The Idealists

Several of the soldiers were sitting, legs outstretched, enjoying the quiet, sunny afternoon when the white Hudson Coupe lumbered up the dirt road and stopped in front of the barn. Two guards stood at the door with machine pistols and watched as the driver, a sergeant, and his passenger, a serious looking older man in a black suit, got out of the great automobile and approached them. No words were exchanged as the older man held up his passport, causing the two door guards to snap to attention. The man in the black suit passed into the open door, leaving his enlisted man behind.

It took several moments for the serious man's eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the barn. He stood, taking in the smell of hay, manure, and livestock, but not fresh. When he could see, on either side of him were a modest number of stalls, and ahead of him, a large room where they were all gathered. The faint flickering light of oil lanterns spilled from the doorway, and he could hear quiet voices.

The room was much larger than he had remembered, with a rough wooden table in the middle. The grinding stone and all of the metal tools had long been stolen, he figured. This has been the workshop, at one time, before the revolution, but he had no memory of being inside of it without the great bay doors opened on either side, it was like a different place.

The firing squad and its captain stood quietly facing the five prisoners across the room, behind them, the general. He turned toward the newcomer and gave a short, friendly smile.

"An uneventful trip, Colonel?" The colonel nodded. "Good. We were just getting everything in order. Go ahead," he said to one of the prisoners. "I have things to attend to."

Two of the prisoners came up to the table, where there was paper and a pencil.

"I'm allowing them to write some last words to their families," the general explained. "I am not an unreasonable man. Even anarchists have mothers, and here is their chance to apologize to them for becoming criminals."

The two men at the table ignored the comment. The larger man whispered a dictation into the ear of the other man, who wrote out the letter. The larger man was a thug, and illiterate, known for his cruelty; the other man, the idealist, had been a scholar at one point. The idealist had been first amongst equals of the rebellion, proud, charismatic, fiery, and wrote the first pamphlets that ignited the countryside into open warfare. His death would leave the farmers and factory workers without an ideology and without a hero.

"I hope you are being true to the author," the general said to the idealist. "It would be a shame to piss this man's last words by filling his letter with empty rhetoric. Your time is over, it would be best to die with some dignity, no?"

When the letter was finished the idealist folded the paper and set it with the other two. He stood straight and looked past the general at the colonel. "Let's get this over with," he said.

"No last words from you? No parting regrets to your family?" the general asked.

"My family is all dead. You remember that, colonel?" The colonel met the stare of the idealist, feeling the deep stab of hatred and returning it ten fold. I have no tears for traitors, he thought. It could have ended differently.

The two prisoners returned to the wall with the other two. They faced the firing squad with nobility. There would be no last shouts of freedom, no last hurrahs for the cause. Their seeds were already planted and their only hope was in martyrdom.

The general took the letters from the table and handed them to the colonel. "Make sure these don't contain any kind of hidden cipher. This movement dies today." Finally he said to the captain, "Go ahead."

"Mark!" yelled the captain, causing the ten rifles of the firing squad to level onto the prisoners. The idealist's eye never left the colonel, the image of his face would be the last things to pass through his retinas.

Seconds passed before the captain gave the final command, unleashing eleven deafening cracks. The four prisoners collapsed, three dead. The idealist was shot through the lungs and couldn't breath, his eyes fought to stay open, but he was still alive. The captain gave a second command, and the rifles ended his struggle. The captain issued a cease command and walked to check each prisoner for life. They were dead.

When he turned to the general, he was collapsed on the floor. His eyes were open, but he was dead. The colonel was gone.

When the colonel passed back through the stalls and toward the door he slid the small revolver back into his pocket, and moved casually but quickly. The two guards at the door saluted as he and his driver got back into the car, and sped off.

"Drive faster," the colonel said to the driver. As they passed over the rough country roads, through the hills and trees of his boyhood home, he came to realize that he had never before taken a life with his own hand. He only hoped that it might have all been for something better.