A hulking brute of a sergeant hunkered in a rifle pit that he had gouged in the earth with his bayonet and powerful paws. Bullets whined overhead as the Rebels gathered for a second charge, and he muttered to the lean private dug in beside him, “Gol-dang it, Boone! Here they come ag’in.”
“But this time the dogs is only runnin’ on three legs,” quipped the rifleman, “after us Bucktails give ’em what-for.”
“That don’t mean they lost their bite,” bellowed Major Hartshorne from a nearby breastwork. “Start shooting!”
Sergeant Curtis leveled his Spencer rifle and began spraying the advancing gray ranks with lead. His seven shot repeater belched flame in the evening gloom until his magazine clicked empty. Yanking it out of the gunstock, he reloaded it with rimfire cartridges and looked for more Rebels to blast.
By then, big holes had been blown in the enemy lines by canister spewing from the Union cannon positioned on the high ground behind the Bucktails. The shells made a gnashing, grinding sound as they chewed the oncoming infantry into indistinguishable masses of mangled flesh. Before Hosea could shoot again, the surviving Confederates bolted for the smoky pines from which they had spewed.
Hosea and Boone exchanged relieved grins before the rattle of drums shifted their gaze back to the battlefield. The Rebels had assembled in parade formation and marched grimly ahead with zombie-like stares. Their red and blue battle flags added color to an otherwise sea of gray that flooded the landscape.
As the Rebs tramped toward Boone, his keen eyes became slits of menace. Three hard years of combat fixed his resolve until his powder-blackened features looked cast from iron. Only his trigger finger twitched with anticipation as the enemy advanced in a menacing wave of destruction.
Just as the Rebs threatened to inundate the Yankee entrenchments, Major Hartshorne yelled, “Fire!” The Bucktails, as one, unleashed a pointblank volley that staggered the enemy. Before the Confederates could shoot back, they were bloodied by canister and another Bucktail salvo. Piles of dead littered the field, and those still standing were cowed by the carnage and the terrible shrieks of the wounded. Rather than face total annihilation, the Rebels threw down their muskets.
As Hosea and Boone rounded up the prisoners, the sergeant said, “You thought any more ’bout what we talked on last night?”
“Yes, an’ I agree with ya. If we stayed on a day past our en-listment ta yank these monkeys’ tails, we oughta keep goin’ ’til we catch the head gorilla, old Bobby Lee.”
“It’ll mean re-enlistin’ with Hartshorne, ya know.”
“I reckon I can stand the major a might longer if he keeps his anger trained on the Rebs. He ain’t no one I want fer an enemy.”
“Then, let’s take these Johnnies where they’s supposed ta be an’ see who else we can git ta sign up with us.”
As Curtis and Crossmire herded the Rebels toward a country church just visible through the trees, they were joined by a lanky Indian lad and a short soldier wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. The latter was waving his Bucktail cap in jubilation while singing “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory” at the top of his lungs.
“Jewett, stop that gol-dang caterwaulin’,” barked the sergeant. “Save yer strength fer the next campaign, ya numbskull.”
“I’m sorry, Hosea,” replied Jimmy, “but this was my last battle.”
“Ya mean I wet nursed ya through Antietam, Gettysburg, and the Wilderness fer nothin’!”
“It wasn’t for nothing. After what you taught me, law school will be a breeze.”
“An’ what ’bout you, Culp? Are ya stayin’?”
“Ya know I got a newborn son at Sharpsburg. I can’t wait to see sweet Sarah an’ m’ little tad.”
“We understand,” said Boone, slapping Bucky on the back. “But I’m still havin’ a tough time seein’ ya push a plow. You’re a woodsman like me, an’ I reckon workin’ a farm won’t set well with ya in the end.”
“Jess the same, I got a family ta care fer now.”
“An’ a wife ta nag ya inta doin’ it!”
“Say, Hosea, you’re a handy fella,” declared Culp. “If ya ever gits a bellyful o’ thumpin’ Rebs, you’re always welcome ta work at my place.”
“Might take ya up on that if this war ends afore I’m too old ta do such work.”
“An’ if Bucky’s pa-in-law is still distillin’ that whiskey ya likes ta swill,” joked Boone.
“Hey, that’s medicinal liquor Mr. Pfaff makes. It’s good fer the joints, ya know.”
“An’ fer gettin’ ya drunk as a hoot owl.”
After the friends delivered the Rebels to the whitewashed church, they took shelter in a pine grove and built a low fire to cook salt pork and beans. Talk turned to the many battles they had survived and to the comrades they had lost. After Jewett thanked God for delivering them from war’s fury, they wrapped themselves in their blankets and fell instantly asleep.
The next morning after roll call, Major Hartshorne gave a rousing speech to the surviving Bucktails. “Men!” he shouted. “As a patriot, I still have much to accomplish before returning to Pennsylvania. I feel duty-bound to squelch the Rebel insurrection and reunite our country under one flag. Speaking of flags, if you join the regiment I’m to organize, you’ll fight under this banner.”
Hartshorne paused for a full minute before unfurling the old Bucktail colors he held in his right hand. When a gasp escaped from the ranks, he said, “Join me, men, in the 190th Bucktails and do the homefolks proud!”