Militiaman

André looked out upon the mustering ground. In stark contrast to the brilliant green grass of the late spring, the blue and white uniforms of the army stood out, milling about like ants disturbed from their hill. He already had his own uniform on, adjusting the simple hat that marked him as a militiaman. The cartridge bandoleer around his chest already seemed to weigh heavier than it should.

Though he was a rational man, something in him had sunk when the messenger arrived late. His home was close to the mustering point and he should have been one of the first. Some small part of him said it was a bad omen.

His wife must have noticed his distress, for she was behind him then, her arm at his back to steady him. He had always marveled at how Analucia had been able to read him. His family - her and the unborn child she carried - had come with him this far. To the crest of the hill and no farther, she had said. After that it is your fight.

He turned and hugged her, wondering if perhaps it would be the last time, if he would perish in the constant scrabbles to defend their homelands. Who would take care of her then? He smelled her dark hair, savoring it as though it were his lifeline.

She took the musket off of his shoulder. It was heavy, long and sturdy. Not heavy enough to require a rest, but enough to stoop a smaller man. You could not run for long with one on your back. She thrust it at him, across his chest, and he instinctively clasped it.

"Don't come back without it."

He nodded, and willed himself not to look back as he turned to join his fellows.