“Hank,” I says, “you reckon them Yankees is comin’ today?”

            “Yep,” he says, “they’ll be here directly.”

            I look out across the entrenchments toward the Yankee lines. All I can see are a couple of our pickets, maybe two hundred yards out past the abatis.

            “What we gonna do?” I says. “Ain’t enough of us here. We cain’t stop ‘em.”

            “Nope.” Hank spits a stream across the earthworks.

            Us boys of the 18^th North Carolina Regiment are stretched out here across what seems miles of trenches, men five to ten feet apart, and them Yankees ’ll be comin’ on thicker ‘en fleas on a dog’s back.

            “Sammy, when they come, don’t you go shootin’ high now, hear. You shoot knee level, now,” says Hank, another stream launched like a little fountain at the Yankees. “Ye looked like ye was shootin’ the moon up at Cold Harbor.” I sulled up a bit at that. Weren’t no call for that, none at all. He’s told me I shoot high ever since I come here a year ago, two weeks after my 14^th birthday.

            Ma didn’t want me to come, Pa neither. But I said I had to do my duty, especially since my brother George got killed at Cedar Mountain. Pa cain’t fight. He’s too old; I think he’s sixty. Anyhow, Pa says I’m a man, and so I have to act like one and do my duty. My brother, Wallace, did. He died of the typhus somewhere in Tennessee fightin’ with Longstreet. And so here I am. 

            “I did no sitch, Hank,” I said, my jaw set like my Paw used to do his when he got riled. 

            He grinned and shook a little. “Surprised that old moon up there ain’t got a little .58 caliber hole in it now,” he says shaking a little harder.

            “Confound it, Hank, I ain’t seen you sharpshootin’ a bunch of Yanks yoreself, now.” My face shaded like it used to when my brother, Wallace, would pull my hat down over my face in front of Annie Kate at school.

            Hank eyes me, lookin’ like my Uncle Walt when he used to tease me about my red hair. “You look like you got yore dander up, boy. Now see if’n you cain’t get it up against them thar blue bellies comin’ yonder.” A brown stream of tobacco juice rolls down Hank’s gray beard.

            I look out through the mist. The sky is just beginnin’ to lighten a little. The moonlight washes over the ground out front of the breastworks; a cold light, it seems. I can see pretty well, down beside that marshy little creek and out to the abatis. Then I see that the pickets is fallin’ back, somethin’ like a blue wave comin’ a few hundred yards on past ‘em.

            “Ha!” shouts Hank at the pickets. “You sorry dodgers get out of the way so’s a man can get a shot.”

            The pickets come runnin’. “God, they’s a million of ‘em,” one says, breathin’ hard as he climbs over the earthworks.

            “Reckon this is it, Hank?” I ask

            He works the chaw in his mouth like he’s thinkin’. “Maybe,” he says. “Shore looks like it anyhow.”

            I fumble with my Enfield. It’s loaded and ready. I pull the hammer all the way back and lay the barrel up on the breastwork under the head log. My hands shake a little; a trickle of sweat runs down my nose. Hank spits a stream. “Maybe we’ll just git this over today, maybe.”

            Somebody breaks wind a few feet away. Somebody else laughs. “Shouldn’t et all them beans last night, Foley,” somebody says.

            “Well, hell, it’s all I’ve had for three days. When a man’s got beans, he’s gotta eat ‘em.”

            “Not all of ‘em at once’t, you buffoon.”

            Everybody laughs, but nervous like.

            “What’s that sound?” says Raymond Long. A roar comes rollin’ cross the field in front of us, a low roar.

            “That’s them Yankees’ sort of a Rebel yell,” says Tyler Combs.

            “They need to pitch it up a little, sounds to me like,” says Raymond. Everybody laughs again.

            “I see ‘em,” says Tyler. “I see ‘em comin’. Danged if they ain’t a million of ‘em, shore enough.”

            Hank looks over at me. I’m movin’ around, tryin’ to get in a comfortable shootin’ position. “You all right, boy?” he asks.

            I look at him with my eyes wide open. I nod.

            I see the blue line comin’ this way. It looks like the whole Yankee Army done come to the south end of Petersburg, like the Boydton Plank Road was the most important road in the whole world, and they all came here to take it. It ain’t nothin’ but a little plank road runnin’ down toward North Carolina. A few old wagons comes rollin’ up it ever now and then, bringin’ a little corn and beans from down that way.

