Chapter 19: Panic in the streets

 

 

 

Keep them out, he shouted, but his crew could not do it

They were just too many flowing out of the narrow streets like a flood of angry bees, all of them aiming to get to the water and onto the ships and he had too few men to hold them back or to allow those who belonged on the ships to enter.

There was already bloodshed as crew members bashed the heads of those brave enough to climb the ropes or to try to swim to the decks of the ship, bashing them back, some landing on the tarp on shore, others landing on the pylons, still others falling into the water to drown or perhaps swim ashore again.

He could not see; he could not spend the time to see; he needed to sail before the fire and the swords reached him with their bloodshed.

He and his crew could not hold back the hordes of people flooding out of the streets

How could they be expected to hold back the whole army marching towards them, shields and spears, shields and spears and bloody swords.

He needed to sail, and he needed to sail soon, and he could not take on any more people or the ship would sink.

Around him he saw the captains of other ships doing exactly the same, screaming orders that the crew could not abide, trying to cut ropes and sail away even before the fine ladies and the gentleman could board who belonged on board.

It was either sail now or never sail, and he feared that if they got within arrow range of the warriors, fire would set the sails ablaze and they would never sail.

He had seen it before in ports to the South, when the red and black wave reached the shores, everything burned.

Keep them off, he shouted, get ready to sail

He shouted again, and in the melee, in the screaming and yelling and the falling of bodies, few heard him but sailors being sailors knew that they had to sail or die

Many were already casting off pushing ropes into the water pushing bodies into the sea, unfurling the sails that would let them escape, knowing that there would be another port North and another opportunity to sail from there to avoid the flames and the swords and the Shields and the ultimate death.

 

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Just keep up she tells them, son and daughter both just old enough to walk, but not like this, bundles on their backs, bearing all she had heart enough to make them carry, and even that was too much, their faces covered in sweat and dust from a road they never intended to take

Your father will meet us up north she tells them though she knows he won't. He's dead or if not soon will be staying back he said to secure a home he said they would return to but never will  a hovel turned to flames even before the left the city burning with all the other hotels left behind by all these other people, a hoard of the dust covered, all stumbling North to meet husbands, fathers, sons ,brothers or uncles who won't be there.

Just keep up, she tells her children as she wonders how when she can't even keep up herself.

 

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It wasn't supposed to be like this, he lying on the ground, pain through his abdomen, his toes nearly numb, his fingers still gripping the sword even though he could no longer lift it, the army from the south walking past him presuming he was already dead, and he might be.

This is not how he figured it when he first joined, wanting to be something he was not, a farmers kid who had come to the city to find his fortune only to find there was no fortune to find, and he saw the glittering armor of the soldiers and knew he right fit in there, walking among them, seeing the crowds cheer them, never imagining he would actually find himself in war.

There was no war then. There were only the patrols on horseback or walking the streets at night keeping order, carrying off drunks – those few times when he was not drunk himself.

And oh, the women!

Those admiring eyes and welcoming lips, who never imagined him being a farm boy.

And now all that is done. He feels the numbness creeping up his legs slowly, inch by inch, knowing that it is the blood that is causing it, bleeding onto the ground mingling with the dirt and the blood of others around him.

He hears others groaning like him,  some wearing his uniform, others wearing the uniform of those who came to invade, all of them crying for mothers or lovers or brothers or sisters or fathers that cannot hear them, all of them bleeding into the same dismal puddle, creating the same dismal red mud from which nothing will grow, above him the fires and the smoke and the battle cries are all beyond him now like a ceiling of gray, lit by fire, a dream from which he cannot wake or will not, and he feels the blood ooze out and the numbness replaces the pain

It wasn't supposed to be like this; it was supposed to be something else

He never thought he would miss the farm, but he does now, but now he knows he can never go back.

 

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How dare they!

Don't they know who I am, these soldiers coming to tell us we have to move.

And leave all this behind?

What will happen to all my fine furniture, draperies, paintings, crystal, silverware?

We can't fit it all into our carriage and still have room for us. If we leave it behind those savages will take it or burn it.

Life and death, they say.

This is life and without those comforts I might as well be dead.

Where is the witch or whatever she is?

Why won't she come out of her tower to protect us?

What good is having a witch if we can't count on her at times like this?

The soldiers tell me to hurry there not much time before the others come with fire swords and shields.

But how can I hurry?

What to take what to leave behind?

Don’t they know who I am?

 

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