Chapter Three
Whose Broad Stripes and Bright Stars
The crowd of men huddled around the two men and their plates, each
cheering for their favorite, some holding out money they had riding on the
event. Shamus O'Brien stood at the
center, holding back the bodies so they would not bump the contestants, and to
make sure the exchange of money went fairly and smoothly when it was all said
and done. His face was drowned in sweat,
partly from the excitement, partly from the stress, and partly because he was
the one man in the crowd who still wore his blue coat. He wore it to look more official than the
others since no one else was wearing their jackets on this unusually warm
October day, and his sergeant's insignia gave him a slight edge on the other
men. If anyone got out of line, he could
always pull rank on them.
To
the casual observer they were making much ado out of nothing. The plates looked empty, and it seemed as
though the men were cheering at a lack of food in them. However, on closer examination, one might see
what the others had become accustomed to search for. Two tiny insects, overly fattened lice, to be
exact, were crawling across the plates, and the men were betting on which one
would get to the opposite side of their owner's plate first.
Private
Mel Hunter, a handsome man with a face chiseled from stone and hair as black as
a moonless night, the newest member of the base, was the undefeated
champion. No one understood how he could
be so lucky. He was not allowed access
to the lice before the race; they came out of the hair of another soldier. And even if it was, no one understood how he
could possibly train a louse. But
nevertheless, day after day, he won every race, no matter who he went up
against.
Today
his hapless victim was Private Pud Wilson, a former New York fireman turned
soldier who had come to the war to see action, and instead settled for racing
microscopic insects across an empty plate.
The
lice had started relatively equally.
Pud's even got a little ahead of the other, making it a quarter of the
way across the plate while Mel's had started to wander off. Mel was able to tilt the plate slightly to
get it back on track, but when the bug started sliding, O'Brien ordered him to
straighten it out.
Then,
when all hope seemed lost for Mel, when Pud's bug was halfway across the plate
and it looked like he would soon be the reigning champion of lice racing, Mel's
took off in a hurry, scampering across the plate. In seemingly one quick motion it raced to the
other side, crossing the charcoal line that had been drawn.
His
fans cheered, and the others jeered.
“How do you do that?” one asked.
Money switched hands, watched over by O'Brien, who ordered everyone to
pay up and insisted on no sore losers.
Mel didn't answer, he just smiled and tipped over the plate, freeing the
louse.
“Benson,
I think mine's dead,” Pud said, holding his plate up and showing how it stopped
mid-plate.
“Overate
on all the hair oil of yours!” another shouted, and everyone laughed.
Benson,
who provided the lice, and whose clumps of dirty, unwashed hair and grimy face
revealed their source, smiled brightly, his clean, blindingly white teeth
shining in a contradiction to the rest of his appearance. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I'll find you another one,” he said.
“Get
it out here, lad,” O'Brien said. “Let's
get the next race ready. Who's up
next?” Several hands went up.
Mel
took his winnings and excused himself for a few minutes to get away from the
crowd and get some air. He stepped
around the cabin, taking his plate with him.
Once past the corner, he looked behind him and saw only a few shoulders
at the edge. He continued around to the
complete opposite side where there was a small fire pit still smoldering. He looked around again and heard O'Brien
beginning to take bets. He had gotten up
to twenty to one odds. Mel would have to
bet against himself through another person soon and throw the race, but not
yet.
He
knelt down to the fire pit and tossed in the plate. He made sure the center of the flame burned
directly into the center of it, making it nice and hot.
Pud
soon rounded the corner and called out to him, “Private Hunter, front and
center!”
Mel
stood, standing nervously, rubbing his hands together in an exaggerated
fashion, as if the fire was still in front of him.
“What
are you doing?” Pud asked, stepping forward.
Mel
stepped in front of the fire.
“Nothing. Just... getting warm.”
“It's
already hotter than a devil's horn. Why
do you need...” He stepped to the side
to look. Mel stepped in the way again,
but Pud already saw, and he could still see it between Mel's legs. The evidence was literally hot. “Cheater!” Pud shouted.
“No,
look, I can explain,” Mel said, stammering.
But men were already beginning to pour around the corner.
“I've
lost five bits to your racing!” Mel exclaimed in front of the astonished crowd.
“Now,
there's nothing in the rules says I can't do this.”
“Oh,
yes there is, laddy,” said O'Brien, who had just come around the corner an seen
what all the hubbub was about. “When I
asked you each time if any of you had altered your plates, you emphatically
said no.”
