1862

Chapter Eight

Otto the kraut peered over the man-made jumble of logs and squinted through the cloud of smoke at the distant enemy line. “Missed,” he said in his heavy German accent.

Otto the Kraut wasn't his real name. That was Otto Krause: and he was an eighteen-year-old immigrant from Germany who had volunteered for the Union cause. He could speak fairly decent English, which was more than could be said of many of the other German immigrants who were joining the Union army in ever-growing numbers.

“Fuck you,” said Private Billy Harwell.

“And your horse, too,” Otto responded happily.

Otto had attached himself to the young sharpshooter shortly after joining and had quickly picked up on American slang. He liked being Billy's spotter and loader, and he liked being away from the rest of the army while Billy honed his skills as a sniper. Best, he liked being away from Sergeant Grimes. Otto considered Grimes a tyrant, and it wasn't lost on him that Grimes was more than passingly interested in the slender and fair-haired Otto. Butt-fuck was a phrase he didn't need translated more than once.

The rebel skirmish line was a few hundred yards away and most of the Confederate infantry were hunkered down on their knees and haunches to make themselves smaller targets. Some were lying down, but they couldn't stay that way since they needed to rise to reload their guns. The main rebel force, about a regiment strong, was at least a hundred yards beyond the skirmish line, and had also gone to ground.

The rebels fired, and bullets thwacked against the long blind behind which Billy and Otto were hiding. Billy had built it and made the firing slits himself. It would take a very lucky hit to penetrate to where they huddled. Of course, if the rebs brought up artillery, then it was time to leave.

“Where's my rifle?” Billy asked.

Otto passed him the second weapon. Like the first, it was a Model 1853 breech-loading Sharps. In order to become the company's sharpshooter, Billy'd had to place ten out of ten shots in a ten-inch circle at two hundred yards. He'd done it easily. Most people thought the average rebel was a better shot than the average Union soldier, and they were probably right, since Southerners did so much hunting, but Billy'd grown up in Pennsylvania and done his share of shooting rabbits and squirrels for dinner. As a result, becoming a sharpshooter had been a piece of cake.

Hell, he'd thought. If he could hit a small target at two hundred yards, he could surely hit a man at three hundred, or even four. He'd been right. He had a gift and Captain Melcher loved him for it and fuck Sergeant Grimes. A Sharps, or even a Springfield, could carry a lot farther than four hundred yards, but hitting something smaller than a barn required a talent that most men did not possess. Sniping had become a game and he was winning.

Otto squinted over the log. “Officer rides up.”

“I see him.”

Billy squinted over the sights. The front of the barrel was stabilized on a piece of wood. It was a long shot, but he could do it. He watched as the officer dismounted, ran over to a skirmisher, and saluted. Well, now he had two officers to choose from. Billy decided to take the one who'd just ridden up first. He was likely an asshole from somebody's staff who never smelled gunpowder and even had clean underwear. He'd also bet a dollar that the rebel commander of the skirmish line was really pissed at being saluted and, therefore, identified as an officer.

He took a deep breath, aimed, and softly squeezed the trigger as he exhaled. The gun recoiled against his shoulder and the world was filled with smoke. Otto poked his head over the logs.

“Missed again,” he said.

“God damn it!” Billy snarled. Two misses in a row? Unbelievable. If he kept on missing they'd have him back guarding bridges around Washington.

Then the Confederate staff officer slumped to his knees and pitched over onto his face. “No,” Otto said jubilantly, “you got him. He just didn't know it yet.”

Billy grinned. So the asshole was dead but didn't know it yet. Sometimes Otto was funny as hell.

Bullets again thwacked against the logs and the angry rebels tried to take revenge. As before, they hit neither man. Otto and Billy were safe unless the rebs decided to move closer, which they wouldn't do unless they truly meant it, since that would bring on Union skirmishers to counter them. The game wasn't dangerous. They couldn't hit him.

“Shitzen,” said Otto, mangling the German and English words. “A cannon comes.”

