The Farmer

Source

Edelbert Hoerner sat uncomfortably upon his old mule. He was more used to walking behind her with his plow or sitting behind her as she pulled his wagon. She was getting on in years but she still worked sunup to sundown without much complaint. Which is more than he could say for his Frau.

"Kommt schon¹, Bessie. We need to be back by nightfall or my missus will tan both our hides."

When the armies had come, he had taken his wife, their two children, and the wagon with enough to tide them over for a few days down to his in-law's farm near Horner's Mill. His mother-in-law wasn't the most generous person on the planet and had he shown up empty-handed, he would have heard it about it. Then and for weeks to come.

The closer they got to home, riding up the Taneytown Road, the more unsettled he felt. Whether the mule sensed the farmer's emotions or whether she sensed things on her own was a toss up.

"Ho, Bessie, hold up."

Lying in the road, a few rods ahead, were bloated corpses, men and horses. No doubt Bessie had smelt them well before he had seen them. He could smell them now.

He also smelled burnt things, buildings and crops maybe.

He dug his heels in, he needed to see what had become of his farm.

"That's deep enough, fellows. We need to be moving."

"Hell Sarge, first hard rain'll wash these fellas right up outta the ground."

"Not our problem Rufus. Grab your gear and let's move out."

Sergeant Adams looked around the small barnyard. No doubt a pretty little place in peacetime, it was a scene of horror now.

The house and the outbuildings were riddled with holes. The small shed near the barn had burned to the ground and still smoldered. From the smell, he had to assume that something, or someone, had burned in there with the shed.

They had buried as many bodies as they could find in the short time allotted to them. General Meade wanted to be on the move and soon. They'd licked Bobby Lee but he'd gotten what was left of the Army of Northern Virginia back up the Cashtown Pike. They'd lost a lot of men here over the past few days, but that army remained a dangerous foe.

Adams, like many of the men, was glad of the rest after three hard days of battle. Thing is though, if Lee kept getting away like this, the war would never end.

"You Gaumont?"

Gaumont looked up, it was a colonel, one he didn't recognize. He stood up as he spoke, "Yessir, Sergeant Louis Gaumont at your service."

"Your outfit have any officers left?"

"Sir, my regiment is down to seventy three men. The rest are back thataway." Gaumont nodded towards the Gettysburg battlefield. "Ain't none of them above ground. Best I can do is myself and Corporal Pelletier, he's over yonder, having a nap."

"I'm Colonel Snead, Sergeant, late of General Ewell's staff. The general has instructed me to take command of your brigade, well, what's left of 'em anyway."

"Heck fire Sir, I doubt the whole brigade numbers over a few hundred."

"Still and all, we need to get the boys up and on their feet. The Potomac, and safety, is still a long ways off. So get your men together, I'll be up the road a piece, getting the other units moving."

Gaumont saluted, then said, "Sir, we was whipped, wasn't we?"

"Yes Sergeant, the bluebellies stopped us cold, but we ain't quite whipped yet. We get back to Virginia and get resupplied, we'll whup the Yanks when they come on again. Them bluebellies can stand and fight, I'll give 'em that, but can they attack?"

Gaumont had no words to answer that, he could still picture those bluebellies pouring down off the ridge, fire in their eyes and murder in their hearts. Oh hell yes, those boys could attack as well as anyone.

Hoerner looked at the wreckage of his farm. It would be a lot of work fixing things up. He'd ridden around his fields, his corn was ruined, his apple orchard was nearly destroyed, and most of the land was littered with the detritus of war.

He'd found a placard on his well, "Dead man was inside, don't drink here."

So there was that to deal with, guess he'd have to dig another well. The missus would never drink from the existing well again, he knew that. He had doubts about that himself.

He tied Bessie up to one of the trees still standing near the barnyard. She didn't care for the smell, he didn't either, the smell of shit, piss, and blood was everywhere.

He walked towards what was left of his barn, nearly tripping over something as he did so.