“Yeah,
but... Come now. We're all gentlemen
here.” He could see by the anger in
their faces that if they ever were gentlemen, they were quickly altering their
lifestyles. As the full complement of
men from the game rounded the corner, they all looked at him with unforgiving
scowls. Even those that had won money by
him looked to him as the source of their shame.
This was not going to end well for the former lice racing champion.
He
turned suddenly and dashed away, disappearing between the cabins. The men took chase, some down the thinner
aisles between cabins, some along the roads in the middle of the depot. Everywhere, men were rising to their feet to
watch the chase. Mel was knocking over
accoutrements to block his path, slowing the chasers only a little, but adding
angry men to the chase. Some were
knocking over camp equipment simply by their speed and recklessness. The chaos of the chase grew, as men joined
in, not knowing what they were chasing.
O'Brien, seeing an opportunity, stopped, finding men who knew only a
little of what was going on, and took bets on whether Mel would get away, and
if not, what punishment would be dealt to him.
The
chase ended at the door of Sergeant Artemis McCracken where Mel had run to
defend himself. He knew that Artemis
kept a cricket bat at his doorway, and hoped it may be enough to fend off his
would-be attackers. “Stay back, the lot
of you!” he said. “First one to come
near gets a chop on the head!”
The
door swung wide and out come Artemis, baffled by the noise outside his
door. “What's going on out here?” he
demanded.
“These
boys want to knock me senseless,” Mel said.
Artemis
looked around at all the angry faces.
They were immediately protesting, but, talking all at once, none could
be understood. “What did you do to get
them so steamed, Hunter?” Artemis asked.
“Just
a little creative sportsmanship,” Mel answered.
One of the men, seeing Mel distracted, started toward Mel. Mel held the bat up threateningly at him, and
the man backed off.
“Whoa! Whoa!” he said, stopping everyone. “What sport you been talking about, then?”
“We
race lice on plates,” Pud told him, “and he's been heating the plates!” The others shouted in agreement.
“Lice?”
Artemis asked. “You all never cease to
amaze me. Pray, where do you get all
this lice?”
“Benson
donates it from his head,” Pud said.
“Benson! Don't you ever take a bath?” Artemis yelled
in frustration. Benson smiled in return,
despite the chastisement.
With
Artemis's attention now on Benson, the others crowded in again around Mel. He took another swing, this time at the whole
crowd. The bat made a 'whoosh' sound in
the air.
Artemis
saw the potential danger in the current situation and knew he was on the
spot. Though not the commander of the
supply depot where they were stationed, that was the lieutenant's job, the men
and also the women nurses looked to him for moral guidance. They would blame him if things went wrong,
but they would also blame him if justice was not done. He watched Mel take his swing and saw his
out. “That's a mighty fine swing you got
there,” Artemis said.
“Thank
you kindly,” Mel said.
“You
ever play town ball?” Artemis asked.
“Yeah,”
Mel said, looking at him confused.
Four
brown sacks of grain were laid out in a square, and a black one was placed at
the base between the two closest to the outer works of the depot. They were in the field out front of the fortifications where a wide clearing separated
the entrenchments from the treeline. In
the center of the square was a small, flat rock; the hurler's location. Artemis stood here tossing the rock in to the
batters however they wanted it. Despite
their clear requests, it sometimes took him several throws to feed it in
correctly.
The
men had forgotten their animosity toward one man and now had all their focus on
winning the game. Mel stood far out in
left field placing as little notice on himself as possible. Pud was not far off, being in center field,
but he had been a base ball player in New York, and nothing got his blood up
like a ball game.
Benson,
in fact, had been a teammate from the old club, and when he went up to bat, Pud
was particularly cruel, calling out every taunt he could think up. “Dammit, Benson! I can smell you from clear out here!” he
shouted, entirely ignoring the teammate with which he had had a true beef with
just a few minutes earlier.
Benson
just smiled and didn't respond. He
focused in on Artemis's throws, pointing the bat toward him, squinting, as
though aiming for one of his sniper shots.
“It's no wonder they put you up in a tree! Keeps the stench from distracting the rest of
us! Whoo!” Pud continued. The taunts seemed to cheer Benson up more
than distract him, and he readied for the throw.
He
struck the ball, but it only nicked against the bat, and the ball flew high
into the air, almost directly to the right, curving back a little even, toward
a group of black field hands who were replacing some of the wood in the walls
along the picket line. Covering first
base, O'Brien was the closest, and he jogged over to collect it.
