16
Killing March
His pant seat feels damp. He really has to stop sleeping outside in the middle of winter. His cheek stings from the rough bark of the tree trunk where he had been leaning. He rubs his face as he stares at the scene in front of him.
On the road beneath the steep embankment, a group of bedraggled men, with shaved heads, gaunt faces, striped breeches and tops, a few with coats or blankets draped over their shoulders, shuffle along, heads bent and silent. Men in grey uniforms shout at them, “Faster, faster.” A guard cuffs one of the prisoners over his shoulder with a long-barreled musket. At least, it looks like a musket, albeit different from any Peter has ever seen.
Just then, two men sheer off and sprint toward a dip in the embankment close to where Peter is hidden.
“H
