The Storming of the Bastille

         The mouth of the Bastille parted, revealing a steady wall of muskets. Behind each weapon stood a guard with menacing composure, whose murderous eyes ran along the sights.

         “Au prêts! En joue!” bellowed the commanding officer. Silence suspended in the air as the crowd waited to receive the impact.

         “Feu!” shouted the officer. And a barrage stabbed the air as the men unleashed a menacing volley. Individuals along the crowd dropped to their knees. Some fell to the ground instantly. Others clutched at wounds, resisting their last breath. The mob became angry.

         “Recharger!” yelled the officer, his voice yielding a hint of urgency. The tide fell forward, crossing the bridge, quickly covering the open ground between the two groups. The mob threw itself on the soldiers incapacitating few; reducing the line to individuals. The men that remained made a dramatic defense, as muskets bludgeoned wildly. The commanding officer drew his sword and struck blindly at the crowd. But the numbers were overwhelming. Several hands reached out to restrain him and he was brought under. With a stroke of an ax, he too was incapacitated.

         The flood continued, drowning the Bastille. The days of the Revolution had begun.