One
of the field hands unfolded himself from the ground where he was working, and
stood up his full six and a half feet tall.
With his large, muscular arms, and broad chest, he looked like a giant,
and an awkward one like that. He hunched
over, leaned a little to one side and looked at people almost sideways when
listening to them. He looked down at the
ball, which had bounced to a stop near him, then up at the game, staring
curiously, as though he was taking it all in to understand. Most of the game stopped to stare back at
him. It was as though time had slowed for
no good reason. The large black man then
leaned down, a long way to go for him, and picked the ball up gently in the
palm of his hand.
“That's
a big nigger,” Mel said.
“He
came with the lieutenant,” Pud said.
“The name's Samson. They say he
used to belong to the lieutenant until he got freed last year.”
O'Brien
slowed, not coming close to Samson. The
other black field hands were now standing behind him.
“Why
won't he say anything?” Mel asked.
“He's
mute,” Pud said. “At least that's what I
wager he is. O'Brien has it on four to
one in favor that he's mute. Could be
he's just got nothing to say, but I doubt it.
Some still claim he can't hear, but I've heard him react to things.”
“Sometimes
there's just not a lot to say,” Mel said, his eyes still on the tall man,
fascinated by his stillness.
“Well,
I've never heard him speak, so... Why am
I speaking to you, anyway? I'm mad at
you!” Pud walked briskly away, back to
his own section of the outfield.
O'Brien
held out his hand like he was offering a treat.
“Here, boy. Toss it here. That's a good lad.” He clicked his tongue like he would with a
dog. He took a cautious step forward and
signaled to send it to him with his index finger. When Samson looked directly at him with his
dark chocolate eyes, O'Brien held out his hands so he could catch it. “Be a good lad, now, toss it here.”
Samson
then looked past the Irishman at the others standing and waiting to get their
ball back, At Artemis standing fifty yards or more away. He took a step back and whipped his hand into
the air. The ball arched high and
crossed the field quickly.
Artemis
had to throw up his own hands very suddenly to keep the ball from landing hard
in his face. He shook his hand in pain,
the ball having fallen into it at full speed.
He looked over at Samson and nodded.
“Thank you.”
Samson
nodded as slowly, then looked deliberately at O'Brien, and then returned to his
work. O'Brien spun round and returned to
his game.
A
few hits later, the ball flew far into the outfield, past a row of tall trees,
and into the tall grass beyond. Both Mel
and Pud chased, but Mel slowed up when he saw Pud was closer.
Pud
emerged into what looked like a different world. The wall of trees served as a barrier between
the clearing and this wilderness of underbrush and shrubs. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to find
the ball in all of this.
He
turned to his left, searching for a break in the grass where the ball might
have made its mark upon landing. He
couldn’t see anything, but he was certain he had located the correct area. He waded through the sea of brown and green
as though fording a river. It came up to
his waist, a little higher than it would on most people. ‘Why in tarnation did Mel stop?’ he wondered,
annoyed yet again with the new blood.
Then
he felt something against his foot; a lump, something it slid off, then knocked
against. Pud reached down, then came
back up smiling ear to ear with the ball in his hand. He turned toward the clearing, about to dash
back, but then heard something in the direction he had not gone that caught his
attention. As soon as he saw it, he
ducked down deep into the grass, covering his entire body.
There,
standing boldly in the waving grass, was a rebel rider on a horse. The rebel did not see him; he was looking
past the trees, out at the game. The
horse, on the other hand, was staring directly at him. It swatted its tail against its body
indifferently, just watching Pud with passive eyes, and not moving.
Pud
froze in that horse’s stare, too afraid to think, or even to move. The sound of another horse approaching shook
him free of his daze, and Pud ducked into the grass just as a second rider
emerged from a line of trees on the other side of the tall grass field.
Pud
could hear them beyond the hissing of the grass wavering in the wind. They were talking casually. One called the other Skeet. They had evidently spotted the men playing
town ball and were discussing what to do.
Pud had to worn them before they were ambushed. But he was just far enough from the line of
trees that the riders might catch him before he reached them should he be
spotted. So Pud began to creep his way,
still under cover of the grass, toward the clearing.
Peaking
between the stems he could see that the men were too involved in their
reconnaissance to notice Pud. He
continued scooting, pulling himself by his arm and kicking forward with his
legs.
Then
he heard them call for him. “Pud! What’s taking you so long?” Mel shouted,
followed by others making fun of him.
