They were eating the dead outside of Williamsburg.
There had been rumor of such, and evidence to the same. Half-devoured corpses devoid of entrails and hearts. Livers missing and genitalia severed. For cannibals, the choicest cuts were gone.
My captain sent me out alone to find them, and I am thankful he did. When I discovered them, they were in the midst of a feast. They had waylaid a small cavalry patrol and slain all twelve of the men. Most of the horses were dead as well. I managed to kill three of the cannibals before they knew I was there, and then another pair as they ran.
I chased them for a few minutes, herding them with carefully chosen shots with the Spencer. I didn’t want them dead.
Not yet.
I knew there was a picket fence close by, and so I drove them toward it. They ran, screaming obscenities at me and promising me a long and torturous death. It was a funny promise they made since I planned on giving them the same.
When the three remaining cannibals reached the fence, they realized they had to scramble over it to get away from me, and they remembered too that they were unarmed.
As the first scrambled up the pickets, I shot him in the lower back, then I gut shot the other two. Their screams sent the birds fleeing the fields. The cannibals begged and pleaded, praying that I would have mercy upon them, offering up excuses from their blood-smeared lips.
I knelt down beside the first, took out my Bowie knife, and as they all watched, I dug his guts out of his ruptured belly.
“Oh, Jesus, save us!” the cannibal beside him screamed.
And I smiled as I replied, “You’re praying to the wrong man.”
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