Billy squinted through the hole. A team of six horses was hauling a small field piece into position behind the skirmishers. He watched as the horses were reined to a halt and the piece was unlimbered. The men in the rebel skirmish line raised a ragged cheer.

“I think it's time to join the rest of the army,” Billy said.

“Their skirmishers are advancing now,” said Otto. “Hey, so's that regiment behind them.”

Bad and double-bad, thought Billy. After a week of falling back and making the Union claw for every hill and creek, the Confederates were attacking. Billy had only the vaguest idea where they were-somewhere in Virginia-and marching south at a snail's pace. Someone had said they'd crossed the Rappahannock somewhere between Culpeper and Fredericksburg. If that was the case. then they'd come about fifty miles in a week and a half.

The weather had been wet, cold, and miserable, but Billy'd taken consolation in the fact that it was raining and miserable for the rebels, too.

From what Billy could see of the war, which wasn't all that much, it wasn't necessarily the rebs who were causing the slow pace. A sort of routine had been established. The rebs would form a defensive line, some sniping and skirmishing would take place, then, after what seemed an eternity, a strong Union force would move against the rebs, who would pull back and the whole dance would start over again. Sometimes, though, the rebs would launch small counterattacks that disrupted the whole advance and made the troops nervous. Everyone knew that McClellan, the Young Napoleon, expected a major attempt by the rebs to drive them back to Washington and Billy wondered if this was it.

He and Otto picked up their gear and began running. When they were about halfway to their own lines, they heard the rebel cannon open fire. Billy turned towards the sound and saw the shell strike the log pile that had been their hidey-hole only a few moments before, turning it into a pile of splinters and twigs.

Otto whooped at their close escape and Billy grinned happily. This was the most exciting his life had ever been.

Nathan Hunter could only watch as events transpired around him. At least he was warmer and drier than most of his companions, a fact that sometimes brought him angry stares and jealous glances as rain-soaked officers saw his expensive waterproof rain gear.

True to his word, McClellan had allowed Nathan to accompany the army and be an unofficial observer at his headquarters. Nathan had been issued a pass that identified him as a civilian and a friend of McClellan's. The former was true enough but the latter was a question. The pass was for when he was stopped by sentries, which was often, and if he was captured by the Confederates. While he had no intention of being captured, he hoped it would work and he would not be mistaken for a spy since he was in civilian clothes.

McClellan's grand strategy had been to swing south and slightly westward, thus hoping to avoid many of the massive fortifications the rebels had built protecting Richmond from a straightforward advance. For a while it had worked, although the army had advanced at a rate that was slow in the extreme and now seemed to be edging eastward. Nathan hoped it was by McClellan's design, and that the army was not just drifting that way as a result of its own momentum.

McClellan had constantly reiterated that he would not be ambushed. He would move slowly and methodically against the rebels to prevent that. The rebels had cooperated by not defending anything too intently. The Confederates were satisfied with fighting for a while, and then falling back a mile or two to another position, confident that McClellan would take the devil's own time to decide whether or not the coast was clear to advance farther. Sometimes they'd made things interesting by launching small spoiling attacks.

McClellan had split his forces. An independent corps under General Edwin Sumner functioned as a plug in the Shenandoah Valley. This was necessary since the mountain-bordered valley ran southwest from Washington, but northeast towards it. It was a geographic anomaly that pointed like a dagger towards the Union capital for a rebel army heading north, but uselessly west for a Union army heading south. Sumner's task was quite simple. He was to prevent Stonewall Jackson from either leaving the Shenandoah to reinforce Lee, or to advance north and threaten Washington. General Scott had voiced doubts to Nathan about General Edwin Sumner. He was the oldest general in the army at sixty-four, and Scott considered him dull. He was a supporter of McClellan and had commanded a corps at Bull Run, but had done so without any great distinction that Nathan could recall.

The rest of the army was divided into four other corps under the direct command of McClellan. Three advanced on a broad front, while the fourth was their reserve. The command structure was significantly different from what McDowell had led at Bull Run.