They
turned toward the line of trees, walking toward it, confused why it was taking
so long for Pud to find the ball.
The
two riders were taken aback. Had they
been spotted? Why were they shouting
“Pud?” They both came to the realization
at the same time that someone was in this corridor-like field with them. They both looked around, and Vincent spotted
it. He saw the grass wavering in a line
directly toward the wall of trees, like a gofer leaving a trail as it digs
underground. He pointed it out quietly
to Skeet.
Though
he tried to be discreet about it, Pud was already watching. He knew he had been spotted, so he tried to
remain still, hoping they would second guess themselves and look elsewhere.
The
one with the long brown hair with a thin face it looked alien in nature, the
one who was not Skeet, pulled out his pistol and cocked it. He held it in the air and looked directly
down on Pud’s location, trying to peer through the grass. It was too late to run, but he would be
spotted in a moment.
Mel
was now almost to the line of trees, and several others were not far behind. “Did you get lost in there?” was called out,
among other taunts.
Skeet
and Vincent turned toward the sounds.
They only had moments before the shadows and the trees wouldn’t hide
them anymore. “Let’s bring up the
artillery,” Skeet said.
“No
time,” Vincent said, and just as Mel arrived at the tree-line, Vincent fired,
hitting him squarely in the chest and knocking him backward.
The
men in the field saw him and fall and stopped, shocked. Some thought Pud had done it out of anger of
the lice races, and couldn’t believe he had done it over something so petty.
Pud
saw his chance and jumped up from hiding, dashing for the line of trees. Vincent and Skeet saw him. Skeet pulled his gun and both fired after
him, but the shots flew past, knocking against the trees all around him.
Skeet
cursed, and turned to retreat. Vincent
held his ground. A moment later, a
couple dozen of their men rode into their small valley between the tall trees. Thomas was not among them, so they looked to
Vincent.
Vincent
held his gun aloft and shouted, “Chaaaaaaarge!”
The others rose up a cry of the rebel yell, a cringe-inducing screech
that was somewhere between a fox-hunt yep and a banshee squall. It almost sounded like an Indian war cry, and
it sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it.
The
Federal ball players heard it a moment after they saw Pud emerge, waving his
hands hysterically and yelling something incoherent. They realized after they heard the shouts
that he was telling them to get back to the base.
The
ball players were backing away from the trees, and some had the presence of
mind to begin running when the cavalry emerged from the tree line at a full
gallop. The Union ball players scattered
and ran for the defensive works and the fortifications on the hill at full
speed.
It
wasn’t fast enough for the outfielders.
The horsemen ran them down in seconds, the horses trampling over them,
barely slowed as the heavy horses crushed their bodies and kept moving.
Pud had
been lucky that he was off to the side when they rode in. The tidal wave of brown and black animals
with their gray and brown clad riders had passed him, but at his side,
providing him with more time to get to the line.
Soldiers
who had been spectating from the breastworks now jumped behind them, but only a
few had guns. They began firing, while
the rest ran into the camp to get theirs.
All was a swirl of shouting and panic.
A row of
horsemen chased Artemis who was huffing and puffing as he pushed his rotund,
middle aged body up the hill. He could
feel the ground shake under the powerful hooves. He could hear the men behind him screaming,
then the screams were cut short with a crunch as the wave caught up with
them. He could see O’Brien with some of
the men who had already made it ahead of him waving him toward them. He took in a breath, sprinted harder the last
few feet, driving his legs harder than he ever had before, and jumped for it.
He just
missed. His body landed halfway in the
trench, his legs stuck out the back. He
felt someone, O’Brien most likely, grab his belt and yank him the rest of the
way in. He tasted the dirt as his body
crashed into it, knocking the wind out of him.
Behind him, he felt dirt smatter onto his back, as though he was being
buried, and he heard the roar of the horses as they leaped over the
entrenchments, their riders whooping and hollering.
Angus and
Haywood were at the back of the attack.
They saw a short, lone Yankee running for the entrenchments off to the
side and chased him down. Angus had his
sword out and led the chase after him.
Haywood took a couple shots, but missed him.
Just as
Angus approached, the nimble little man jumped to the opposite side, and Angus
was not able to readjust himself in time.
Haywood aimed his shotgun at him, but the man ran between the two horses
and Haywood held his fire to avoid hitting Angus.
By the time
they were able to twist themselves in the direction of the running man, he had
already gotten to the breastworks and jumped behind them. Haywood and Angus charged the breastworks to
get in before the Yankees could set up a proper defensive line.
