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The Watcher

The Watcher 
The Watcher 
When the seventeen men neared the end of the bridge only one remained in 
sight all the others were lost in the shadow from the moonlight. He was dressed 
in tattered cloth; homespun gray, and eaten by the moth of strang decay 

“No livery”,  He cried  “no making strides in death”  “my life has ended on this 
bridge?” 
There is a plaque in place to mark this day it says on 

The Plaque 

 Friday June 13, 1864 PFC Dreardon Age 14 was marking time in a prisoner 
exchange at BENTON creek when he was shot by Federal Forces. The miniball 
penetrated his left sleeve and took off his arm. He bled to death. 
His body was torn and bleeding so forlorn the tatters of his homespun sleeve 
stayed hung upon his stump of arm there. 
War is something no one cares for Mr. Sherman. 
MOFW 1964, June 13 Commerative 

The watcher was on the water making footprints on the surface when the Federal 
Forces under Sherwood marched into the History. He seldom interferes with 
history but makes the markers seem to be the truth. He saw the miniball tear off 
the soldiers sleeve the man had been a prisoner just released this crime is not 
unpunished the man that pulled the trigger is lying in the river at the Watchers 
feet. The Watcher broke his prime directive and almost gleefully erected the 
YANKEE soldier in the mud. 
A Watcher is no more A Watcher for when he acted he lost his power over water 
and he stands upon the battlements no longer but He is tearless in his vigil of 
the bridge. 
Every Friday on the 13th of the Month of JUNE of every year that has its ending in 
a FOUR, he gives a shudder of relief certain that his judgment has not been 
ignored. 
The rebel soldier gives a rebel yell and leaves the bridge. 
The Yankee minion that has shot him just turns over once and lies back in the 
mud. For this is judgment. 
The Watcher roars.

Copyright © Charles Hice | Year Posted 2007

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