Jake Silver was bored. He had been sitting in this tree for several hours now, waiting for something to happen. A sharpshooter for the 95th Regiment of the Pennsylvania Volunteers, he had been ordered to the far end of the valley by his commanding officer. He had been awakened at four in the morning and told to report to Sergeant Grubbs. The Sergeant sent him and several other skirmishers to the outer edge of the battlefield to keep the Rebels from flanking them on the south side like they did yesterday.
Jake had chosen a large maple tree to do his work. It provided cover with the leaves and height for a better field of vision. He had been in this army now for several months and had racked up an impressive score…five lieutenants, a captain, two majors and countless privates. The sergeants were smart enough to stay out of the line of fire and were a prized target, but to hit a general was the ultimate in bragging rights. However, sitting here on the flank, away from the main field, he most likely would not get his wish today.
He checked his rifle for the tenth time that morning. A brand new Sharps rifle, model 1853, it took a .52 caliber bullet and it had been fitted with a longer barrel to increase the range to some 900 yards. He could outshoot any of his fellow sharpshooters; their guns still had the stock barrel which limited their range---a point of envy among them.
His only worry was the Confederate side. They had sharpshooters as well and they were good. Even though they used an older muzzleloader, the British Whitworth rifle, it had an effective range up to 1500 yards. However, his advantage was that he could put five rounds through his Sharps in the time it took them to reload and fire one time.
Jake picked up his field glasses which hung around his neck and scanned the tree line across the valley. Both sides had opened up with artillery fire which would continue for thirty minutes or so. He had to watch for any movement from the other side working their way across to outflank the Union army. He also kept checking for any spots that would be a good hiding place for Rebel sharpshooters.
The other skirmishers, about a dozen or so, had taken up positions on either side of him. Most chose to hide behind a large rock or tree. Only one other soldier chose a tree. If the enemy spotted you, it was harder to take cover while being perched on a branch. There was a fine line between the competition between the skirmishers and risking your life. Jake relied on his skill to keep out of trouble; he had always been able to spot the enemy before they found his hiding place. One well placed bullet in the officer in charge and the rest of the men usually scattered and retreated.
Increased noise from the battlefield indicated that the battle was underway. Jake sat and waited, eager for some action. The sun was getting higher in the sky and the temperature was rising. He removed his uniform jacket and hung it over the branch next to the one he was sitting on. Two hours passed. His muscles were getting sore from inaction, and his stomach was growling for food.
Jake grabbed his glasses again and scanned the now familiar line of trees. As he panned across, something flashed for a moment at the edge of his vision. He moved the glasses back to the spot and studied it. There was some scrub brush around a large tree and something had just moved. It could just be an animal but he had to make sure. He kept watching until his eyes started to hurt. Just then, another flash of light---it was a reflection of sunlight off a lens. The Confederate sharpshooters sometimes used a side mounted scope on their rifles. He kept watching. Sure enough, a slight movement! He watched as the end of a gun barrel poked out from behind the bush. It was moving back and forth slowly, searching for a target.
Jake smiled. He now knew they were there, it was just a matter of time before the troops moved up and into the field. It would be a matter of precise timing---he would have to pick off the officers and take out the sharpshooter within seconds to avoid being targeted himself.
Reaching into his possibles bag, Jake pulled out four cartridges and stuck one round in between each finger on his left hand. Next, he pulled back the hammer on his rifle so it was ready to fire.
Suddenly, about fifty men burst out of the trees. They ran down towards the valley in order to make their way up to the flank of the Union forces. Several of the sharpshooters opened fire, taking out several soldiers. Jake waited. His prize would make an appearance soon. Sure enough, just then two officers on horseback entered the field. Jake looked from one to the other, trying to determine which one was more valuable. At this distance he couldn’t tell but both looked similar so he sighted down along his rifle at the closest rider.
Aiming just in front of the trotting horse he pulled the trigger. The big gun jumped in his hands, punching into his shoulder. The blast from the muzzle shook the leaves of the tree more than he would have liked. That would be a dead giveaway to his position. Without even checking where his shot landed, he threw down the lever of the rifle, quickly loaded another round and brought the gun back up to fire.
Jake aimed into the bush across the field to where the other sharpshooter was hiding. The Rebel’s gun was smoking from a shot just fired. “He must have fired on someone else,” Jake thought. “Too bad for him.” When he pulled the gun back to reload, Jake turned and fired at the other officer. The man was galloping so Jake fired at the horse as it made an easier target. The horse fell when the slug plowed into it; the Confederate officer flipped over its head and landed heavily on the ground.
With another round already loaded, Jake waited for the man to get up. As soon as the officer got to his feet, he fired. The bullet tore into his chest, killing him before he even began to fall down.
Once again he reloaded his gun. He pointed the rifle back at the bush, sighting down along the length of the barrel. The Rebel had reloaded and was sighting into the tree. He knew Jake was in the tree, but he was unable to pick an exact target. Just then, he saw the leaves explode outward from another shot, but he knew it was too late. The slug reached him before he could react, hitting him in the shoulder and traveling down to his heart. He only had time to say a short prayer before his life ended.
Jake was pleased with himself, he would go down on the field later to check the rank of the officers for bragging rights. For now however, he had to get out of this tree. He had risked himself long enough. He slung his rifle across his shoulder and grabbed his coat. He then climbed down quickly to avoid being shot. Several of the Confederate soldiers had stopped their flanking move and were taking pot shots up at the hill.
Jake joined his fellow skirmishers and fired several more shots down into the valley. The regular soldiers had no chance against superior firepower and they quickly retreated back into the trees. The Union skirmishers had driven back the flanking move of the Rebels and helped save the day; the main drive of the 95th Volunteers had been successful; not a single shot had been fired at their flank.
