Level 5 CC please.

Frederick Robinson slid his rifle into the crack between the reddish rocks. His sight was a simple iron slit and notch, the rifle a newer Lee-Martin. Many of the regular conscripts, they couldn't hit a barn with it. The Dromedary Brigades were different. They were the best. Now he was on his stomach, tracking the Buffalo Soldiers as they crossed the dusty, skillet-flat New Mexico desert. Sergeant Robinson blinked the dust out of his eyes, re-sighting his rifle.
Behind him he heard footsteps. Turning slightly, his slouch hat shaded his eyes as he looked at Lieutenant Arnold.
"Any problems Mr. Robinson?"
"None Lieutenant, I've got them in my sights." Robinson knew the lieutenant was anxious. It was his first posting in the Dromedary Brigades, and he was afraid of messing up. Lucky for him, he had a sergeant like Robinson.
"Carry on Mr. Robinson." Lieutenant Arnold walked on along the line of skirmishers. His khaki uniform blended in with the dusty tan landscape of New Mexico, unlike the Buffalo Soldier blue and black. They were easy targets.
So easy that Colonel Kirkpatrick wasn't willing to reveal his position to early. He had given explicit instructions to wait before killing those maggots. Many of his brother thought like him. They viewed the blacks as sub-human, like all other Confederates. There were some who had tried to reform their views, but they were still struggling to grab an audience. Robinson had always lived with a view that African-Americans were another human. Many of is underlings, they seemed to share the same feelings. Many of his privates were from share-cropper families, some working with the African-American sharecroppers of the South. They were liked him, born in the ramshackle shacks of the farmers of the cotton and corn fields. Now Robinson lay among the stones and bushes of the New Mexico desert, waiting to open fire, far from the Mississippi home.

Washington Freeman felt his mare move beneath him. It was a liberating feeling, to be allowed to ride on his own, free from the white-man's control. He could ride without being told what to do, he could do whatever he wished. They couldn't control him. He only had to answer to his sergeants, freedmen like himself. The squadron was riding out on the unnaturally flat New Mexican desert, riding into the disputed territory between the United States and the Confederacy. They were riding into danger, and Washington did worry about it. He'd faced Comanche raids, Kiowa attacks, and Nez Pierce banditry. Taking this patrol, he was unafraid. If they did encounter some Johnny Rebs, they had their Armstrong Carbines, the single-shot rifles, and their revolvers. They were brave and strong.

Sergeant Robinson heard the bugles in the distance, and then he pulled the slim steel trigger. With a roar and recoil, he felt the wood stock strike his shoulder. Ahead, he saw the riders fall from their mounts, struck by the hail of bullets. Reloading, Robinson picked another target and fired. Then he saw the horsemen appear, swords glittering in the mid-day sun. They rode from the west, approaching his line of skirmishers and camels. They would be forced north or south, and would be annihilated.

Washington felt the bullet impact his arm as he heard the brazen bugles in the clear air. His horse was surprised and turned and neighed, before she was hit by two bullets. Sliding out of the stirrups, he fell on his side as his horse tumbled. The dirt was blazing, and he felt the heat through his blue uniform. Pain racked his body, from head to toe. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he knew that it wasn't serious. He'd seen a serious wound before, and this was minor. His comrades, they were either down or fighting. Some had tried to spur their horses onward, but were struck by several lead slugs. Those on the ground were the safest, using their horses as cover. The swirling stampede was made more confusing as horsemen in khaki rode forward. They were swinging their swords, hacking and slashing at any Buffalo soldier they could see. Washington Freeman saw a horses hoof strike nearby, and tried to unholster his revolver.

Sergeant Robinson walked among the dead and dying. They were supposed to be scum, but many of his regulars, they were assisting them. Only Colonel Kirkpatrick was walking stoically, followed by only a couple aristocrat commanders. Robinson was torn as he walked among the dying Buffalo soldiers. He knew they supposed to be deadly rapists, maggots, beetles. He couldn't however, watching them struggle to live.

Washington watched as one sergeant moved among the many dying Buffalo soldiers. The sergeant seemed to be moved to tears, his body shaking with cold despite the intense heat. Freeman watched as some of the Confederate commanders nod silently as they walked among the dying Buffalo soldiers. Others, many of the privates, sergeants, and even lieutenants were on the verge of crying. It was surprising, since they were supposed to be veterans. He was supposed to be a veteran, tough. His commanders had ordered him in, and he had followed. Now he was the object of pity.

Sergeant Robinson was moved by the moment. He had seen dying Navajo, Kiowa, and Mexicans. He had seen death before, but none so disgusting as this slaughter. His men had annihilated the Buffalo Soldiers. They were extinguished. They were dead. He was actually sad, to see the passing of such brave soldiers. Disgusting...
Turning back, he saw two lieutenants strip a Buffalo soldier of his sword, his rifle, his boots. He snapped. The New Confederacy had come.