The right flank, closest to Culpeper, belonged to General FitzJohn Porter. General Porter was also a friend and supporter of McClellan. Scott held a fairly good opinion of him as a soldier, although he thought he was a sycophant of McClellan's.

The center corps was commanded by acting Major General Joe Hooker. It was a surprising choice. Hooker was an experienced general and a fighter, but far from the next in line for corps command.

General S. P. Heintzelman commanded the Union left. Unquestionably brave as an individual, he seemed overwhelmed by his command. Scott was not alone in wondering if he was fit to lead such a large force in the field.

Of course, Nathan thought ruefully, who among them had any experience in handling large bodies of men in battle? Only a few years ago, the entire army was but a fraction of the force of seventy thousand slowly descending on Lee and Richmond. Back then, many of the current leaders had been junior officers, or even civilians.

The reserve was commanded by Ambrose Burnside, another close friend of McClellan's and also another unknown quantity. He had shown well in smaller unit commands but had never commanded anywhere near this many men. What puzzled Nathan was that the reserve was by far the largest of the four corps. In Nathan's opinion, it was too large a force to keep from the center of combat.

Nathan did not begrudge McClellan's giving commands to men who were his friends and followers, but he did wonder about some of their abilities. Were they good enough to take on the rebel infantry?

There were no doubts regarding the cavalry or the artillery. The Confederate cavalry, under Jeb Stuart, was vastly superior. It was joked that the rebels were born to the saddle, while the Union cavalrymen kept falling out of theirs. It didn't help that crooked contractors were supplying the Union cavalry with horses that were more dead than alive, and gear that kept falling apart.

On the positive side, the Union had a clear superiority in artillery. Nathan was of the opinion that he'd rather have a lot of cannon than a strong cavalry force. Although colorful, the cavalry were basically scouts and would not decide a major battle. They had not done so since the advent of the gun. and were not likely to now. A cavalry charge against modern infantry would be cut to shreds.

The slow advance of the Union army enabled the laying of telegraph lines that ran from Washington to McClellan's headquarters. Nathan considered that a mixed blessing. Either Stanton or Lincoln was always asking for information, which McClellan rarely bothered to provide. The slow advance had also meant that great quantities of supplies had accumulated a couple of miles behind the main Union force. Some of Burnside's reserves had been detailed to protect the massive depots from rebel cavalry raids. New and repaired rail lines further speeded communication and the shipment of supplies. Nathan thought it ironic that the only thing not moving fast was the Union army.

And then there was the question of McClellan himself. Some men who are smallish in stature seem to be larger than they actually are because of their personality and force of will. To Nathan it seemed that McClellan showed little of either. And instead of his gaining confidence as he advanced towards Richmond, he got more nervous and withdrawn. Each mile gained and each spoiling attack beaten off seemed to drain emotional strength from him. The dapper and confident man Nathan had dined with a few weeks earlier had been replaced by a pale and nervous caricature.

His behavior reminded Nathan of a small boy testing the waters of a pond to see how cold it was. The boy's toe was in the water, but his body leaned back so he could withdraw in an instant. With every step south, McClellan was growing more and more fearful of a major Confederate attack by those forces he felt were so much larger than his.

Nathan signalled to Lieutenant Winton, the young officer who had been detailed to watch over him, that he was going forward. Winton, who was bored serving as a nanny, happily got their horses. Messengers had brought word of possible Confederate activity, and Nathan wanted to see it. They were a couple of miles behind the forward positions, and the hiily country masked both sight and sound.

They rode only a few minutes before they were able to hear the rattle of rifle fire and, moments later, they could see the Confederate advance.

Even though it was winter, this was Virginia, which meant that many trees and shrubs still retained their foliage. As a result, the picture he saw was incomplete and Nathan wished they'd had observation balloons to help guide them. They were under order but not yet delivered to the Army of the Potomac.