            But, I know this is a sight bigger than the plank road. They want to wreck this here army. Old Grant wants to best General Lee. He couldn’t do it out there on the battlefields, so he backed Lee up here at Petersburg and has tried to starve him out, which he has pretty well done. Most of the boys in our regiment look like a strong wind would blow ‘em away. Stick men, I call ‘em. We’re all dirty and hungry and wore out, even Hank.

            Hank laughs. “Some of them Yankee boys coulda stayed home. They didn’t need all that many.” I swallow hard and stare at the waves of men in blue, headed right for us.

            “Shoot low,” Hank says, to nobody in particular.

            Sergeant Stokes walks up behind us. I can hear him cocking and un-cocking his .44 Colt. “Hold ye fire boys. Colonel’s gonna tell us when.”

            “I hope he don’t wait “till they’re trampin’ on our faces afore he tells us,” somebody down the line says.

            “Shut up,” somebody else says.

            “Hey, you shut up, Connor.”

            “All of you shut up,” says Captain Byrne.

            “All of you shut up,” somebody says in a mocking little voice to where nobody can tell who it is. A quiet snicker ripples down the line.

            Now I can see the national banner, used to be our banner, comin’ on. The red, white, and blue stand out in the gloom. I see gold eagles on top of the flagpoles, shining like new money in the dawn light. The roar gets louder. Pioneers out front of the main body are hackin’ at the abatis obstructions. Sharpshooters let loose and drop some of them. More men take their place, pushing the abatis and the chevaus-de-frise aside so the troops can get through.

            “I shore wish old Colonel Cowan would give us the say so. I am ready to shoot,” says Hank, workin’ the fingers of his trigger hand ‘till the knuckles pop.

            As if hearing him, from the back of the line comes, “Fire!” Then I hear it again as the company Captain shouts it out. Up and down the line, fire and smoke bloom out toward the Yankees. Louder than the muskets, the cannon along the line roar like a vengeance. I pull the trigger and my rifle bucks. The barrel feels warm. I re-load. I seem to move real slow, like I’m movin’ through water.

            The Yankees is closer now. I look at Hank. He’s reloadin’ too. He turns and spits a stream at the Yankees, then raises his rifle to fire. I pull the hammer to full cock and fire again. I see Yankees fallin’, the men behind them steppin’ over the bodies and comin’ on. I hope maybe they’ll stop, figure that this here little road ain’t worth havin’. Maybe they’ll decide just to go home instead, but I know they won’t.

            Hank yells somethin’ at me about shootin’ low. “I’m shootin’ so low I think I done killed three snakes!” I holler. He can’t hear me. The air is thick with smoke. My Enfield is gettin’ hot. I re-load and fire again. I’m bound to have hit one. At a hundred yards and so close together, I could hit one with my eyes closed. A lot more fall, but they keep comin’.

            Then, right out of the blue, I’m thinkin’ of Mama, back there in Cane Creek. I’m thinkin’ about the time that I was nine and sick with a fever, and she sat by my bed, and held a cool cloth to my head. It felt so good, so cool, and so nice. I woke several times that night, and she was always there. When I would open my eyes, I would see her smilin’ down at me. I felt warm and peaceful inside, and went back to sleep.

            Then I’m thinkin’ about Sunday dinner, and Mama’s wonderful fried chicken and biscuits. I think about how Pa always said grace, and everybody said “amen” after he did, and we dug into the best food a boy ever ate. After that, we sat around on the porch, if it was good weather.

            Sometimes Uncle Walt and Aunt Dorie would come by, with their five young ‘uns. The old folks would sit and talk, and us young ‘uns would climb trees or chase each other. Then we would all have some of Ma’s apple pie and some sweet milk. It seemed like the day would last forever.

            My stomach grumbles a little. We ain’t had much to eat lately. “I wish I had a chicken leg,” I say. Nobody hears me. The roar of muskets and cannon is so loud it takes your breath away.

            The smoke is thick as fog on the river, but I see the Yankees plain, maybe fifty yards away now. “Got ye bayonet ready, boy?” yells Hank.

            “Ye know dang well I do,” I yell back.

