Quinn stood up, looking around. Where the hell was Trepp, second in command?
He thought he caught a glimpse of him off to the left, but it was impossible to tell for sure. A captain was suddenly standing over Quinn, looking down in shock as they dragged Berdan up onto the bank of the creek and then rolled him into a blanket It was Fuller, Company B.
"Sir, there was a boy back up there in the woods we just took!" Quinn shouted. "Says he lives over beyond the next ridge. Says that thousands of Rebs have been marching past his house all morning, moving south toward Fairfield."
"What boy?"
"Sir, a boy hiding up in the woods."
"So?"
Fuller ducked down low as another volley erupted from the next ridge, one of the men attempting to carry Berdan going down with a gut shot.
"Sir, I think we're tangled into something here. Someone should go back now and tell General Sickles that we're facing a large force. A division, maybe even a corps, moving to our left flank."
"What boy? What's his name?"
Exasperated, Quinn stood up. Fuller was obviously rattled, his eyes wide as he looked at the colonel, who was moaning softly, the wounded man next to the colonel curled up into a ball, fumbling to keep his guts in with his hands.
"Sir!"
Fuller looked back at him.
"I didn't ask for his goddamn name. But he's a local boy, sir, and I believe him."
"We get boys telling us tall tales all the time, Quinn. Jesus, am I suppose to tell Sickles we're getting flanked all because of a report from a boy?"
"This isn't Virginia, sir. It's Pennsylvania and I think the boy was telling the truth."
"Get on with your duty, Quinn."
"Sir! I think the general needs to be told."
"I'm getting us the hell out of here, Quinn. The colonel is down. We're going back and sort things out. And I'll be damned if I make a report based on what a boy said."
"Yes, sir. Damn you, sir."
Quinn turned and started back to the right "Quinn! You might be a pet of the colonel's but goddamn you, you'll face discipline for this!"
Quinn ignored him, sprinting along the creek bed till he reached the right of the line. Turning, he darted into the com, moving a few dozen feet, falling down, then getting up and sprinting again. Stalks of corn were leaping into the air as minie balls snapped into the field. Puffs of smoke, just ahead, showed where the advance of the skirmish line was.
Quinn, half crawling, pushed through. A lieutenant, obviously frightened, looked over his shoulder as Quinn approached.
"I saw the colonel go down," the lieutenant gasped. "I know."
"What the hell is going on?" The lieutenant half stood up even as he spoke. "Looks like we're pulling back."
Quinn got up on his knees for a quick glance, then ducked back down. "Lieutenant, sir, we gotta get up on that ridge. Captain Fuller's pulling us back, but I think we should move forward."
"Into that?’
"Sir, one good sprint, and we'll be into the woods. We need to get a look over that ridge," and he quickly explained what the boy had told him.
"Hell of thing to get killed for. Some damn loudmouthed brat running around in the middle of a fight."
Quinn said nothing, his gaze locked on the lieutenant.
"All right, Quinn. We get to the top, have your look, and then get the hell out of here."
Quinn nodded.
"Your idea, Quinn. You lead the way."
He wanted to tell the lieutenant to go to hell, but saw that the youngster was trembling like a leaf, though trying to hide it, to make a manful show by courteously offering Quinn the lead.
Quinn knelt up again. "Those of you around me!" he shouted. "I'm making a run for the woods straight ahead. Any of you with some guts, come with me. The rest of you, well, you can go to hell!"
Making the sign of the cross, he took a deep breath, stood up, and started forward at a run. From the comer of his eye, he saw a dozen or more men stand up, going forward with him. Fortunately, the furrows for the cornfield were plowed in the direction he wanted to go. Gasping for air, he continued to run, the wood line less than fifty yards ahead.
Rifle balls zipped past He heard the sickening slap of a round striking something hard just behind him. He didn't look back, but somehow he knew it was the lieutenant
The western flank of the cornfield was bordered by a split-rail fence. He ran straight into it, knocking the fence over, the impact knocking him over as well. Rolling, he half came up and saw a Reb aiming straight at him from not ten feet away. The Reb fired… and missed.
The Reb turned and ran. Quinn set off after him, going up into the woods. Another Reb stepped out bayonet poised. Quinn slowed, leveled his rifle, and fired, knocking the Reb over backward. Fumbling for a cartridge, Quinn levered the breech open, even as he dodged up the slope. The branch of a tree sheered off next to his head, splinters flying from the impact of the round. Quinn dropped, saw the puff of smoke, chambered a round, and took a deep breath, but the man who had shot at him was gone.
He could see the crest just ahead, less than twenty yards off. He looked back and saw half a dozen of his men were into the edge of the woods. From either flank there were shouts, someone screaming that Yankees were in the woods.
Quinn pressed up the hill. Flashes of fire burst to his left and right. He rushed forward, gained the crest and dropped behind a rotten log. And saw the boy was right.
There, not three hundred yards away, was the road, packed with infantry, moving like a wave, dust swirling up in low-hanging clouds. A battery was directly below him on the road, bronze Napoleons, sunlight reflecting off their barrels, gunners riding on the caissons. A heavy skirmish line was out in the field directly ahead, deploying out moving up to add their weight to the fight He caught glimpses of flags, half a dozen or more marking the line of march, emerging from the dust and disappearing into the dust all heading south.
Damn. It was big, damn big, and he felt an icy chill with the realization of all that this implied.
"All right Yank! Don't you move a goddamn inch." Shit
"Real slow now, Yank, just let that rifle of yours drop and put your hands out where I can see 'em."
Quinn turned his head ever so slightly. The Reb was standing a bit behind him, twenty feet away, gun nervously trained on his back.
I'm caught
"That'sright, Yank. No fuss now. Just do as I tell ya."
Well, at least I'll live out the day. The thought raced through him… most likely paroled after the fighting's over and live awhile longer. Get home alive. Beth, my boy, the farm… miserable little patch of land but still, better than what we had in Ireland…
He looked back to the road and before he even quite realized what he was doing he was up and trying to run. Strangely, there was no pain, just a numbed shock that knocked the wind out of his lungs. There was darkness for a moment and then he was looking up at green leaves, sunlight filtering down.
"I told you not to move, Yank."
The voice was weary, a bit hard to understand the accent was so thick. Deep South from the sound of it.
He felt something tugging at his hands. The man was taking his gun.
"Fine piece you have here, Yank. One of them Sharps rifles, ain't it?"
Quinn tried to speak but couldn't. "You get him, Will?'
"Yeah. Damn fool tried to run. Y'all get the others?' "We got 'em."
The man knelt down by his side. Quinn could barely see him; the sunlight behind him was blinding. He looked old, beard gone to gray.
"Sorry I had to kill you, Yank. Like I said, you should'a just been sensible about this."
He tried to breathe and couldn't. He felt as if he were drowning. Then hands grabbed him under the shoulders. The Reb pulled him up. There was a terrible stab of pain now. The Reb eased him back down, sitting up against the side of a tree.