Nathan rode from place to place, watching and listening to the battle. At one point, he paused several hundred yards behind a Union force that was dueling with an equivalent-sized Confederate force. Promises to Rebecca notwithstanding, it was prudence not cowardice that kept him as far from the battle as he was. He was not a combatant and had no need to expose himself. Even so, an occasional spent bullet splatted into the soft ground around him. Nathan pulled a telescope from his saddlebag and scanned the field.

Smoke from a thousand rifles clouded the field in a mist of death. Volleys crashed and then disintegrated into a steady ripple of solitary fire. The sight took his breath away. The two masses of men, one blue and the other gray, were scarcely a hundred yards from each other and pouring death onto each other. Men lay still where they had been hit, or they thrashed about, or they attempted to crawl away trailing shattered limbs. Blood puddled the ground where they passed.

Through it all could be heard the primal howl of men consumed with killing each other. It was a horror that took his breath away. “I never dreamed,” said Winton. He was about twenty and this was the first time he'd seen men die.

The Confederates brought up artillery, two small field guns. Moments later, a Union battery of three guns appeared and unlimbered. At first the two batteries dueled with each other, but the Union gunners were faster, their guns were better, and they held a numeric advantage over their enemy. In short order, the rebel cannon were silenced. One was disabled and the second withdrew. With that the Union guns fired into the thick ranks of rebel infantry. Where shells struck, men were blown away, sometimes in pieces. Gaps appearing in the rebel line were filled by men from the rear ranks. The front was solid but the rear was thinning out.

Still, the rebel line held, even tried to advance. “How can they do it?” Nathan said in wonderment. Beside him, Winton vomited onto the grass. Finally, the rebels could take no more from their tormentors. Slowly, agonizingly, they pulled back. When they had reached a point, the Union line ceased firing. Men slumped in exhaustion and relief. Maybe some were praying at the miracle that saw them alive.

“We've won,” Winton said as he wiped spittle from his chin.

“At least we've stopped them,” Nathan said. Then he wondered, had the Confederates been stopped elsewhere or just here?

One thing, though, impressed him. What he had seen of the well-equipped army of George Brinton McClellan had done well. They had not faltered under intense fire. They had not retreated. Instead, they had rejected an attack by Lee^: s best. It was a damned good sign.

Billy Harwell fired into the approaching horde as quickly as he could load his rifle. There was no reason for more than cursory aiming. The rebels were dead ahead and coming in force. Any bullet headed towards that compact mass of humanity was bound to hit something.

So why weren't they all dead? Because, he thought ruefully, so many of his comrades were scared shitless and were shooting at the sun and the clouds. That is, if they got over their fright and shot at anything at all. Of course, the rebels were shooting high, too, otherwise everyone would be dead. The air was filled with the incessant buzz of the leaden bees that flew overhead. Billy thought grimly that people in the rear who thought themselves safe were in as much danger as he was.

The rebels paused. Then some Southern fool started howling and the rest of them took it up. It sent chills up Billy's spine. He thought it sounded like someone had set hundreds of cats on fire at the same time.

“They're coming,” Captain Melcher said.

“No shit,” Billy muttered, and some of those around him laughed nervously. Melcher didn't hear.

“Where's fucking Grimes?” asked Billy.

“Wounded,” came the reply.

“Hope it wasn't in the head,” Billy muttered. “Nothing there to hurt in that gap-toothed fool's skull.”

The rebels came at them, moving, firing, and howling. Billy and the rest of the Union line poured bullets into them. The advantage lay with the defender, who could aim and reload more quickly, while the advancing rebels had to reload more slowly and shoot awkwardly.

Rebels fell and others took their place. Bullets smacked into Union soldiers, who also fell sometimes silently, and sometimes screaming in shock and pain. A soldier stumbled onto Billy, who cursed at him. Then he saw that it was one of his friends, and that he'd had his right arm torn off just above the elbow. The wounded soldier started screaming and blood gushed from the wound where a jagged piece of bone stuck out.

Something wet struck Billy's forehead. Hell he thought, was it raining again? There'd been a damp mist all morning. He wiped his forehead and his hand came away red. It was raining blood and the rebels were still coming. In a few seconds they would be on them.