            “Well, here’s ye chance to use it.”

            I’m re-loadin’ fast, tryin’ to get off one more shot. They’re twenty yards away and I lay the barrel up on the breastworks and aim at the color bearer, a big man marchin’ like he’s on a parade, holdin’ up the flag real proud like. I fire. The flagpole snaps in half and the national banner tumbles to the ground. The color bearer staggers, grabbin’ at his arm. Four soldiers scramble to pick up the colors. “Hot dang!” yells Hank, “I told you to shoot low and what did you do? You go shootin’ their danged flag. You ain’t never gonna learn.” Then he laughs, throwin’ his head back.

            The Yankees are down in the trench in front of the breastworks. Sergeant Stokes climbs up on top and fires down. He empties his revolver before a bunch of holes open up in his chest and he falls backward across me. The blood is squirtin’ out of his neck onto my cheek. I push him off quick. I see Ralph Foley stand up and ready his bayonet; then the back of his head comes off and his brains splatter the Captain’s face. The Yankees is climbin’ up the breastworks. We all get up at about the same time, ready with the bayonets.

            Some of the Yankee boys look about as young as me. Some of the troops look mad; some look pure terrified. A tough lookin’ old Yankee jumps off the breastworks, yells like a catamount, and shoves his bayonet at me. He misses, and I stab at him; my bayonet goes into his arm. He screams and rushes at me. Hank swings his rifle, and hits the man in the head with the butt plate, and he goes down.

            A young boy in blue comes at me, yellin’ for me to surrender. He looks scared. He wears spectacles and has a ruddy face and sandy hair; he seems confused. I run at him, and my bayonet goes right into his stomach and out his back. His eyes go wide. He drops his rifle. I look him right in the eyes, and he stares back, his eyes big as hen eggs. “You shoulda’ stayed home with your folks,” I say, my voice tremblin’. “You shoulda’ stayed home.”

            He looks down at the wound in his stomach. Blood is pourin’ out pretty good. Then he sinks to his knees. “Mother,” he says, “Mother!” He falls face first and lies still.

            Hank grabs my arm, “Let’s go!” he yells.

            I’m confused. “He’s hurt!” I say.

            “He’s dead for the love of God!” Hank yells. “We gotta git!”

            I look at all the blood on my bayonet. “I killed him?” I ask.       

            Hank pulls at me hard, but I shake loose. Then Hank is gone, and I’m kneelin’ down by the Yankee boy. There’s fightin’ all around. A man steps on me; another man falls across my legs. I turn the Yankee boy over. His eyes are open, but he don’t see me. They blink once. He says something. I lean close. “Mother,” he whispers.

            I put my mouth near his ear. “She’ll be here directly,” I say.

            “Mother?” he says, lookin’ at me.

            “It’s all right,” I say. “It’s gonna be alright.” My eyes are wet, and they sting, I guess from all the smoke.

            I look around. I don’t see any of my messmates, only Yankees. Then I see Hank. He’s layin’ on his side. His back is bloody. I get up, and start to run to him. Somebody steps in front of me. There’s a sharp pain on the right side of my chest. Then it’s gone and the man is gone. My legs feel weak. They won’t hold me up. “Hank!” I yell, but it seems like a whisper.

            Then I’m lookin’ up at the sky. It’ll be light soon; the sky is a soft color of purple. Oh how beautiful it seems to me. If I was home, Pa would have me hookin’ up the mule for plowin’ sure. “I don’t think I can plow today, Pa. I feel poorly,” I say, but nobody hears.

            Then I see Mama’s face, smilin’ down at me like she did; smilin’ like she’s all proud of her boy, like she did when I brought home good marks from school, or when I brought her a bouquet of wildflowers in the Spring. I love that smile. It had the whole world in it, all the good parts. I hope I’ll see it again someday.

            Then I see that the sky is growin’ dark. Surely, I ain’t been layin’ here all day and it’s already sundown. Sergeant Stokes will have my head. He’ll have me out on picket every night for a month.

            And then it comes to me. I understand.

            I watch the Yankees passin’ by me and over me. Some of ‘em step on me. They pay me no mind. They got their faces set toward the west. My voice is weak, but it don’t matter; nobody hears anyway. “I did my best Ma. I tried hard, honor bright I did.”