The depot
was being completely overrun. The rebels
had broken through the outer field works, and nothing was in place to stop
them. This was the situation the Union
lieutenant saw when he emerged from his headquarters. Only a couple of his staff members were
present, the rest had been at the outer works where the trouble had begun. ‘How could they have broken through if
everyone was at that edge of the camp?’ the lieutenant thought, but he knew he
couldn’t dwell on the matter. He had to
rally his troops and form a defensive line.
As he
hurried to the road and saw the wave of Confederate horsemen rushing toward him
down every alley and road like water filling in through the cracks, he knew
that no defensive line would be possible.
“Every man grab his weapon!” he shouted, and yanked out his own
pistol. He stood tall in the middle of
the lane, his body situated perfectly sideways, and peered down the barrel of
the gun at the lead horseman. He fired,
taking the man down, then fired at the next man. This slowed the rest behind them
considerably, but still, they were coming on the sides, and the lieutenant ran
for cover.
Thomas and
Cooter arrived at the line of trees as Skeet was getting the horse artillery
set up. The majority of the attack was
well under way, the main body of their force already in among the field works
and cabins. “What happened?” Thomas
asked.
“Sergeant
Stivens,” Skeet answered, and that was explanation enough. Thomas shook his head. The battle was already underway, and there
was no stopping it now. “Let’s go,
Coot,” he said, and they pulled their pistols and galloped forward.
Benson
found his rifle, leaning up against the tree where he had left it. He swept it up with one hand and kept
running. The horses were still racing by
him on each direction, and he had to keep dodging and get some distance. He turned toward a rise in the hill from
which he knew he would have a good deal of space.
Vincent had
now slowed his advance enough to do some killing. He rode up alongside unarmed Yankees who were
running for their weapons. Vincent rose
his saber in his left hand and sliced.
He caught a man in the neck, slicing open the artery. The head jolted to the side, loose of its
body, as blood poured upward, and his body crumpled to the ground. Vincent then tossed the saber to his right
hand and swung down at men on the other side with as much dexterity as he had
with his left. The saber ripped through
a man's arm, who fell, clutching it, then chopped into the back of a man's
skull, who tripped forward, almost taking the saber with him before Vincent
yanked it out. One man ahead of him had
the presence of mind to duck, and Vincent rammed him with the horse, smashing
him into a cabin. The sheer weight of it
crushed the man, and his raggedy, doll-like body slumped to the ground while
Vincent howled in delight.
Finally off
the ground, and with air refilling his lungs, Artemis organized the men enough
to man the artillery with those who had no guns on them, and form a firing line
with those who did. They turned inward
toward the camp, searching for targets they could concentrate on, and Artemis
kept a lookout or two watching to see if there would be any more coming. The lookout shouted, “Watch out!” and before
Artemis could turn to see how many horses were coming, a cannonball crashed
into the breastworks, raining splinters all over the men.
Artemis
looked out at the field and saw two more cannonballs bouncing across the field
at them. “Heads down!” he shouted, and
all but one got the order in time. The
last was split in half, his limbs flailing in four directions, as though
looking for a new body to attach to.
“Aim
there!” Artemis shouted at the artillerymen.
They turned the cannon in the direction of the rebel artillery and
loaded their ammunition while the Confederates quickly reloaded theirs.
Though safe
for the moment in the trench, Pud knew it wouldn't be for long, so he climbed
out and ran into the camp to find some stacked arms from which he could grab a
rifle. He watched the movement of the
horses and tried to stay behind them.
The rebels seemed too interested in maneuvering quickly to notice what
was behind them.
He
zigzagged through a couple thin alleys that seemed too skinny to fit a horse,
and he emerged in a square clearing where, in the very center, rested a fresh
circle of rifles all stacked together at their bayonets. Pud ran forward and grabbed the closest one. As he yanked it out, the rest toppled to the
ground. He didn't care. He just needed this one.
He turned
around, ready to enter the fight, only to find himself faced with a rebel on a
horse, a trumpet in one hand and a pistol in the other, aimed directly at
him. Pud fired without hesitation. The rebel flinched, but nothing came out of
the gun. The empty click denoted that it
was unloaded. The rebel then fired, and
Pud felt a sting at his neck. He
clutched it, feeling blood, and he fell to his knees. He felt his body fall to the ground as he
went unconscious. His last thought was,
'So this is the last of Earth.'
