The Pond

Source

"Major Johnson!"

Johnson turned, it was his brigade commander, a bandage across his forehead, stained with fresh blood. He was wearing a hat that normally would be too big, but it did fit over the bandage.

"Sir, are you all right?" Johnson was concerned.

"I'll live." The colonel looked around, puzzled.

"Where is your regiment?"

Johnson realized that the colonel had probably been in the rear getting patched up and wasn't completely cognizant of the full situation.

Johnson nodded down the slope, where he could just see the top of the farmhouse where his men had been cut to red ribbons.

"Most of 'em are still down there, Sir."

They'd been down the slope twice now, both times they had cleared the rebs from the farm, both times the gray-clad enemy had come back, in greater numbers each time. His regiment, under its colonel, had marched into battle with seven hundred men, now there were maybe two hundred left, give or take a dozen.

The colonel had gone down in the first attack, shot through the body. He'd been evacuated to the rear by a party of bandsmen, but had died before the surgeons could get to him.

Of the ten companies in the regiment, each averaged a dozen or so men, A Company was the strongest with twenty six men still capable of fighting. H Company, down to only five men, had been disbanded, its survivors bolstering K Company.

Johnson was the sole remaining officer.

Hearing his name, he snapped back to the present, "Sir?"

"Do you see that small pond just outside the tree line over yonder? Has a fence on the far side."

Johnson remembered the pond, he nodded.

"We're going back in again, the entire brigade."

Johnson's shoulders slumped. But he shook himself and simply asked, "When?"

"Thirty minutes, maybe an hour, we're waiting on ammunition. I won't go in with half empty cartridge boxes. Now the pond, have your boys keep an eye on it. Shoot anybody who's headed in that direction. I don't want those Johnnies replenishing their water supply."

Johnson shook his head, "Sir, the farm has a well."

The colonel grinned, but there was no mirth in that expression, "There's a dead man in that well. Those boys drink that water, they'll be sicker 'n' dogs by sundown."

"You sure?" Captain Rafael Ducheine asked his sergeant. The men's canteens were empty, the day was growing hotter, and now apparently the only protected source of water had a dead man in it.

"Yessir, we just now fished him out, dead Yank, he's been in there a while from the look of it. I wouldn't drink that shit, Sir."

Ducheine stood up, he had orders to hold this place against all comers. But without water, they wouldn't hold long. Black powder had a tendency to give a fellow a powerful thirst.

"Get a party together. There's a pond out yonder, back towards the trees. We can refill our canteens there. Have some men go with the canteen party in case the Yanks start a' shootin' at 'em."

"'Okay, Rafe, I'm on it."

Sergeant Adams jumped as one of his men fired. The battle had gone quiet, desultory musket shots in the distance was all. He could actually hear the whirr of the cicadas in the trees nearby. It made him homesick as hell.

"Gotcha, ya Reb bastard." One of the older men, Franklin was his name, was reloading his rifle.

Adams looked down the slope, a number of gray and butternut clad men scrambled back towards the farm, out of sight. But one of their number lay thrashing in the wheat.

"Water party?"

Adams turned to see his commander, "Yessir, Franklin potted one of 'em."

Johnson nodded, "Good, keep those bastards away from that pond."

"Jesus, Teddy, I'm hit boy. Come drag me into cover." 

As he said that, Private Roman McCoy, gripped his belly again, the pain was getting real bad.

"Damn Rafe, what kind of ghoul shoots a man down who's tryna get water. Them bluebellies ain't got no soul."

"It's war, Sergeant Gaumont. Them fellows want this farm as bad as we do. They must know about the dead man in the well."

"Bastards probably put him there."

Ducheine shook his head, "I doubt it, but they know the well is contaminated. We've been out here all day in the sun. They're watching the pond from that ridgetop."

"What do we do?"

"We wait for nightfall and hope the bluebellies stay up there."

"Hey Louis!"

The sergeant looked towards the rear, "What?"

"McCoy ain't moving!"

"Hell, he's dead you idiot." Gaumont turned to Ducheine, "Secure the water party?"

"Yup, Yanks won't let us near it now, they know the score."

The brigade was aligned, no more than seven hundred men, scarcely a regiment in better days, it was all that was left of five full regiments of the West's finest.

Johnson was on foot, he had made sure that his pistol was loaded and had his sword drawn. More to position the men and signal with than to cut someone down. When they got close, the pistol would come out.

He felt a bead of sweat slip past his hatband and begin its journey down his face. Damn but it was hot out here.

The drums began to roll and a voice rang out, "Brigade will advance!"

They started down the slope, towards the farm.

"Goddamn it." Ducheine muttered when he heard the drums.

Then, "Here they come boys! Mark your targets, make the bastards pay with every shot!"

"Why we want this damned farm anyway, Rafe?"

Ducheine sighed, he'd never known Gaumont to be so querulous.

"See that big open area to our north?"

"Yessir."

"This farm commands that field, set up cannon here and those guns will sweep those fields. We know the Yanks ain't gonna attack, we will though, when Bobby Lee is good and ready. In the meantime, we hold this place so the Yanks can't set up their guns here. Make sense?"

Gaumont nodded, "Well, if Marse Lee wants this place, then I guess we better hold it."

Ducheine wondered if General Lee even knew about this place, but he'd bet his ass that old Pete Longstreet knew about it.

Firing broke out as the men in blue came into effective killing range. The blue ranks shuddered, but didn't stop. Gaps were filled, the enemy pressed on. Then, with something which sounded like a growl, the Northerners charged, bayonets lowered.

At the wall, men fired a last shot then engaged. Men from both sides went down as the fighting became hand to hand.

Captain Ducheine saw a Yankee major directing men into the fight, he drew his pistol and laid its sights on the man. He pulled the trigger but lost the man in the smoke. He thought to step to one side but had no time, a Yank was on him.

"Feckin' Reb bastard!" The man was Irish and appeared to know his business. Gaumont had shouted a warning at him, but Ducheine was too late.

He gasped as the steel of the man's bayonet entered his side. The pain was overwhelming. He fell first to his knees, then screamed as the Yankee ripped the blade from his body, falling face first into the fertile soil of the farm.

As he lost consciousness, he thought of the letter he carried in his jacket. Will those folks in Minnesota ever know what happened to their boy?

Around him, his regiment collapsed, the men fleeing as if the hounds of hell were in pursuit.

The farm was in Union hands once more.