He looked down, it was a hand, a man's hand protruding from the soil.

"Damn it, typical government job, they can't even bury the dead properly."

And there, just outside the barn door, was a leg. Nobody attached to it, just a leg.

Edelbert Hoerner wasn't a naïve man, he'd seen things as a young boy back in Thuringia during the revolutions of 1848. He was no stranger to violence, but this, this severed leg outside his barn. It was just too much.

Hoerner wept unashamedly as he buried the leg. He wondered what the boy who had been born with that leg was like. Had he worn blue, or gray, and in the big scheme of things, did it really matter?

As he tamped down the last of the earth, he said a silent prayer, in hopes that the fellow whose leg he'd just buried was still alive.

He didn't understand war, he just wanted to raise his crops, and his children, in peace. But no, there were always men who wanted more, who wanted things that didn't, or shouldn't, belong to them.

He walked back to his mule, untied her, and remounted. As he did so, it started to rain, hard.

As the rain fell harder, he drew his collar tight and muttered, "Es gibt kein schlechtes Wetter, nur schlechte Kleidung.² Kommt schon, Bessie. We're going to get wet, no need to dawdle."

For the armies, the battle of Gettysburg was over. For the civilians in the region, the remnants of that struggle would occupy them for many long weeks. Restoring their homes, burying the dead, evacuating the many wounded from both sides.

War, is indeed Hell.

¹ Come on. (German) Can be used to mean "move faster" or "let's go."

² There is no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothing." (German)

The Night

Source

Sergeant Adams had looked everywhere, but he couldn't find Major Johnson. Though the Rebs had fallen back and the farm was again in Union hands, the casualties had been heavy. 

They'd gone into the latest attack with two hundred and twenty seven men, he had taken the roll as acting sergeant major, he knew the numbers. He was still waiting for the bill for the latest attack.

He'd gone in with A Company, the twenty six he'd advanced with were now but a mere handful. He wasn't sure, but if there were still a dozen men of A Company still on their feet, he would be amazed.

"Sarge?"

Adams looked up, it was Corporal Williamson, one of the few NCOs still alive.

"What is it, Buck?"

"I've been around to the companies, I went ahead and did that while you looked for the major. I've got the butcher's bill."

"How many men are left?"

"Seventy five, a couple of them are wounded but can still fight."

"Damn. Has anyone seen Major Johnson?"

"Yes ..."

"Well?"

"Couple men from C Company found him in front of the farmhouse, Surgeon looked at him, not long, he won't last the night."

"Thanks, Buck. Where is he?"

"Barn, probably outside, the ones the doc can save are inside. Everyone else ..."

"Okay."

The first thing Ducheine noticed was the crickets chirping. He found that odd, why would he hear crickets if he was dead? He tried to shift himself and a hot searing pain ripped through his abdomen. A gasp escaped from his lips as he tried to overcome the pain.

He heard voices, where was he?

Then it came back, the big Irishman in the blue uniform, the hot pain of the bayonet. As he'd gone down he remembered the pain most of all, but he remembered the hatred in the man's voice. The man who had killed him.

But he sensed that he was still alive, though barely.

Weakly, he cried out, "Help me ..."

"Hey Bobby, got a live one over here. Can't be sure but ..."

Bobby Simpson moved over to where his friend Earl Smalls had called from, damn but it was dark. It was almost as if the lantern itself refused to shine in this hellish place.

"Shine that light over here, Bobby."

Simpson did so. On the ground, his eyes shining feverishly in the lantern light, was a badly wounded Confederate officer.

Smalls grunted, "Feckin' Reb, leave him. He's done for anyway."

Simpson paused, looking at the man, he knelt down.

"Yer hit bad, Cap'n, don't move so much, yer just hurting yersel'."

Ducheine groaned, "I know I'm dying lad, but I have ..."

