"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.

"There, you might breathe easier now."

Quinn could only nod.

"Spit out that chaw, Yank. You'll choke on it."

Quinn opened his mouth, and he was shocked when the Reb, in a fatherly way, actually stuck a finger into Quinn's mouth and helped him clear out the tobacco.

"I think I'll keep this here gun, if you don't mind, Yank."

The Reb casually reached into Quinn's cartridge box and took out the ammunition. Next he went into Quinn's haversack, took out a piece of salt pork and pocketed it, and then hesitated when he drew out the peach, the peach one of Bu-ford's men had given him.

"Mind if I eat this, Yank?"

Quinn shook his head.

"Thank you."

The Reb sat looking at him for a minute. "You got kin?"

Kin? Quinn slowly nodded and feebly touched his breast

The Reb opened Quinn's jacket, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a daguerreotype. The case was smeared with fresh blood, and the Reb wiped it off on his trousers. The Reb opened the case, looked at the image, and sighed. "Pretty wife. Good-looking young boy, too."

Quinn was suddenly ashamed. He was crying. He didn't want this man to think he was crying because he was afraid or because of the pain. No. Not that He had forgotten. He had become caught up in all of this and forgotten what would be left behind… and now would indeed be left behind.

"I know, Yank. I know." "Come on, Will. We got 'em on the run." The Reb was squatting beside him and looked up. "I'm comin'."

The Reb put the open daguerreotype into Quinn's hands. "I'm sorry, Yank. I wish the hell you'd just given up. Saw the way you charged in. You was right brave; but damn me, you was a bit too brave today. Just couldn't let you go back and tell what we is doin' over here."

Quinn struggled to keep the tears from coming. All he could do was nod. He tried to look back to the road; it was barely visible. It didn't matter though, not now. His gaze fell on the daguerreotype; the image etched into the mirror-like surface was lost to view… even as the darkness settled and all went still.

Will Peterson, Second Georgia, of Benning's brigade, Hood's division, stood up.

"Nice gun you got off him," someone said.

"Yeah, a real nice gun," Will said softly, as he bit into the peach and walked away.