Alternate history

In the 1890s, it was though Russia might have been trying to invade NZ. What if they had seceded?

It was a sunny day as we glided into Auckland Harbour. European soldiers held guns at the ready. Boris tittered.
"They will never get past OUR fleet," he muttered to me. I grinned. We both laughed, and our ship continued to slowly turn into the bay. The English Solider nearest us was shaking. We both laughed and said rude things in Russian. The commander of our Ship told us to be quiet, but he was smirking.
"Boys," he said loudly, "We will surely win this!"
As he whistled the last 's', gun shots exploded. Boris and I quickly felt for our guns and drew the to shooting level. We both aimed for the trembling scout.
"I'd say he's sixteen, don't you reckon, Michael?" Boris asked me. I nodded in agreement and, just after Commander had fired, the rest of the Russian soldiers did too. Boris and I hit the boy at the same time, my bullet piercing his shoulder, Boris's shot through his hand, deep into his arm.
Screaming in English, he withered to the ground. Many other soldiers were falling, ad our ship was still determinedly steering into bay.
When the barnacles scraped the bottom of the shallow port, a ladder was quickly fastened, and the 100 boys on the Ship clambered off.
The English Prime Minister hurried up to our commander, flustering and blushing with rage.
"WHY?" He bristled, "Just... can't we work out a damned deal -"
The Commander simply lifted his gun and pointed it at the Ministers head. He fainted clean away, face down in the water.
Cheers erupted from our side of the bay - screams of malice echoed down to us. Three soldiers quickly picked the Minister up, and lay him on a large rock, and, smirking, came back to our fleet.
Other ships were approaching.
The commander gave one quick shot at the Prime Minister - he fell, dead.
Then, with a loud roar, we launched into battle.

Three day later, The last of the English soldiers were being sent home on Slum-Ships, 200 to a small, cramped, 50-people boat. The residents of New Zealand were shaken, crying, and very distraught. But it was the little ones who weakened me the most. Children crying for their fathers, children crying about the filthiness (for no showers were permitted to them yet), all signing up (if they wanted to stay), on a long permission-roll.
Boris was next to me, with his now-wounded arm out of bandage, still in sling. He was jeering at the woman and children, for all men were submitted to battle.
"So," he asked one, "What's happening to YOU?"
"My Husband was wounded on the FIRST day of battle, by the FIRST few shots. You people are savages!" She pushed a Photo into Boris's hands.
We looked at it, while she stood, furious.
"It's that guy..." I said slowly.
Indeed, the same young face beamed up at me, his youth radiating, and then, and from then on, in New Zealand, now New Russia, his handsome face, twisted in pain, comes back to haunt me.

Do you like it? I sure do.


Love to y'all,
neina-marie, a buzzin' bee