"Come on, Bobby, leave the bastard. He's done for plenty of our boys, I'm sure. Now it's his turn to suffer and die. Let him, or help him along, we're wasting time. He'll be in Hell soon enough."

Simpson saw the man reaching into his jacket, without a thought, Simpson grabbed the man's wrist.

"Not so fast, pal."

Ducheine understood, he was going fast, there wasn't much time.

"There are letters in my pocket, inside my jacket. One's to my wife, one's to a family in Minnesota."

Simpson reached into the man's jacket, sure enough, there were papers in there. He drew them out. By the dim light of the lantern he looked at them, yup, two letters. One to an address in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the other to an address in St. Cloud, in Minnesota.

"Who do you know in Minnesota, Cap'n?"

"I don't ... during one of the times we took the farm, there was a lieutenant, young fellow, dying ... He asked me to mail that one. I told him I would ... I promised ..."

"Cap'n?" He brought the lantern closer to the man's face.

"What the f**k, Bobby, what are you dawdling for?"

Simpson could see that the man was gone, his eyes were going dull, his spirit had fled.

"Nothing, Earl. This fellow's dead. Let's move on."

Adams went into the barn, it was like walking into Hell itself. Wounded were on the ground and on a couple of makeshift tables set up near the middle of the place. He bumped into an orderly headed for the entrance, the man was carrying a severed leg.

"Dear Jesus ..."

"Unless you're wounded, Sergeant, get the hell out of here!"

Adams looked at the surgeon, he was wearing a blood-soaked apron and had blood up to his elbows.  He was holding a saw, he took a drink from a silver flask then looked at Adams again.

"Major Johnson?"

"He's outside with the dead, now git!"

Adams headed outside, the orderly he'd bumped into was coming in.

"Your Major is outside, Sarge, to the left of the door as you exit. He's still alive, but that ain't gonna last."

"Uh, thanks."

Leaving the barn, he looked to his left, there was a row of bodies, most of them not moving. One of them was, he saw it was Johnson.

Rushing to him, he knelt down, "Major?"

Johnson stirred, he grinned. "Frank, you're still alive, saints be praised."

"Easy, Sir, I'll go get the surgeon, this ain't right ..."

"Don't, Frank, I'm not long for this world. The pain stopped a while ago, now I'm just cold."

Adams shook his head, it was one of the hottest nights he could ever remember.

"Come on, Sir, don't give up." Adams pleaded.

"It's my punishment, Frank. For killing Walker."

"Sir, that bastard deserved it, ain't no punishment for ..."

Johnson reached out and gripped Adams' jacket collar with surprising strength, "Yes, it is punishment. I had no right to shoot him, even though he might have been trying to shoot me. The man was scared, that's all ..."

"Hell, Sir, we're all scared, but most of us don't run. Walker did."

"I know, Frank, I know. Still and all, I feel pretty bad about it. You don't have your blanket with you, do you?"

Adams took his jacket off and covered the Major with it, "How's that, Sir?"

"Ephraim."

Adams looked around in confusion, "Sir?"

"It's my name, Frank, surely you knew that?"

"No Sir, I did not."

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, soon ..."

"Sir?"

Adams sighed, Major Johnson had died with the death of Corporal Walker on his conscience, that was bad. Though Adams wasn't a religious man, he did ask God, or whoever might be out there, if there was indeed anyone, to forgive the Major. He had been a good man, took care of his troops.

Adams stood up and took his kepi off, looking down at the man he'd followed into battle, he paused. Then he looked around, what sort of deity would permit this carnage? He didn't know but for now, he had to look to what was left of the regiment.

What was left of it.

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.

The Stone Wall

Source

"Hold up here boys!" Captain Rafael Ducheine held his left hand up as he watched the last few Yankees scramble away up the hill behind the farm.

His men halted at the stone wall running beside the farm track. They were leery of the buildings as up until moments ago, they had bristled with Yankee muskets. The effectiveness of those weapons could be seen in the field on their side of the wall, gray and butternut-clad bodies were strewn liberally throughout the farmer's field.

