I wrote this story with no definite idea were exactly it happens or what time period its in, but when I showed it to my mom she thought it took place during the Civil War. I'm not sure if it can be called exactly a hist. fiction, but I'll leave that up to you. Now the second part . . .
Trevor had made it to the side of the sleeper's tree without waking him, the fellow had only stirred once. The fellow is pretty small, in fact, he almost looks like a boy. From under the too large cap, Trevor saw the fellow had dark, curly brown hair. He doesn't look to strong, how did he get in the army? But then, maybe he was one of those young fellows with "friends in high places. Trevor's eyes went for a moment to his new rifle. He couldn't get enough of it, he'd got it only yesterday, I always needed a new one. She's perfect. It took nine months pay to buy her, but it was worth every penny of it. Trevor ran his hand along the smooth barrel, it shone as one of those rare shafts of light hit it. He wouldn't have told anyone for the world, they'd probably laugh at him anyway, but he had named his beautiful rifle. He'd named her Beauty, and the name fit her perfectly. Trevor shifted his Beauty just a little, feeling her weight. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw the sleeper spring to life and just as suddenly something hit him hard just below the left knee. He crumpled to one knee as the pain and force of the blow momentarily knocked him off balance. But as he did, he struck out at the attacker, the butt of his gun connected, and he had the satisfaction of seeing his assailant sent sprawling back.
Trevor didn't get up right away after that, and for a moment everything was quiet again. The other fellow was the first to move, and that got Trevor moving, he scrambled to his feet rubbing his throbbing shin, where he could feel a lump already forming. He went and stood beside his prisoner, his beautiful new rifle slung easily in the crook of his arm. Trevor looked down at the prisoner. He had just struggled into a sitting position and was shaking his head gingerly as if it might fall off if his tried too hard to clear the cobwebs from it. There was a nasty gash at his right temple and his dark brown hair was already soaked and matted with blood.
"What's your name and rank?" Trevor asked, his tone cold and hard, but his eyes held some concern for the prisoner; that really is a nasty cut. "What's your name and rank?" Trevor repeated with an edge of impatience in his voice, the fellow never looked up, he just sat there staring at the ground with one hand at the cut on his head. Finally the prisoner answered in a dazed voice "I have no rank", then added as if to himself "I'm not with the army." "Then where did you get that coat? It's an army coat", Trevor asked suspiciously. "It's a friend's". The coat, even as it lay crumpled on the ground did look too big for such a small fellow. Who, now that he got a better look at him, turned out to be only a boy. Trevor glared at the coat, if it weren't for that coat he would never have taken this boy for a soldier. Now he was stuck with a civilian and he couldn't let him go, otherwise he'd alert the camp and our whole plan would have to be abandoned, and all work they'd put into it would be for nothing. Right now Capt'n Stage believes all the Rebel militia to be fighting General Adler at Steinberg near the border, no one would guess that there are Rebels so close to the capital.
The prisoner gave a low moan, drawing Trevor's attention back to him, the fellow seemed about to fall over; that cut was really bleeding, it must be really botherin' him, he's keeping his head down. He might need some help bandaging it. Trevor pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, "Here," he said kneeling down beside the boy, "let me see that", and Trevor started to bandage his head: no use letting him bleed to death, he might yet have some information that they could use. He was just finishing when a distant sound caught his attention, he scanned the woods sharply for a minute before he saw the flicker of movement deep in the woods, and from the direction of the enemy camp.
Jim wouldn't show it much at camp, he's too dignified, but he was so excited and happy and at the same time astonished that he didn't know what to do with himself. He still couldn't comprehend it, it's impossible, and still it happened. "Wow", Jim said in a low tone. It is surprising to say the least, no one expected this and for me to be picked, of all people . . . Jim had been walking slower, and slower, but now he came to a complete stop, still trying to fathom the news. While he was standing still, he happened to look up at the darkening expanse of leaves high above him, that's when he noticed how late it was. I'd better hurry, Peter must be getting worried, he can't get home with out me or one of the boys. And Jim started off again, at a swift, smooth, ground-consuming lope that all foresters seem to be born with. "Peter stuck out here all alone, with no way of getting back without me, and I forgot about him. . . The poor kid, he trusted me not to forget him, and I have to go and do that very thing. And he'll forgive me, he always does. . . It's not right, he was such a bright kid, could ride any horse in the stable and was getting really good with the rifle. Then he has to get shot. . . before nothing seemed bothered him, he was so -- so, carefree and independent. Now look at him, he has to put up with the likes of me . . . I'd rather it was me who got shot. . . It would be a thousand times better if it were me, and not Peter. . . . . Hang-it-all why did it have to be him?! Jim had worked himself up so much so, that by the time he came within sight of giant tree were he'd left Peter, he was almost running.
Jim was almost ten yards away before he saw Peter, and right away he noticed something different about the kid, something was wrong, but he couldn't place it. Then he saw it, that bandage around the kid's head, he'd been hurt. Jim broke into a run, it couldn't happen again, not to Peter. . . It was a matter of seconds before Jim was kneeling beside the kid, examining the gash on his head and questioning the kid breathlessly, about what had happened, and if he was alright. Peter's grip on his arm slowed him down, "Jim, the man, look out for him," Peter said this in a whisper, like he was afraid of being overheard. "What man? Where? What. . . ?" Jim suddenly stopped, he'd heard it, behind him some where, the click of a gun being cocked. He froze, and for a second, everything seemed to stand still.
Hope your enjoying it.
Have a blessed day.