Battle Cry of Freedom
Sometimes a nation is birthed by a small group of peoples, growing larger and spreading out into the land. Sometimes such ancient nations survive into great world powers.
He can't do this to us.
Sometimes a nation is birthed out of war, the surviving pieces of land being divided out among the conquerors.
We can't just change our whole way of life.
And sometimes nations are birthed from the hearts of the people, crying out for freedom from their awful injustice.
We have our own rights too.
Sometimes these nations grow to be even stronger than their parent, thriving and earning their own place in the world.
...We don't have to live like this.
But sometimes their vain efforts are all for nought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The young blond man stood on the porch steps of the plantation manor, looking out over his vast land. He was young, merely a teenager, and he was rather handsome, with a lean body that disguised a long past of hard work. He had eyes the bright, clear blue of the Mississippi River, and they sparkled with a playful and mischievous light about them, as if he was recalling some recently-heard joke and was holding back his amusement. His hair was the color of golden wheat, and he had a sort of cowlick on the left side of his bangs that curled like a cornleaf dried in the sun.
The young man inhaled the crisp southern wind and lifted his face to the sun, closing his eyes. Ah, how he loved that; that warm, radiant sun, and that sense of comfort and serenity that came with its gentle rays as they gingerly caressed his features, like liquid warmth.
Such a beautiful day. Pity I can't spend it at home...
He sighed, lowering his face back down again. A small smile soon crept across his lips.
Ah, well. I'll be able to spend my days however I want all in due time...
The newly born Confederate States of America stepped off of the porch and looked north, his hands subconsciously twitching as if they were itching to wring a neck.
...that time is now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 12th, 1861
Fort Sumter, Charleston Harbor
4:50 a.m.
The United States of America stood near the entrance of the large fort, his brow furrowed, scanning the horizon. They were supposed to have received those supplies by now; the stock was nearly empty. There was some talk going around lately that South Carolina, who had recently just left him and the other states and even created its own government--the state was so full of it--, was planning an attack against him. He looked back to the fort, its population of of no less than a hundred men. Most weren't even soldiers, just construction workers fixing up the place and strengthening the walls. And those were the kinds of men that REALLY needed food. They wouldn't last too much longer.
That last statement was more true than he'd known.
Suddenly there was a hail of gunfire from outside and all hell broke loose. A musket ball whizzed by America's ear and lodged itself square between the ears of a nearby worker. America stared in horror as the man fell, dead, eyes already beginning to glaze over. Another bullet flew by and America scrambled to get to his musket, adrenaline already kicking in.
He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg and fell forward, slamming him to the ground. America grit his teeth and tried to pull himself forward. The pain was agonizing, like knives of fire jolting up through his body. He tried to keep from screaming as he dragged his body towards his musket.
Almost...there...
As he reached to grab it a boot suddenly smashed down on his fingers. America couldn't take it anymore and screamed, the owner of the boot digging in his heel and laughing.
"How do you like me now?"
He can't do this to us.
Sometimes a nation is birthed out of war, the surviving pieces of land being divided out among the conquerors.
We can't just change our whole way of life.
And sometimes nations are birthed from the hearts of the people, crying out for freedom from their awful injustice.
We have our own rights too.
Sometimes these nations grow to be even stronger than their parent, thriving and earning their own place in the world.
...We don't have to live like this.
But sometimes their vain efforts are all for nought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The young blond man stood on the porch steps of the plantation manor, looking out over his vast land. He was young, merely a teenager, and he was rather handsome, with a lean body that disguised a long past of hard work. He had eyes the bright, clear blue of the Mississippi River, and they sparkled with a playful and mischievous light about them, as if he was recalling some recently-heard joke and was holding back his amusement. His hair was the color of golden wheat, and he had a sort of cowlick on the left side of his bangs that curled like a cornleaf dried in the sun.
The young man inhaled the crisp southern wind and lifted his face to the sun, closing his eyes. Ah, how he loved that; that warm, radiant sun, and that sense of comfort and serenity that came with its gentle rays as they gingerly caressed his features, like liquid warmth.
Such a beautiful day. Pity I can't spend it at home...
He sighed, lowering his face back down again. A small smile soon crept across his lips.
Ah, well. I'll be able to spend my days however I want all in due time...
The newly born Confederate States of America stepped off of the porch and looked north, his hands subconsciously twitching as if they were itching to wring a neck.
...that time is now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 12th, 1861
Fort Sumter, Charleston Harbor
4:50 a.m.
The United States of America stood near the entrance of the large fort, his brow furrowed, scanning the horizon. They were supposed to have received those supplies by now; the stock was nearly empty. There was some talk going around lately that South Carolina, who had recently just left him and the other states and even created its own government--the state was so full of it--, was planning an attack against him. He looked back to the fort, its population of of no less than a hundred men. Most weren't even soldiers, just construction workers fixing up the place and strengthening the walls. And those were the kinds of men that REALLY needed food. They wouldn't last too much longer.
That last statement was more true than he'd known.
Suddenly there was a hail of gunfire from outside and all hell broke loose. A musket ball whizzed by America's ear and lodged itself square between the ears of a nearby worker. America stared in horror as the man fell, dead, eyes already beginning to glaze over. Another bullet flew by and America scrambled to get to his musket, adrenaline already kicking in.
He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg and fell forward, slamming him to the ground. America grit his teeth and tried to pull himself forward. The pain was agonizing, like knives of fire jolting up through his body. He tried to keep from screaming as he dragged his body towards his musket.
Almost...there...
As he reached to grab it a boot suddenly smashed down on his fingers. America couldn't take it anymore and screamed, the owner of the boot digging in his heel and laughing.
"How do you like me now?"
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