"Hey Rafe, can I get a detail together to take the wounded back to our lines?"

Ducheine had despaired of getting Sergeant Louis Gaumont to follow military protocol when they were away from the men.

"No Sergeant, we must hold this position. You may send a man back to have stretcher bearers come forward, but we can't spare a man other than that. The bluebellies will be back, you can count on that."

Gaumont nodded, then grabbed a nearby man to send back to their lines.

"Hey Capitaine, the bluebellies left behind a lot of perfectly good rifles, can we swap ours for theirs?" A private had addressed his company commander as if he was a neighbor, not his commander.

Ducheine had his glasses on the ridge to their front, due to the terrain he couldn't see much. Too many dips and hollows in the area around the farm. He half-heard the man's shout, then it registered.

Many of his men were equipped with smoothbore flintlock muskets. Effective at close range, but you had to get to that range alive first. He turned.

"Sergeant Gaumont, Corporal Pelletier, have the men with flintlocks search the dead Yanks for ammunition and caps. Gather up their rifles and collect them here. Good idea, Pierre, merci." With a nod to the man who had addressed him.

He didn't want his men to swap a perfectly good firearm for a better one if there was no ammunition to be had for the rifle.

It turned out that one of the reasons for the northerners pulling back was a shortage of cartridges. The men had gathered twenty or so perfectly good Springfields but only enough ammunition to maybe equip five men with those rifles.

As he turned to his sergeant the man was ready with his own answer. "Sir, I gave the Springfields to five of our best shots. They have thirty cartridges each, it ain't much but most of the fellows have only thirty or so rounds for their flintlocks, so the Springfielders should have enough."

Ducheine nodded as he scanned the ground to his rear, the trees they'd attacked from were on a slight rise. He started to speak when Gaumont interrupted him ...

"I figure we could put the Springfielders up in that tree line, they can fire over our heads, take advantage of their longer range and greater accuracy. Meanwhile, the rest of the fellows have pretty good cover along this wall. Wish'n it were higher, but it's better'n standing in the open."

"Get it done, Sergeant."

A party of ten stretcher bearers arrived on the field shortly after the men equipped with the Yankee rifles had taken up position in the tree line. Ducheine was walking the line, making sure the men had some cover, the stone walls in the area were very low. Built by farmers stacking up rocks they found while plowing, they had never been intended to be aesthetically pleasing or uniform.

Some of the men were using rails taken from a nearby fence to pile atop the walls, this gave them some cover in addition to the stones themselves. Better than nothing, Ducheine said to himself.

"Hey Capitaine! We got a live one 'ere!"

Ducheine walked over to where a few of his men were clustered around a man on the ground. A man in a blue uniform.

Ducheine saw the man's shoulder straps, a lieutenant, badly wounded from the looks of it. He knelt down next to the man.

"How bad are you hit, son?"

The boy grimaced, he'd been in the army long enough to recognize the three bars on Captain Ducheine's collar.

"Purty bad, Cap'n. I'm a goner for sure."

"Let me see." Ducheine reached for the young officer's jacket, it was bloody and torn and the young man had ripped open his buttons to see his wound.

It was bad, the Yankee's shirt and trousers were blood-soaked, Ducheine was surprised that the boy was still alive.

"Where ya from, son?"

"Minnesota, Cap'n. Hey, could you do something for me?"

"That depends on what the something is."

The young officer winced as he reached into his jacket, pulling forth a blood-stained notebook.

"There's a letter in there, for my Ma, another for my girl. Could you see they get sent?"

Ducheine took the notebook, sure enough, there were two envelopes tucked inside, not too bloody. "Certainly, son, I can do that. Anything else?"

Ducheine's eyes got misty as he saw the young man smile, as if he'd just won a prize. Then his eyes glazed over and the young lieutenant from Minnesota saw no more.

