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On the way to assassinate General Erilus, Enson
began to realize how dark nighttime really was in places where there was no
artificial light, or flames burning. In compete darkness, a dark that the
human eye could never fully adjust to; he stepped slowly through a field,
circumventing the fighting grounds. He had no knowledge if the troops that
lay on the bloody field were truly dead, injured or waiting for a spy to
creep by. Waiting to kill a killer.
In the total darkness, Enson moved slowly and carefully, each step as
silent as the last. He made it into the camp without incident or worry. As
he entered the slumbering camp of the aggressors, he noted that the
atmosphere seemed more pleasant, almost joyful, compared to the downtrodden
and disheartened southern army’s attitude of defeat. The aggressors were
sleeping, but the remnants of their previous meal and celebration were
evident everywhere. The smells of carefully prepared and marinated food
permeated the air, making Enson’s stomach growl. When
was your last really good meal? He couldn’t remember the exact date,
but he knew what he had eaten. The meal had been meat loaf with bacon on the
top for extra flavor, also; corn, broccoli, mashed potatoes, fresh and warm
biscuits that Enson tasted in his mouth for two days after the meal. He and
Amber had made love feverishly after the meal. He was sure he had given her
a baby on that night, but to no avail, he was still childless. But he had
dreamed of the fun to be had when he returned home. Hopefully spending the
remaining nights of his life trying again.
He passed by a campfire, the ashes still orange and warm, and spotted
a large bowl tied above where the flames would reach. He looked around the
campfire and saw that there were no soldiers sleeping on the grass, as was
the normal arrangement in the Southern army, and decided to sneak over and
look inside the bowl. He saw a beef stew that made his mouth water, and his
hands shook as he reached forward, taking a large handful of the stew in his
hands. He greedily gulped it down, savoring the taste of well-prepared food.
He reached into the bowl and stole another handful. Actually, when he
finally finished, he had taken four handfuls. He felt as though he had
rekindled an appetite that had been suppressed by three years of bad meals,
but was careful to leave the area. If he stayed too long, he risked being
seen. Before he left, he spit into the bowl. Enjoy
your stew, you friggin’ aggressive bastards!
It wasn’t hard to find the General’s tent; it was the largest
in the camp. Although, unlike the Southern camp, the General wasn’t pulled
away from the men, he was among them. That was probably why it had been so
difficult for the assassins to accomplish their mission, Rykirk had assumed
that the Northern General would be as stubborn as he had, requesting to be
isolated from the troops. General Erilus felt no such need to act better
than the soldiers he commanded did. It was a decision to increase moral
among the soldiers, but, unknown to the General, it had saved his life
twelve times.
An idea suddenly occurred to Enson as he crept through the campsite.
He began to wonder what would happen if anyone were to wake up and see a man
creeping through their campsite; it would be obvious that he was a spy or,
at the least, an enemy. So, with that in mind, he began to walk at a more
leisurely pace through the camp, the way the Northern soldiers would.
I’m just a soldier from Massachusetts, walking to the edge of camp to
take a leak. Nothing to notice about me.
The walk to the General’s tent was easy, but not entirely
uneventful. As Enson walked within one hundred yards of the tent he saw
something that caught and held his attention. There was a sentry, a night
guard, sitting by a tree, watching the area for assassins such as Enson.
Normally, the sentry would be standing, at full attention, but this night,
he was sitting, his back against the tree, while another man was kissing his
neck. It wasn’t the first time that Enson had seen two men kissing during
the war. It was a well-known secret that many of the men were into each
other, but it wasn’t discussed. The men would wait until it was dark, like
these two men, and find a hidden, withdrawn area to meet. Enson could
remember a dozen times in the last three years that he had walked into
something of this nature, and he was happy this time that he had noticed it
before it was too far along. He wasn’t intimidated or sickened by the men
that sought each other; it just wasn’t for him. It got very cold and
lonely at night during the war, but, for Enson, it never got that
cold and lonely.
>He left the men to themselves, actually relieved that the sentry was
occupied with, whatever. It made his mission that much easier.
He stood outside the tent, pressing his ear lightly to the front
door, listening to any sound other than the heavy breathing of sleep. He
heard only a faint snore. Slowly he unbuttoned the first of the four
latches, and slipped into the tent.
The General was asleep in a bed of comfortable looking furs atop a
long wooden bunk. Enson looked enviously around the tent at all the creature
comforts that a General received. There were chairs throughout the large
tent; not the uncomfortable ones that he and the other soldiers sat in, but
soft and plush chairs with thick fabric. There were several paintings
hanging about the ceiling, and one additional, almost finished painting,
resting on the easel. I should have
been a general.
Enson decided it was time to complete his mission, and go home. He
had disregarded Rykirk’s advice immediately in his mind. Rykirk wanted the
General shot in the head, but the Colonel obviously lacked the mental
capacity to realize that firing a hand cannon in the dead of night may
possibly alert the other soldiers to the assassins presence. Deep down in
his paranoid mind, Enson figured that Rykrik knew that firing a gun would be
suicide, but didn’t much care about the assassin after the job was done.
Enson removed a long hunting knife from his belt and walked to the General.
He stood over the General’s bed, knife in hand ready to pounce. A
calm coolness swept over him, and he was ready to kill the General. He
started to lean in, and then his eyes fixed upon the mirror that hung over
the General’s bed. The image in the mirror froze Enson, causing him to
pull back from the General. It wasn’t his reflection, per say; he had
gotten used to the wreck he had become. Before the war, Enson had been a
healthy looking nineteen-year old man, with black hair, blue eyes and a
chiseled 6’2 physique. But, three years of war had changed Enson to a
haggard, skinny and tired looking twenty-two year old man. But, that
wasn’t what troubled him. What troubled Enson was the look he saw in his
eyes as he leaned over the bed. It was the look of a killer.
In his haste to get home to his wife, he had never contemplated what
he was going to do to achieve his goal. He was going to murder a man he had
never met, in order to benefit himself. He knew he had killed many men in
the last three years, but that was during battle. This was purely murder. He
knew that if he went home to his wife, by this method, he would never feel
like he deserved his happiness. How fair would it be if he deprived this
man’s family of him, just so he could start his own family? After all,
this man was his comrade in war. They were enemies, true, but soldiers had
honor. A General deserved to be killed in battle by a warrior, not murdered
while he slept in his tent by a man seeking to leave the war. Because of
this, Enson put the knife back into this belt and slowly slipped out of the
tent. He opened the door slightly and looked into the darkness. The sentry
was gone, probably off in the woods to finish his affairs. He stepped
outside the tent, and turned to face the door to secure the latches. If
he left no traces, they would never know he had been here. He secured
the final latch, and that was when he felt the hand gripping the back of his
shoulder. He closed his eyes and waited for the click of the gun that would
end his life.
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