Cooter
watched the man he had just shot fall face first to the ground, blood oozing
from his neck. He was still for a
moment, unable to move. He had never
seen the face of someone he shot in a battle before. It was always his line against another, and
when he pulled the trigger and enemies fell, it could have been anyone's bullet
that had brought them down. Now it was
much more personal. He couldn't blame
this man's murder on anyone but himself.
He turned
to Thomas, who was near him firing away, taking down running Yankees all around
them, and knew that he could do it, too.
Benson
managed to get to his rise in the ground away from the chaos, and even managed
to lay down among a high point of tall grass.
He spotted the Union lieutenant gathering armed men and forming a
defensive parameter around the center, giving out guns from his own supply to
those who hadn't managed to get any yet.
Benson stayed where he was. He
could do more good here. He rolled onto
his back, yanked open the black powder wrapping with his teeth, and, just as he
had learned in his first unit with the zuaves, he reloaded his gun by tilting
it slightly up. He spat out the wrapping
and tossed the Minnie ball into the barrel, shoved it down with the ramrod,
then rolled onto his chest and took aim.
He found a
horseman in his site. He knew exactly
how far away the man was by the notches at the end of the small, metal site,
and he knew exactly how far it would fire straight forward before giving a very
slight lean tot he left. He got the man
lined up perfectly and waited for a moment for him to stop moving so
erratically. He stopped, pointing his
pistol at a surrendering Union soldier who was pinned up against the wall. Benson squeezed the trigger and a burst of
red dust flew from the man's head. He
teetered on his horse a moment, then slid off the far side. The Union soldier looked around confused, and
Benson didn't see anything after that.
He rolled onto his back and began reloading again.
Three of
the Confederate cavalrymen rode around a corner to find a cabin with one of its
double doors still open. Inside, they
could see stores of ammunition, grain sacks, everything for which they had
come. All that stood in their way was a
large black man who stood more than six feet tall wielding a pick axe.
“Here it is
boys! Just get rid o' the nigger an'
we're all heroes!” one of them said.
Another
pulled his saber and casually rode up toward Samson. Samson watched him as the man slowly pulled
up his sword, preparing to bring it down as a coupe-de-gras. Samson suddenly ducked the swing and chopped
at the saddle. He broke it loose and
punctured the horse, sending the man falling off the other side and the horse
jumping.
The other
two pulled their revolvers, and Samson kicked dirt into the air. Mixed with the dirt already flying from the
jumping horse, he was lost in a sudden brown cloud.
The men
looked for him, and heard their friend screaming as he was jumped on by his horse.
Suddenly, the pick axe flew out of the cloud and buried itself in the
center of the chest of one of the men.
He made a gasping noise, unable to speak, looked over at his friend
beside him, and slid off his horse.
Enraged,
the third, and only, remaining survivor rode forward into the dust. He suddenly felt his leg grabbed, and before
he could bring his gun over to point at the culprit, he found himself thrown on
the ground, his back knocking against it so hard he lost his breath and his gun
flew out of his hand. He saw above him
suddenly the enraged face of a large, angry black man. The man's fist came down on him. The weight of every ounce of manual labor the
man did, the years of doing physical work, and the lifetime of building muscles
to be useful as a field hand, all came down on the Confederate soldier, as he
was pummeled across his face, into his nose, on his neck, and even into his
chest, until slowly he was beaten to death.
Thomas
rounded a corner and found himself at the edge of the encampment, away from the
fighting. No one was over here, and
nothings was to be found, so he turned to get back into the fight.
Cooter
arrived as well, and happened to turn in the opposite direction. He saw a scrawny young blonde kid sitting on
his horse, looking around the opposite end of the cabin. “Jed, what're ya doin' here?” Cooter's voice caught Thomas's attention, and
he looked over at Jed.
“I'm, I'm
guardin' this flank,” he said.
“Y'ain't
guarded nothin', ya no good varmint...”
“Jed, you're
gonna fall in with us,” Thomas ordered.
“But,” Jed
started.
“No
buts. Get over here!” Thomas wasn't asking, and he had a gun out,
which was more than Jed could say. He
rode over to Thomas and got ahead of him.
“You got your gun?” Thomas asked.
Jed pulled out his shiny Colt 1860 that looked like it had never been
fired from its polished saddle holster that had rarely been drawn from.
Thomas made
a clicking sound, the type one makes when urging a horse forward, and Jed led
the way, going back into the fight with the other two following behind.
Angus and
Haywood emerged from a group of buildings.
