Tides
They come – not fast, but steadily – like a drizzle that slowly turns to rain, wetting the ground behind them with the blood of their all too slow escape, foolish enough to believe that the rising tide that pursues them might be resisted on higher ground. Most of us came here behind the high walls once word reached us about the enemy’s landing and advance. We leave all behind, crops and live stock, to save ourselves, the rattle of loose wagon wheels no match for the thunder of Calvary hooves. Yet many come more slowly than us, dragging behind them the deepest of shadows. When they enemy arrives, we all know they will attack – and our hope lies in the strength of these walls, and courage of our young men who manned them. We will not be taken alive. We will kill our own if we have to in the end to prevent what we know will transpire if we don’t. We have heard tales of survivors before and these terrify us. But they have so many to bring at us, despite the number of guns we h...