OOC: Beware, coarse, racial language. I am not a racist and this is only for the purpose of the story.
"Move it, nigger!"
Grunting, Cesar dug his shovel into the rich black earth, staring once and a while up at Corporal Marcus DuPayne, who was his "boss" and stood around smoking cigarettes while the black men dug graves for Marcus' fellow Confederate soldiers, killed at Petersburg. It was going towards the last year of the Civil War and things were tense.
Covered in the splattering mud and dirt, sweating like a mule, Cesar continued work, occasionally stopping to wipe sweat from his brow as he avoided looking at the piles of Confederate dead, flies swarming all over the corpses, that he wsa about to bury.
Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Marcus blew out smoke.
"Work faster, Negro!" he yelled, kicking Cesar in the back and making him go quickly.
That was about the moment Cesar lost it.
"Mah name's Cesar," the young man grunted, turning and bashing Marcus over the face with the blade of the shovel, cutting a deep gash in the shocked face of the white corporal. He fell to the wet dirt like a dropped sack of taters.
As one, the black men broke and ran towards the Union lines, seeing a desperate oppurtunity to escape.
The Confederates nearby knelt, aiming quickly and loosing a volley.
A man by Cesar fell, shot in the groin, groaning and crying. Cesar saw two other men shot right beside him, blood splattering his shoulder. Another Negro fell, and bright blood welled between his fingers as he grabbed at the stump of his right foot. Another man turned to surrender and took one in the chest, collapsing silently, breathlessly, dead.
But Cesar and half a dozen others made it to Union lines, past the Yankees as the men in blue stood and fired a volley back.
A Minie ball blew off a Reb's bony nose. Another man gave off a hoarse scream as three bullets hit him in the chest.
The other Confederates retreated, defeated in the small skirmish.
The other six Negros had paused and were taken prisoner by the Union soldiers. Cesar had kept running and had made it even past Union lines and into the next small town.
Panting, multiple stitches covering his sides, Cesar stumbled over a fence and into a backyard.
"Hold on right there, missa!" a young woman's voice yelled, and Cesar looked up to see a white girl, about seventeen, in the back doorway of the farm, aiming a shotgun.
He held up his scarred hands, defeated like the Rebs.
"You want some food?" the woman asked finally. "Fried chicken?"
Cesar smiled widely in gracious agreement.
"Move it, nigger!"
Grunting, Cesar dug his shovel into the rich black earth, staring once and a while up at Corporal Marcus DuPayne, who was his "boss" and stood around smoking cigarettes while the black men dug graves for Marcus' fellow Confederate soldiers, killed at Petersburg. It was going towards the last year of the Civil War and things were tense.
Covered in the splattering mud and dirt, sweating like a mule, Cesar continued work, occasionally stopping to wipe sweat from his brow as he avoided looking at the piles of Confederate dead, flies swarming all over the corpses, that he wsa about to bury.
Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Marcus blew out smoke.
"Work faster, Negro!" he yelled, kicking Cesar in the back and making him go quickly.
That was about the moment Cesar lost it.
"Mah name's Cesar," the young man grunted, turning and bashing Marcus over the face with the blade of the shovel, cutting a deep gash in the shocked face of the white corporal. He fell to the wet dirt like a dropped sack of taters.
As one, the black men broke and ran towards the Union lines, seeing a desperate oppurtunity to escape.
The Confederates nearby knelt, aiming quickly and loosing a volley.
A man by Cesar fell, shot in the groin, groaning and crying. Cesar saw two other men shot right beside him, blood splattering his shoulder. Another Negro fell, and bright blood welled between his fingers as he grabbed at the stump of his right foot. Another man turned to surrender and took one in the chest, collapsing silently, breathlessly, dead.
But Cesar and half a dozen others made it to Union lines, past the Yankees as the men in blue stood and fired a volley back.
A Minie ball blew off a Reb's bony nose. Another man gave off a hoarse scream as three bullets hit him in the chest.
The other Confederates retreated, defeated in the small skirmish.
The other six Negros had paused and were taken prisoner by the Union soldiers. Cesar had kept running and had made it even past Union lines and into the next small town.
Panting, multiple stitches covering his sides, Cesar stumbled over a fence and into a backyard.
"Hold on right there, missa!" a young woman's voice yelled, and Cesar looked up to see a white girl, about seventeen, in the back doorway of the farm, aiming a shotgun.
He held up his scarred hands, defeated like the Rebs.
"You want some food?" the woman asked finally. "Fried chicken?"
Cesar smiled widely in gracious agreement.