All around them was the swirling chaos of the attack. Their blood was up, and they were anxious for
some more action. Haywood led the way,
toward a crowd of running Yankees, but Angus stopped suddenly, looking over at
a cabin to their right. It was larger
than the others, bulkier, with a tall ceiling and double doors. He knew a supply cabin when he saw one. “Haywood!” he shouted, and started to ride
toward it.
Haywood
turned and followed his friend. They
began to ride quickly. Only one man was
in the way surrounded by a few dead bodies and a dead horse. The man wasn’t even in uniform, and he looked
black. He’d get out of the way quickly,
Angus was certain.
Benson
followed the two riders he saw racing across toward the supply cabin. He preferred a stationary target, but these
were riding mostly away from him, and their backs were square to his direction. He squeezed the trigger, and the rear one
lurched in his saddle, then dropped.
Angus heard
the all too familiar thud, and turned to see Haywood drop out of his
saddle. “NO!” he shouted, and jumped
from his horse, running to Benson’s side.
He knelt down and turned Haywood’s face to him. His eyes were still open. There was still hope! He tried to ignore the fact that they weren’t
moving and called to his friend. He
shook him, slapped at him, begged him to get up. Haywood answered with blood emerging from his
lips.
Angus
grabbed his hand. It was ice cold. Could life leave his body so quickly? It couldn’t!
Angus insisted. “Haywood! Get up!”
He shook him again, and in shaking saw motion. It was, of course, only motion from Angus’s
manipulation, but he held on to it, insisting to himself that Haywood would be
all right.
Benson
finished reloading on his back and rolled back over to his stomach, the gun
leveling with his eye in one swift motion.
He had Angus in his site immediately.
All too easy.
Then he
froze. He could see Angus’s pained
expression, the look of unbridled agony on his face as he looked upward and
cried shamelessly. The man would not
mind being shot now, and would possibly welcome it. But he was no threat to the Union. Not now anyway. Benson couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the
trigger, so he turned to find a different target.
Benson now
had a line of men in the trenches facing inward toward the camp. “Watch for your friends, boyos! And fire at will!” Benson ordered. The men took careful aim and fired at the
horsemen.
More cannon
balls bounced up from behind and flew over their heads. They were keeping low, now, but the shaking
ground and the fear of being landed on affected their shots.
Artemis got
his artillery lined up and ordered them to fire. The shot from the rifled artillery was well
timed, and exploded among some of the cannoneers. The shock wave threw them, and the explosion
tore one of them apart and set two more on fire, who fell to their knees
screaming. The other cannonballs, coming
from smoothbore artillery, bounced across the field, causing the men to keep
low to avoid being hit. One was
unavoidable. It crashed through the
wheel of the caisson, ripping off the leg of a man who was standing near it,
and sending large wooden splinters into others nearby.
A friend
ran to one of the burning men and tried to put a blanket over him. He missed another man on fire who stumbled
into another caisson which had been opened to get at the ammunition. “Look out!” someone shouted, just barely too
late. As the man reached out to him, the
burning man hit the powder, and the caisson, the man, and the one reaching too
him, went up in a huge explosion, the shockwave of which dropped the men of the
neighboring guns to the ground, and whose debris landed all around.
Skeet
quickly assessed the severe damage done to his men. Nearly half of them were taken out of action
in one volley. He had to withdraw or
lose their only artillery. “Pull
back! Get the guns into the woods!” he
shouted. The men quickly did as ordered,
grabbing the guns by hand and yanking them back past the trees behind them.
Not one to
usually prefer by a fight, Cooter had gotten caught up in the excitement of the
melee. He looked over and saw a crowd of
Yankees trying to form up, but having difficulty in the disorder of
things. He pointed them out to Thomas,
who was still right behind him, and charged.
“Wait! Cooter!” Thomas had seen the men and believed
them to be closer to organizing than Cooter seemed to believe. He chased after.
They zipped
past the command cabin, first Cooter, then Thomas right on his tail. A single shot rang out behind Thomas, and he
felt his horse jolt, then saw the world spin as the horse crumbled to the
ground and Thomas rolled off. He felt
his body hit the ground, first on his front, then his side, then over and over
as the world spun around him in a blurry motion. He landed on his back, every muscle and bone
aching. Somewhere in the distance he
heard more shots, then hoofs running, and he hoped it was Cooter abandoning
him.
Thomas
immediately grabbed at his pistol and rose with it pointed forward. Someone else’s revolver appeared in his face,
and he found himself in a face-to-face standoff with the enemy lieutenant, both
six-shooters pointed at one another and ready to shoot.
