The three of them sit watching impassively through a ghostly fog the long, winding tail of some ancient, defeated army in straggling retreat tattered white flags flagging limply overhead in the still, cold air. No one says a word heads mostly bowed as light but steady drizzle falls. It is their army after all and at this point what is there left to say of this sad parade?
When the last of it has passed and crossed the bridge, the pessimistic, craggy faced commander of their most unholy trinity says, “here we go again”, spitting without much conviction into the mud. “Check the powder,” he tells the optimistic youngest of the three, getting up slowly from the old tree stump they are sitting on.
“Why bother,” says the middle one, “it's either wet, or it's dry”, still seated, “and if it's wet, nothing much to be done about it”.
“If it's wet,” the youngest says heading over to the wagon, “then we might as well just follow on and forget about this bridge”.
The commander stretching grandly yawns loudly then tells the middle one to go move the horses who are too skeletal to eat at this point over to another patch of ground with a few fronds of river grass sticking up from the desolate earth. The middle one does so without complaint for he knows the horses are at least as hungry as they are, poor bastards. Plus they are needed or else the three of them would have to pull the damn wagon themselves.
“Boss,” says the middle one, “maybe we should be eating this river grass ourselves” only half serious, laughing and then coughing.
“Goddamn miracle, powders dry” announces the optimistic one, glint in his green eyes glowing slightly in the diffused evening light of the fog. He stands next to the wagon, tall and thin anyway but as skeletal now as the two horses with his sharp high cheek bones very well chiseled by the hardships of near starvation and defeat. He grabs a net out of the wagon and follows the commander down to the river bank where the commander throws in fishing line baited with worms they had picked up earlier off of the surface of the sodden earth.
The commander baits their one hook and tosses it out into the dark, slow moving water while the middle one joins the optimistic one below where the commander has his line to have their first go with the net, a two man job. The middle ones hands are shaking a little, his short, thick fingers, and he knows not why as the optimistic one joins him and they spread the net then heave it out as far and wide as they both can manage in one, practiced grunt. He's a head shorter than the optimistic one but his squat, big boned body is perhaps more powerful than the two others put together.
“May God give us some fish tonight,” the middle one says as the net settles and they begin to pull.
“At least we have some potatoes and some of that scallion I found the other night left,” says the optimistic one pulling.
The commander quietly watches and feels his line keeping his prayers to himself. He looks over to see the first cast of the net come up empty and watches the two move a little ways down river to heave another toss.
Dusk finds the commander back at the wagon starting a small fire next to the wagon to cook some dinner of potato, scallion and four goodly sized fish gathered by net. The fire is no easy task even though the drizzle has abated with the world so thoroughly soaked from the early Winter rains now upon them for the last week.
“Why don't we have any security with us?” the middle one asks the commander, “it's a little spooky here all by ourselves”.
“The general doesn't think they're dogging us any longer,” the commander answers.
“I trust he's right,” the optimistic one says, “or if he's not right, I hope at least that no one slays us until after we eat”.
“If no one is dogging us,” the middle one asks, “then why are we bothering to burn the bridge still, I thought that was the general's point to slow down their pursuit?”
“The general's not taking any chances is why” the commander explains. After blowing a small fire to life, the commander says, “good news is this is the last bridge to burn and we'll be on home ground… bad news is, the way things are looking, we may be here a week before we get a dry enough spell to get the job done.'
They all three look over to the bridge a bit wistfully where they can see only the first third or so of it due to the combination of the fog and the quickly settling dusk falling around them.
“We're expendable,” the optimistic one says thoughtfully, “I mean … I guess that's how he looks at it. Just the three of us if worse comes to worst.”
“Three men, sure,” confirms the commander, “we're expendable”.
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