“Truce,” Anders waving the white shirt attached to a long branch.

“You get any closer and you’ll get shot,” came a voice from the tight knot of Union soldiers.

“Move them up,” Anders said over his shoulder to one rebel acting as the formation sergeant. Orders were called out and the remains of the Rebel army formed a firing line a few paces behind Anders.

“Stop that,” the voice protested angrily.

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“It’s a precaution, blue boy.” Anders spoke wryly as he walked towards the Union troops while still holding the flag of truce casually. “Keep your fingers off those triggers.”

One of the Union men stepped out of the formation and faced Anders.

The Lieutenant groaned inwardly. The man was one sergeant who had followed Lieutenant Pace around the island every day, an acolyte of the rabid North.

“What the hell do you want?” the sergeant crossed blood-stained arms and stared at his enemy.

“I’d say we killed each other enough for one day.” Anders set the butt of the stick in the snow and leaned against it. “I suggest we stop this stupidity and declare the war over.”

“Not until every Rebel bastard is dead,” the sergeant declared firmly. “That’s our order.”

“Where’s your officer?”