Swiftly Rang the Flute

Flames crackle jump and sting, the wood may burn yet angels sing. Watch ’er come boys, she’ll be here. We all know’s them angels near. Sing ‘er up boys, sing ‘er good. As we all march for cap’n Hood. An Angel’s kiss will bring ‘er up, so come on boys now giddy-yup!
The song echoed across the meadow and down into the valley where the soldiers slept, but death was coming swiftly and silently across the field. With each new note, death drew nearer, but the soldiers slept and the song echoed away. A creepy silence issued across the land, broken every now and then by the snap of a twig, or the snore of a man.
Of the men, whatever of them, they slept and dreamed of party girls and beer, and tobacco smoke and music, food and drink. Not one of them had but a single fear to worry about, and as the night drifted on, and the sky grew darker, the dreams grew steadily onward, and the music once again echoed across the camp.
Though dark as the sky may have been, a small fire sat in the midst of the city of tents and musket piles. Around it were three men: one sitting on a log, playing a flute softly; one was laying down, with his face covered by a three point hat, deep in thought of party girls and wine; the third stood, resting his head on the barrel of a rather tall musket, staring out into the blackness of the night.
Smoke from the fire drifted skywards, wrapping around his legs, rising upwards slowly, and masking his face. The man drifted into the thoughts of the party girls and tobacco smoke, longingly, but he stayed awake. The music from the flute drifted through his ears and he smiled, recognizing the song as the tune he and Charlotte had danced to; but that was a long time ago.
The music stopped. “John, ‘choo take a rest now. I be watchin’ fer yer now.”
John shook his head, still staring out into the darkness, his eyes following the horizon line slowly. “Naw Billy, you keep playing that music now, lest you’ll let me fall asleep.”
Billy chuckled, “There ain’t nothin’ out there John. Take a rest. I’ll watch fer ya.”
Again John shook his head. “Billy,” he said, “Song of songs, 5:2.”
Billy thought for a moment before replying, he spoke carefully, “I know it well, but what do it got to mean with you takin’ a rest. If ‘choo be asleep now, ‘choo ain’t gonna see nothin’.”
“But my heart is awake.” Spoke John, smiling and closing his eyes.
He opened his eyes again, but things had somehow changed. He was laying down, with his musket clutched over his chest; another man was standing in his stead, staring into the darkness. A slight mist hung over the embers of the fire, which now glowed slightly, producing a wicked sense of warmth that issued over his face.
“For how long I been ‘sleep?” He asked.
“Not long now.” Came the reply.
“Anythin’ happenin’?”
Silence endured following this question. “Yes.”
John sat up and looked at his friend. Something about the way the musician had spoken “yes” seemed very un-poetic, and awkward, perhaps even frightened. “I’m scared Jonny. There’s somethin’ odd going down.”
John pushed himself to his feet and walked over to stand by his friend. “What is it?” He asked.
Billy pointed into the darkness, and they spotted a figure moving across the horizon. John knew what to do, he ran the bell. Within minutes, the entire camp was awake and armed, staring sleepily out into the misty darkness, and the two men found themselves reporting to Captain Hood, the local commander.
“Very well,” said the wizened old man after the brief update, “It looks like they’re gone now. Scared ‘em off I suppose. I’ll send the men to bed.”
The next night, neither John nor Billy were on duty. They sat in their tent, Billy playing a song on his flute trying to put John to sleep. “Sleep now Jonny boy, get some rest. I’m going to go and keep Thomas company, he’s on watch tonight.”
John nodded, though he knew he couldn’t see him, and closed his eyes, slowly drifting into a deep sleep. But his sleep only lasted until the ringing of a bell awakened him. Pretty soon, he found himself holding his musket, staring out into the misty night. Nothing.
“Right lads, back off to bed.” Shortly said Captain Hood sleepily, apparently glad for an excuse to return to bed.
The next night, however, John stayed awake, watching the outline of a man standing, surveying the misty darkness around the destitute camp in the valley. He was slowly drifting into an uneventful sleep, when he heard Billy get up and go outside the tent. Once again, the bell rang.
Without delay, he found himself once again outside with his musket. This time, Captain Hood wasn’t too happy about being awoken for the third night in a row. “It would seem,” he yelled into the empty darkness that hung over our platoon, “that you think it’s funny to cry wolf and wake the entire camp up. Let me warn you now, the next false alarm will find himself hanging by his hands from the oak tree!”
Three soldiers were hanging from the oak tree on the seventh night, as John stood erect with his musket, watching a shadow walking towards him on the horizon. He heard Billy’s flute echo into his ears, playing a melody that reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember.
The second flute joined in the melody of the duet he recognized so well, and he closed his eyes, smiling. The words to the song drifted into his mind, and he sang them out loud, only to the deserted campsite of sleeping men, and the glowing campfire. “Six nights straight we kept them waiting, six nights straight they slept debating. On the seventh when flutes did call, we marched in and killed them all.”
John’s eyes flew open, and he found himself looking at not one, but fifty rows of shadows, marching towards him silently across the darkness of the valley. He turned sharply to ring the bell, and found himself looking into the eyes of Billy Mellow, the musician, his friend.
“Jonny boy,” he said, “remember when we were playing cowboys and Indians, and you turned out to be a spy for them stinkin’ Indians? Well, this time it’s my turn.”
A sharp pain in his head told Jonathan Richards that he was dead. Death had come swiftly and silent in the night to those who waited for it. The flames of the night grew slowly as the darkness crept through the camp.
A bell rang through the campsite, and Captain Hood stormed out of his tent angrily, “Who rang the bell this time? Three men hang from that tree, I won’t delay to add a fourth!”
A voice from behind answered him politely, “do you remember that time we played sheriffs and bandits?”