MUSTARD I – Ch. 23 | KT OLLA

THE setting sun shone against the large waters of the Atlantic Ocean, with sailing fleets sending sounds as they neared England.

Their masts blew so fast and proud in the wind. They were schooners ships sailing full masts in torrents that only pushed their sail.

The winds had been rather so favourable; and not even a storm was grounding their sail.

But the England-bound vessels were only bound so by a plan that their sailors didn’t know of.

For several nations were in those fleets for whom the winds blew. Ample winds to bring God nigh.

There had been several many days, nights and more since the ships set sail from Lagos, as they carried a multitude to fight in the World War.

The heavy ships had boarded people from the inland colonies of Britain. Then they’d sailed off the African continent, running westwards then northwards via the Cape of Good Coast, a waterway.

Moro was aboard that wild voyage. He was taken with the drafted soldiers on the British army.

Now a few months had passed as the vessels drove into England on the coasts of Western Europe. There was a striking sunset behind as the ships anchored at shore.

The lighthouse came on with lights as the night began. Then the drafted men were matched out of the ships... in a long, slow-moving line.

Moro stepped out and fell in line, too. He looked to shore and saw parked wagons. The sort of army trucks that carried them to Lagos, when they were captured from home.

He sighted those hoofed beasts, and recognised them. So he tried to guess where the trucks would take them.

If these be these asts took us away from home, then they wouldn’t be stopping now.

So they must be taking us to their camp first, and then to the warfront.

There’s no going back now, I guess!

Well, the forty-five-year-old was right on this. For from further behind on the stretching queue, he could see people at the forefront lined up to the waiting trucks.

So the man felt great that he could, at least, preempt things. And took this as an edge over his captors.

Even so, he stayed in the line and watched to see things happen.

Suddenly—it was in a millisecond, there was gunfire. A rifle went off behind him with a loud bang.

There was a spark, a blinding flash burning red.

It was a bullet, and it tore through the air past the nape of the standing man. It went through him with a burning force and struck him down to ground.

There was terror and a dead silence. For one man was hit with that gunshot.

And that one was Moro.