“Those are our duties, yes. Among other things, we also round up suspected draft dodgers.” The captain said with disdain.

I slowly edged my horse a few steps away from the others, hoping to spread out a bit. Some of the others were following suit, angling at the armed men.

“Draft dodgers, he says.” Martha Mannerly said, stepping out of the barn with a rifle slung over her shoulder. “By whose authority do you draft my sons?”

“By the authority of The President of the United States of America, madam.” The captain said.

“What United States? What President? Some guy springs up from the ruins saying he’s the one running the show with a bunch of guns backing him up. Everyone just gets in line to go die in his war. Aint no president of mine.” The middle son said from the roof of the barn with an old lever action rifle leveled at the captain.

If I had been the captain, I would have left. I would have backed down and came back later with more men. Unfortunately, I was a corporal and my captain drew his gun.