Bayonets, Billy thought. They were going to use bayonets! He knew real fear for the first time in his life. He was a little man and the bayonet was a skill he hadn't come close to acquiring. A normal-sized man would push Billy's bayonet aside and ram his own into Billy's gut. His bowels contracted in fear and he almost wet himself.

Now he realized he could die. At Bull Run and at this god-forsaken place, he'd killed at a distance and been safe. It had been a game, only thing was, someone just changed the rules. Now the targets, the men he'd been killing with impunity, were going to have their turn. And he could die. So many men in Union blue lay around him and he knew he could soon be one of them. He whimpered and wanted to cry, and he did wet himself.

The rebels were only about fifty yards away and Billy's legs trembled. He could see their contorted faces as they screamed hatred at him. They were people who looked just like his own comrades and they yelled in a language he understood. If they'd been wearing blue instead of gray, there would have been no difference. The rebels were dressed in rags and many were barefoot. Were they all so poor? So what. He was going to be killed by someone who looked just like him.

The rebel line paused, faltered, and stopped. They were twenty yards away.

“Keep it up, boys,” Captain Melcher hollered. His hat was gone and blood from a scalp cut streamed down his face.

Billy fired again and again into the densely packed Confederates, who seemed reluctant to close the intervening few yards. The more he shot the fewer there would be to bayonet him.

The rebels began to fall back. Some tried to pick up their wounded, but the seriously hurt had to be left where they writhed on the gore-stained grass. The rebels retreated in a backward-facing walk that became an exhausted trot. It was over. He would not get a bayonet in his gut. At least not right now.

Billy dropped to his hands and knees. He fumbled with his canteen and swallowed delicious gulps of brackish water. His face hurt where exploding powder had burned it. He wondered where Otto the Kraut was. He stood up shakily and looked at others like him who were gazing about in wonderment. They had survived. They would live to fight another day.

The rebels had attacked three times in only two hours. The attacks had been savage, even frantic, with the last one being the worst and closest to succeeding. The Confederates had hurled themselves on the Union lines in an effort to chase them from their homeland.

But they hadn't done it, Billy thought with satisfaction. They hadn't goddamn done it.

Nathan and Lieutenant Winton rode back to McClellan's headquarters and found a scene of chaos instead of the usual ordered and structured formality. Couriers and staff officers ran about shouting orders that everyone else seemed to ignore. McClellan was nowhere around.

Winton looked stunned. “I'll find out,” he said before Nathan could ask, and disappeared.

On his own, Nathan found a sergeant who seemed relatively unperturbed. When questioned, the sergeant eyed Nathan's civilian clothing, then decided he had nothing to lose.

“Stonewall Jackson's appeared on our right flank and is attacking Porters corps.”

“Jackson's in the Shenandoah,” Nathan said.

The sergeant spat some tobacco on the ground. “No. that's where he's supposed to be. only he ain't there and everyone's surprised that he's not following our rules. Right now he's attacking Porter's right flank and pushing it back. Somebody else is attacking the center, and our beloved little general is fit to be tied.” With that, the sergeant realized he might have said too much and strode off.

Winton returned breathless. He confirmed the flanking attack on Porter, and they both knew of the attack against Hooker's center force.

“What really has everyone confused,” said Winton, “is that Sumner has telegraphed a message that he is under a very strong attack in the valley and is pulling back towards Washington. How can these rebels be everywhere?”

How indeed, Nathan thought. Scott had said that Lee would bedevil and confuse McClellan. Was that what was happening?

“So what orders have been given?” Nathan asked.

Winton looked downward and grimaced. “McClellan has ordered a general withdrawal. It seems we are returning to Washington.”

Nathan didn't understand. “Are we in that bad a shape?”

Winton was only a junior officer. He had no idea. At that moment, McClellan strode past.

“General,” Nathan said.

McClellan would have looked through him but for the civilian clothes that were out of place and drew attention. “Ah, Mr. Hunter. So you see, I was right after all. There are so many more Confederates than our poor army can deal with. Porter is falling back, but fortunately in good order, while Hooker is holding for the moment. That moment will not last forever. Now I must retreat and save my army.”