Ducheine was barely holding himself together, the death of the young Yankee had affected him greatly. He hadn't felt this bad since Sharpsburg, where his uncle had been killed standing next to him. He'd had to write a letter to his father and another to his aunt to tell her that she was now a widow.

"I wonder if those folks up north know they've lost their young lad?" he muttered as he sat behind the wall, sweating as the heat of the day grew.

"Sir?"

Ducheine turned, it was Sergeant Gaumont, why hadn't he used Ducheine's first name? There was no one else nearby, Gaumont sounded muted, reserved.

"What is it, Louis?" he asked in a soft tone.

"Why not catch a few winks, Cap'n? The Yanks are quiet, I'll keep an eye on things, wake you quick if needed."

Ducheine thought for a second, "Alright, mon cher sergent, I think I will. Have the boys got rations?"

"Yessir, I'll get 'em to eat. Might be a long afternoon if the bluebellies decide to get frisky again."

"Sir?"

It was then that Gaumont realized that his captain was already asleep.

The Barn

Source

Walker was dead, there could be no doubt about that. A large part of the top of the young man's head was gone. A puddle of thick blood pooled under him. It had stopped spreading moments ago. Johnson assumed that there was none left to spill out upon the floor of the dusty old barn. It was a large puddle, he observed, almost as if it had nothing to do with him.

He sat with his back against one wall, the wall furthest from where the fighting was, the wall with the fewest holes in it. His legs were splayed upon the floor, his hands resting by his side, the right one still holding the heavy pistol he had used to end Walker's life.

He looked at the sunlight streaming through the holes in the far wall, he could see the dust motes dancing in the air. It struck him that the clouds had broken, during the fighting it had been overcast. The entire morning the sky had threatened to begin raining again. At least it had temporarily cooled the air.

The day had dawned hot and humid, it was hard to breathe, harder still to get the men down the slope and drive towards the ruined farm in the shallow valley between the two ridgelines. The men had been resting in the shade of the trees and didn't want to move.

The last few days had been hard, marching first in one direction, then in another as the scouts reported the enemy first here, then there. In truth, Johnson doubted anyone knew where the enemy really was. Perhaps they were everywhere?

A drop of sweat slid down from his hairline and into his left eye. Idly he began to bring his left hand up to brush the sweat away, he grimaced at the pain.

He looked at his arm, there, the sleeve was torn. His wife was going to be furious, she had had the coat tailor-made before he'd left home with his regiment. He raised his right hand, was surprised at the weight, he had forgotten that he was still holding his pistol.

His fingers seemed reluctant to loose their grip on the weapon, they clung to it as if his life depended on it. He grinned, well, it did, didn't it? He let the pistol slide free from his hand and noticed that his hand was shaking badly.

Fatigue, lack of sleep, anger, fear, he'd gone through so many emotions that day. It was no wonder that his hand was shaking as if he had the palsy. He shook his hand, flexed the fingers, forcing them open and closed.

Once that was done he ran his hand over his left arm, the sleeve was indeed torn, but the shirt underneath was untouched. Puzzled he used his right hand to lift the left, after a few moments he realized that his left arm had been asleep. He must have lain on it when he had passed out.

The memories came rushing back.

"Damn it, Adams, take your section up to the stone wall. Keep those bastards pinned."

After ordering that action he turned to the young lieutenant of artillery with a questioning look.

"We're almost there Major, I just need to get this last limber hooked up and we'll be on our way."

As he said that, one of his gunners spun around and collapsed against the far wheel of the limber. Blood sprayed everywhere. Johnson looked with concern at the lieutenant. He was bloody.

"Are you hit?"

The lieutenant sobbed, turning to his men he bellowed, "Get the battery up to the ridge, now."

"Not my blood, Sir." The lieutenant said as he knelt next to the fallen gunner.

He brushed the man's face with tenderness, Johnson could see that the young officer was crying, the tears streaming down his face as he closed the man's eyes. Nearby, a sergeant was waiting impatiently, holding the lieutenant's horse from his own saddle.