Their eyes
jolted with recognition at the same time.
“Tommy?” the lieutenant said in a voice higher than any of his men had
ever heard him speak.
Thomas’s
eyes furrowed. “What in hellfire are you
doin’ here, Johnny?” he asked.
The
expression and question shook Johnny out of his daze. “I’m in charge of this base. And yer my prisoner.”
“The hell I
am,” Thomas said, nodding toward his gun.
“So we
gonna shoot each other?” Johnny asked.
“So close to home.”
“Not if you
surrender yer fort,” Thomas said.
From a few
cabins down, Samson saw that Johnny was in trouble. He grabbed the carbine of one of the dead
rebels nearby, jumped upon one of the riderless horses that was loitering
nearby and raced toward him.
Coming
closer, he saw around the corner of a building a small, red-headed man not far
away from Johnny, aiming his pistol, ready to fire. He rose the carbine, uncertain what to do
with it. He had seen people fire with
these things, and he knew it had something to do with the trigger, but how to
aim effectively, and how to kill was something of which he had no notion. He pulled the trigger, hoping it would do
something.
It only
managed to turn Cooter’s attention to him.
Cooter turned to the black man and fired, but in his haste, shot wildly.
The nearby
shots caught Johnny’s attention, and he looked over at Samson riding toward
him.
Thomas took
the opportunity to knock Johnny’s gun out of his face, and he swiped his own
gun across Johnny’s cheek. Johnny fell
back, dazed.
Cooter saw
the opening and dashed to Thomas. Thomas
scrambled to his feet and reached out his hand.
Cooter grabbed it and pulled him up behind him with one hand, then, with
the other, held the bugle to his mouth and called the retreat. The Yankees were organizing, and it was time
to get out of there.
Vincent
heard the retreat and looked into the air at its source. He cursed under his breath, then looked
around him at the soldiers who looked to him for what to do. “Get back to the treeline! Get!”
They
rode off with all haste. Vincent lingered
a moment to see if there were any stragglers, and found Angus hovering over the
body of his dead friend. Vincent rode to
him. “Get up, Welch! On your horse! We’re pullin’ out!”
Angus
looked at him with a puffy, wet, red face.
Anguish filled his entire body, and he was unable to speak, but it was
clear he would not leave his friend’s body.
“Ya
want vengeance for this?” Vincent asked.
“Ya wanna kill those what are responsible? Then come with me.” Vincent held out his hand. “Come with me an’ we’ll make them Yankee
bastards pay for everythin’ they’ve done!”
A
determined look crossed over Angus’s face.
He took one last look at Haywood, and with hate coursing through his
body, he took Vincent’s hand and swung himself up behind him. Together, they raced off behind the others,
hurrying into the trees.
As
the enemy rode away, Benson lined up one last shot; the man on back of a
horse. He was a bit dustier than the
others. The rider was skinny, had red
hair, and was blowing the bugle to tell everyone to leave. With luck, Benson’s shot might go right
through the guy on the back and into the bugler. Two in one shot. His finger tensed. He lined up perfectly on the man’s back, and
squeezed.
Just
as he did, the barrel was pulled upward.
It was Artemis. He held up the
front of the gun and said, “Let him go, lad.”
Benson
looked confusedly at Artemis, then looked around him at the carnage. It had been a bloody mess, but it was over.
Among
all the swirling dust and smoke, Samson rode up slowly next to Johnny, who was
now standing and looking in the direction that Thomas just rode away. He stood there a moment in quiet disbelief
before acknowledging Samson. “That was
Thomas,” he said, as though coming to terms with the reality himself.
Samson
was barely listening to Johnny. He was
looking at the gun cradled across his lap.
Something about it was holding a hundred percent of his attention in
raptured fascination.
Johnny
sensed that he wasn’t being listened to, so he turned to Samson and looked at
what he was staring at. “What’re you
doin’ with that horse and that gun?”
Samson
snapped out of his thoughts. He looked
over at Johnny, then back at the gun.
His whole demeanor changed to shame, and he tossed the gun to the
ground. Then he climbed off the horse
and, head low, gave the reigns to Johnny.
Then he walked away.
Johnny
watched him go for a moment, confused as to why Samson would want to carry a
gun and ride a horse, then looked back over in the direction Thomas had ridden
off, out into the dust and smoke.
If you'd like to learn more about the book, go to: http://www.bandwagononline.com/The-American-Game.html
