lee"
Gabriel held the rifle, staring out into the darkness. The other pickets – white pickets – kept a distance from him, but he ignored them. They were friends from Kentucky, from childhood. Neither of them could read. He didn’t lord it over them, but there was no denying the expressions of shock that had crossed every man’s face – black or white – when Gabriel had raised his hand after Lieutenant O’Leary had asked if anyone could read and write. He was the unit’s messenger now, writing down orders and shuttling them back and forth.
The weight of the minié and grapeshot was comforting against his hip, the bayonet on the end of his rifle glinting in the firelight. He was more than glad to be away from the plantation, but in this army the hate was still the same. When news of the war had broken out, chaos ensued, and it hadn’t been difficult for some slaves to slip through the cracks. Only Gabriel was fighting for the Rebels, for the people who wanted to keep his freedom from him. He looked down at his grey uniform and sighed. The vast majority of men in the 117th were white, maybe a score of them black. Both groups scorned Gabriel, mocking him because he couldn’t talk.
Beside him, one of the pickets jumped. “What was that?” He clutched the rifle tightly.
Gabriel turned his head. He heard nothing. He swatted at the flies buzzing around his head. Virginia was a god-forsaken swamp. They should’ve let the Union have it.
The picket jumped again and leveled his musket.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
Gabriel rolled his eyes. No one, he thought, but he never spoke it aloud.
He had the rifle braced against his shoulder, cooked and ready to fire, when he saw that the man stumbling out of the trees was in a grey uniform. The dirty white strap of a satchel across his chest marked him as a messenger.
One of the pickets – Francis? – turned and hollered over his shoulder for the lieutenant, and Gabriel started forwards, catching the man before he fell.
“Orders from…General Lee,” he gasped out, hand fumbling for the satchel. He grimaced in pain, ad that’s when Gabriel saw the scarlet blossom along his right side. The man had been shot.
Gabriel took the satchel from him, then hoisted him up over one shoulder and carried him back to the picket post. He shoved the man at Francis, then turned and sprinted for the lieutenant’s tent. Lt. O’Leary, Lt. Caldwell and Lt. Jackson were all gathered around a map when he burst in, snapping off a sharp salute.
“What is it, Gabriel?” O’Leary asked.
Gabriel held out the message pouch. O’Leary crossed the tent and took it from him, opening it and pulling out the crinkled sheet of paper.
His brow furrowed. “Lee wants us up in Petersburg in two days. Caldwell, tell the men to start packing up their tents. Jackson, go take an inventory.”
The two men nodded and left the tent. O’Leary turned to Gabriel, thrusting the paper at him. “Copy this out and run it to the 222nd, northeast from Caldwell’s tent.”
Gabriel nodded, accepting the paper and a clean sheet.
Five minutes later, Gabriel was sprinting northeast through the trees, the message pouch at his side, rifle across his back, pouches of minié and grapeshot at his hip. The trees gave way to a battlefield, dead bodies scattered like toy tin soldiers flung carelessly across a carpet. Gabriel dodged around them, slackening his pace. When he reached the trees on the other side, he slowed down, picking his way silently through the low-hanging branches. A Federals camp had to be nearby, and he didn’t want to alert them to his presence.
The dry click of a rifle hammer being cocked startled him.
“Freeze, Reb,” someone hissed. Gabriel whirled around, the rifle shot cracking beside his ear, and jabbed. The man in a blue uniform dropped his rifle, flinching when it landed on his foot. The bayonet’s tip rested against his throat.
“Mulatto,” he man hissed, eyes widening in shock.
Gabriel increased the pressure minimally, grey eyes flashing.
The man dropped to his knees, eyeing the messenger pouch.
He turned pleading eyes on Gabriel. “Please don’t kill me.”
Gabriel arched one eyebrow.
“Wait! Let me explain!” the man cried. “If you join us, you’ll be a free man!”
What, you think I don’t see your hand going for that knife?
“Wait!” the man cried, drawing the blade.
Gabriel stabbed, and the man keeled over. Gabriel wiped the bayonet clean on the back of the man’s coat, then turned and headed on his way.
He had a message to deliver.
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I realize I took a little liberty with history. Sorry.
© Agent Duo 2004