"Sir, we need to move!" The sergeant yelled out.

Johnson shot the man a look, the sergeant nodded in understanding but Johnson could see that the man was ready to leave, his lieutenant be damned.

Placing a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder, Johnson leaned in, "A good man, I'm sure, but you need to be off young fellow. Your sergeant's right."

The lieutenant stood up, brushing the tears from his grime-streaked face. "He was more than a good man, Sir. He was my brother."

Without another word, the lieutenant went to his horse, mounted and the two artillerymen rode off in the wake of their battery.

After that, all Hell had broken loose. A surge of men in gray and butternut came howling from the nearby orchard. A volley from his men along the wall put many of them down, but he saw one man, his man, a corporal break for the barn and run inside.

"Adams! Keep it up! I'll be right back."

Sergeant Adams didn't even glance in his direction, Johnson went into the barn, half expecting to see the corporal rousting out shirkers who had taken refuge inside. But no, there was just the corporal, a wild, hunted look on his face as he cast his gaze around the interior.

"Corporal Walker, get back to your men."

"Nah, Sir, think I'll just stay right here. I'm all done in, Sir, had enough."

Johnson waved his pistol at the man. "Damn it, Walker, get your ass outside."

Johnson blinked in amazement as the corporal pointed his rifle at him. His eyes went wide as the man pulled the trigger, the lock snapping loudly in the relative stillness of the barn.

"God damn it!" Walker swore as he fumbled at his belt for a cap, he'd loaded his rifle but had forgotten the percussion cap needed to set off the main charge.

Johnson didn't hesitate, he aimed his pistol at the man and pulled the trigger. The heavy weapon bucked in his hand and Walker went down in a heap, all his muscles loose, nothing controlling his body as the heavy pistol round hit him high on the forehead.

Johnson was shaking, he'd just killed one of his own men. A man he had known in civilian life, a farm hand from the next town over in his home county. Dear Jesus, how could he ever explain this to the man's family?

Without a word, the major stumbled towards the back wall of the barn, he vomited as he did so. Then he collapsed, unconscious, his back to the wall.

Johnson returned to the present, he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. He felt the need to vomit, but controlled it. He realized that he was shirking his duty just as Walker had been, perhaps one of his sergeants would come in and shoot him?

He stood up, picking up his pistol and holstering it as he did so. He was still shaking, but not as badly. He listened, there seemed to be a lull outside. Looking about, he saw his hat, couldn't go out with his uniform not correct, could he?

Stepping to the door he saw Sergeant Adams coming towards him.

"Sir, we're about out of ammunition. I sent one of the boys back to try and get some more, but ..."

Johnson looked around, a number of his men were on the ground, some of them not moving.

"How bad are we hurt, Tommy?"

The sergeant started at the major calling him by his first name. Things must be serious, he thought.

"Lieutenant Smith is down, shot through the heart. Captain Jefferson went to the rear, his left arm hanging, useless. I'm sure he's going to lose it. The rest of the boys, well what's left of 'em, are still game. We're short-handed but if we get more ammunition, I think we can hold."

Adams looked into the barn and saw the lifeless body of Corporal Walker, he spat.

"Sumbitch was always useless in a fight. I'd of done the same, Sir."

Johnson looked at the man, "Get the men ready, we can't stay, look over yonder."

Adams turned and saw the battle flags emerging from the far tree line.

"Guess the bastards are serious this time."

Turning Adams began getting the surviving men up and moving, some were detailed to carry the wounded, those who had a chance.

A man on horseback came up behind him, shouting his name, he turned. It was his brigade commander, hatless and streaming blood from a cut above one eye.

"Get your boys back up the hill, Billy. I can't spare any help for you. Let the Johnnies have the damned farm for now. Git, go on now!"

The colonel rode off, leaving Johnson and his men alone again.

"Let's go boys, back up the hill!" 

Johnson shook his head, his boys had died for nothing.