Coming out of the trees, the skirmish line pushed into another pasture. The feeling was not a good one, open field, a marshy creek below, then a low rise ahead. Damn Rebs were most likely up there in the trees, us in the open.
"Alright, boys, let's pick it up!" Quinn shouted, and he started off at the double. Puffs of smoke snapped from the distant tree line. An eruption of torn-up earth kicked up near Quinn's feet He shifted slightly, zigzagging, running now, heading down the slope, the ground getting thicker with tuffs of high marsh grass, and-with a leap he was into the narrow creek, almost completely across. He ducked down, edging up against the muddy bank. Raising his rifle up, he let it rest on the ground while he scanned the tree line, notching the rear sight to two hundred yards.
A puff of smoke. He took careful aim and squeezed. Another man was beside him, firing at almost the same instant
Levering the trigger guard down, Quinn reached into his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, and slipped it into the breech, levering it shut, then cocked his piece.
More puffs of smoke rippled along the tree line. Men were hunkered down along the creek bank, firing back. Most of the shots coming in were high, buzzing overhead, but one slammed into the muddy bank, spraying him with mud. Centering on a puff of smoke, he fired again and reloaded.
Leaning up, he looked to his left Berdan, at the shallow ford across the creek, was shouting for the men to press forward. Behind-him the Third Maine was deploying from column into line.
"Come on, boys, let's get this over with."
Quinn stood up, crouching low, and set off. Racing across the meadow, hunkering down for a moment behind a split-rail fence, taking another shot… and this time seeing it hit. Dumb fool, looked to be an officer, standing out in the open, an easy shot at 150 yards. The man collapsed, a couple of men running over to him, both going down as well while Sharpshooters to either side of Quinn drew careful aim and fired.
The fire from the crest slackened. Again looking to the left, he saw the Third Maine surging forward, a heavy double line of skirmishers mingling in with the Sharpshooters.
Quinn reloaded, took a deep breath, and stood up, running straight for the slope and tree line. Another round zipped past this one so close he felt the slap of the round passing his face.
A Reb, not fifty yards off, stepped out from behind a tree, rifle poised, aiming straight at Quinn. The Reb spun around and disappeared.
They were into the trees, the air thick with the sulfurous clouds of yellow-gray smoke. He spared a quick glance around. Ten, maybe fifteen Rebs were down. He pushed up the slope, dodging through the brush, ducking under low-hanging branches, and crossing over the crest. The land ahead sloped away, down to another marshy creek. The Rebs who had occupied the tree line minutes before were out in the middle of the field, running, fifty, maybe seventy-five or more.
It was a slaughter for the next minute. The Sharpshooters took their favorite stances, some kneeling, others finding branches to rest their barrels on, a few going down on their stomachs. Rifle fire rippled up and down the line. Barely a dozen Rebs made it to the far slope.
"Hey, you're Yankees!"
Startled, Quinn saw a freckled face peeking up from behind an old, rotting tree stump. It was a boy, no more than nine or ten, about the same age as his own son. The boy stood up, gaping.
"Goddamn it, get down!" Quinn shouted, and running up to the lad, he pushed him back down behind the stump.
"Green uniforms. You're the Sharpshooters!" the boy cried happily. "I seen pictures of you in the illustrated papers."
"Sonny, just what the hell are you doing out here?"
"Came out to tell you what was happening, but them dirty Rebs stopped me."
The boy rubbed his backside. "One of them spanked me.
' Said he was going to take me back to my ma and make sure she whopped me, too."
"He was right, too, you little fool. You should be home."
"Ma tried to keep me in the cellar, but I snuck out."
Quinn sat down by the boy's side. A couple of men were looking over at the two, grinning.
'Take a hickory stick and give it to him, Quinn." One of them laughed.
The boy looked over at the man and stuck his tongue out "Where do you live, sonny?"
"Over the next hill, farm across from the tavern," and as he spoke he pointed off to the west.
"Keep moving!" Berdan was out in front again, back to the enemy, sword held high, urging the men on.
"You stay put right here, boy," Quinn said. "Once we get up to the tavern, I'll send someone back to get you and bring you home. And don't you move an inch till we come back for you. Your ma's most likely worried sick about you."
"Oh, you won't never get to the tavern."
"What?'
The boy puffed his chest out
"That's why I snuck out; I'm a spy."
"What do you mean we won't reach the tavern?"
"Why, there're thousands of Rebs over there, whole lines of them. They've been marching by for hours. I figured it was my duty to tell you. Will I get a medal for it?"
The men to either side of Quinn were already up, moving forward.
Quinn watched them heading out then looked back to the boy. He grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen, sonny. We're not playing a game now," and as he spoke he squeezed the boy's shoulders. 'Tell me the truth. Tell me what's going on over by your house."
"Like I said, sir," and now he could see that the boy was becoming afraid. His eyes were wide, and his voice started to break.
"Rebs, thousands of them on the road, marching toward Fairfield, right past my house, just over the next ridge."
Quinn looked toward the next ridge, where the surviving Rebs had disappeared. Dust appeared to be rising up on the far side.
"Stay here. Don't you move. Don't move." The boy began to cry.
"I don't want to get whopped. That Reb spanked me awful hard. Don't let Mama whop me too."
"Just stay here, son. I'll make sure your ma doesn't whop you, if you promise to stay here."
The boy nodded solemnly, brushing the tears from his muddy cheeks.
Quinn stood up. The skirmish line was down almost to the creek. He set off hard. Running toward the middle of the line.
Berdan was riding in front, urging the men on. A few shots smacked overhead. The men were eager, pushing forward, already across the marshy ground. The left flank was into a pasture on the far side of the road, the right wading through waist-high corn.
A volley exploded from the woods atop the next crest, several hundred rifles firing at once. In an instant dozens of men were down.
Berdan's horse reared up, shrieking with pain. The colonel hung on as the beast staggered, turned, and then flipped over on its side as another round tore out its throat. Horse and rider rolled over into the stream.
"Jesus Christ Almighty!" Quinn screamed, as he leapt into the muddy water.
Berdan's horse kicked spasmodically, the colonel trapped underneath. Quinn leveled his rifle against the horse's skull and fired.
"Get him out!" Quinn screamed. Half a dozen men struggled with the carcass, pushing and shoving, one of them suddenly pitching over, the back of his head exploding.
Quinn grabbed Berdan by the shoulders and struggled to keep his head above water. The men dragged the horse a few feet, one of them pulling out a knife to slice a stirrup free and then cut the reins that were tangled in Berdan's limp hands.
"Is he dead?" someone cried.
Quinn felt for the colonel's throat.There was still a pulse.
"You and you! Get a blanket, use it as a stretcher, round up a few more men, and get him out of here!"