“But what about Burnside?” Nathan asked. Twenty thousand reserves were sitting in the army's rear, doing nothing.

“Stuart is probing around the supply depots. Burnside is to hold while the rest of the army passes through him. Burnside's role is changing from reserve to rear guard.” With that, McClellan nodded and walked away, surrounded by a host of staff officers.

It didn't make sense to Nathan. The Union left was fresh while the center was holding. Burnside's force was more than enough to both secure the depots and to reinforce Porter, especially if Porter was falling back in good order. It struck Nathan as a chance to chew up the Confederates while they attacked, instead of the Union host being chewed on while it retreated. Retreats were chancy things. Even a well-run retreat could easily turn into a rout.

And what would happen to the thousands of tons of food, ammunition, guns, and other supplies that were stacked around the Union rear? They could save the men, but how could they move the supplies? The answer was simple: They couldn't and wouldn't.

McClellan was giving up.

“Why?” Billy Harwell asked, and the question was taken up by a score of outraged voices. They had fought for the right to own the bloody field and saw no reason to leave it.

Captain Melcher shrugged at the minor display of disrespect. “Orders. That's all I know. Orders.”

Word had come down that they were to retreat. In front of them lay a field littered with Confederate dead and dying. They had stood up to the best Lee had and kicked it in the ass. And now they were being told to fall back. It didn't make sense. However, it was the army. It didn't have to make sense.

They gathered their belongings and started to walk back to the rear. They looked behind them to where the Confederates had once stood. There was nothing. Around them, scores of other companies were doing the same thing in a vast migration northward.

“Jesus Christ,” Billy wondered, “if there's so many of us, how'd we get beat?”

He'd found Otto, who wondered the same thing, Otto had a bad cut on his arm and had wrapped it in a dirty cloth, Neither young man thought war was fun anymore,

They came to an aid station, where Sergeant Grimes joined them. He was on a crutch and his left leg was bandaged around the knee. He moved the leg stiffly and groaned. He looked haunted and scared, Billy didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.

Then Billy wondered if Grimes was faking it, He had gotten “wounded” just as the rebs were beginning their first attack, How convenient, he thought,

Captain Melcher was behind them, Billy gestured to the captain to watch him. Then he gave Grimes a nudge that almost knocked him off his feet and down a gravel slope, Grimes threw away the crutch and hopped nimbly down the slope, all the while keeping his balance and swearing at Billy,

“Praise the Lord, a miracle,” said Billy while Melcher watched in angry disbelief, “He's healed, sir, Our beloved Sergeant Grimes is healed, God bless him, sir, he's saved,”

The rest of the company had stopped and stood in a rough circle around them, “Come here,” said Melcher to Grimes,

“I need my crutch,” mumbled Grimes and someone threw it to him, He lurched awkwardly to the captain and stood with his head down.

“Unwrap the bandage,” Melcher ordered,

“I'll bleed to death,” said Grimes and there was snickering from the men.

“Do it,” snarled Melcher.

Slowly, grudgingly, Grimes unwrapped the bandage. It covered a knee that was clean and unhurt.

“Glory hallelujah,” yelled Billy. “Another fucking miracle. My beloved sergeant has been cured. Now we can go and win the war.”

Melcher glared at Grimes. “Sergeant, you are a disgusting piece of shit. You have two choices. You can be court-martialed and shot for desertion in the face of the enemy, or you can be broken to the rank of private and never again command men. What's your choice? Now!”

Grimes looked around him. There wasn't a single sympathetic face there. “Private,” he muttered.

Melcher walked over and ripped the stripes off Grimes's shirt. “Now you're Private Grimes, you rotten son of a bitch.”

Melcher looked at his depleted company. A third of them had fallen in the day's fighting. “Harwell!”

“Yessir.”

