To Respond with All Haste

To respond with all haste to your call to arms against the legions of Google executives who seek to lay siege to apparently submissive and inactive blogs, here is a dream that I am using for a story. The story will be very long, and so far the only good part of it is this dream in the very beginning.

He could see a tall man resting his hand on a split-rail fence, standing in knee-deep, rising snow. He wore a gray woolen cloak lined with red and a general's hat. Under the cloak was a dark blue uniform with yellow facings and silver buttons that corresponded to his yellow britches. Shrouding his feet were a pair of black, leather boots that rose to just below his knees. Through the gently falling, lace-white flakes he realized that the man's face was strong yet filled with sadness, and his striking blue eyes betrayed a haunting fatigue.
Suddenly, an intense pain erupted in his feet, and he looked down, saw they were bare and bleeding. Instead of his cloak and uniform, he wore a tattered, brown coat and worn, leather britches. A dark, red stain spread across the canvas of his shirt already wet and freezing from the snow. He reeled, grasped the fence to support himself, and collapsed with fatigue from a thousand marches and battles and memories. His ear stung sharply.
Footsteps brought a red-coated soldier. He gazed into his eyes, saw that he was no longer a man, but a boy of sixteen. The soldier raised his musket, the barrel aimed at his victim's chest, the bayonet gleaming in the winter light. For a long moment neither moved, one held down by the weight of a single bullet in his flesh, the other by his insane anger. Then the tension holding the redcoat snapped, and the bayonet pierced the center of the wound of the already, dying, dying, dead boy in front of him.