“Private Harwell, you're a big-mouth smartass and probably worthless to boot. But you're Corporal Harwell from now on and you've got the squad, You treat Private Grimes well now,”

Nathan had become separated from Lieutenant Winton, which was a relief to him and probably to Winton, He wasn't concerned about getting lost, The army was a vast migration, All he had to do was follow its lead. The army was an enormous herd of human cattle, all heading north.

Like the rest of the army, Nathan had been headed in that direction for a couple of days. The front lines and the Confederate army were well to his south and rear. Now: however, the scent of smoke filled the air and soon eye-stinging clouds of the stuff played hell with his vision, Curious, Nathan urged his horse in the direction from which it came,

After a few minutes he rode into a large clearing along a railroad siding. The ground around the tracks was piled high with small mountains of crates and bags, many of which were burning. Where they could, soldiers were strewing the contents about like trash, Scores of other Union soldiers ran about, setting fires and smashing into crates, while still others loaded goods onto flatcars.

Nathan found an officer and asked the obvious: What was going on?

The officer, a short, stout lieutenant with glasses, spat angrily on the ground, “Our orders are to leave nothing to the damned rebs, What we can't take back, we destroy,”

With that, the lieutenant turned and stalked away. He had better things to do than talk with nosy civilians.

Nathan tethered his horse and walked around the activity for a few minutes. The wastage of material was incredible. Clothing was being burned and food containers, particularly bags of flour and coffee, were being ripped open, their contents strewn about or mixed with dirt, Some imaginative soldiers had even made a point of urinating and defecating where they could to spoil some of the rest. It was organized vandalism by a group of angry adult delinquents.

Nathan had just decided he had better things to do when there was the sound of shots, followed by hollers and shrieks. He turned to see a small group of horsemen charging towards him. Some of Jeb Stuart's rebel cavalry didn't want the supplies burned.

Nathan's immediate response was to flee, but he had wandered too far from his horse. Several cavalrymen were bearing down on where he stood, but, with his bad leg, he didn't think he had a ghost of a chance of escaping on foot. Most of the Union soldiers had laid down their rifles to better destroy the supplies, and were running about in confusion looking for them. Nathan found a rifle laying alongside a crate and grabbed it.

Quickly: he checked that it was loaded and cocked it. A rider was almost on him: howling and waving a sabre.

Nathan raised it to his shoulder and fired. The recoil knocked him back a step: but when the smoke cleared both horse and rider were on the ground. He had shot the horse through the skull.

The rebel cavalryman was dazed but conscious, and was trying to get a pistol out of his belt. Nathan ran up and smashed the rifle butt against his skull and then hit him a second time to make sure he was dead. He picked up the fallen man's revolver, cursing the fact that he wasn't carrying his own. It was in his saddlebag.

Again, he checked his weapon and saw that it was loaded. He heard another howl and a second horseman bore down on him. Nathan gripped the pistol with both hands, and fired at close range. There was a scream of animal pain and anger and, as before, both horse and man fell to the ground. They were so close that Nathan had to jump aside to avoid getting crushed.

This time, however, it was the man who didn't get up. One of his legs was smashed, and there was a gaping hole in his chest. His eyes were open and he glared at Nathan. Then they glazed over and rolled back in his head.

Rifle fire erupted around him as the fat little lieutenant got his men organized. More horses and men tumbled to the ground. It was too much for the remaining rebel cavalry. With a few parting pistol shots that hit nothing, they rode off.

“That was damn fine shooting for a civilian,” the lieutenant said. “You sure you ain't in our army?”

“Maybe I just enlisted,” Nathan said. His hands were trembling and he had difficulty walking over to his own horse and mounting it. He noted thankfully that a soldier had put the wounded horse out of its misery.

He rode a few yards away and stopped. He had spent years in the army and had served on the frontier fighting the Indians, but this was the first time he'd ever known that he'd actually killed anyone. Shooting at movement in the night or at a tree that didn't seem quite right was one thing. Blowing a man's chest out or beating him over the skull was another. Nathan leaned over and vomited into the grass. He hoped no one was looking. Then he decided he didn't much care.