Fisher's Hill: Reserve

The sinking feeling was back. No matter how many times he heard the echoing report of a far off rifle fired in anger, his nerves always seemed to collect in a glowing, pulsating ball located just behind his navel. It glowed brighter with every shot, sent a tingling jolt up his spine and out to his extremities, a single impulse reaching the brain that registered what the sound meant. The single impulse touched off thousands of other impressions, some fleeting, some burned into his mind: the colonel he had helped to carry off the field at Antietam, screamingly gutshot and not to live out the day, his fine coat dripping dignified red, his moustache matted with spittle and blood that was bubbling from the corners of his mouth, the fiery commanding eyes now imploring help me, boy, help me, I am afraid, I have not known this awful certainty - young George running to help the grizzled man on the side of the mountain at McDowell, head snapping back and dropping to the ground; how he had dropped his musket and ran for the boy, the bluecoats holding their fire while he struggled to lift the prostrate form onto his shoulders (a soldier? but he can't be over twelve years old) - Sean stumbling and falling on the first day of the fiasco at Gettysburg, picking himself up with a high-pitched laugh and blessedly free of blood, though he displayed the spot where the spent ball had hit him long after the bruise had faded.

Another shot, followed by a doublebang from the pickets on his side of the valley. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and rummaged in his haversack for his pipe.

From their vantage point near the crest of the hill, they could see faint wisps of smoke rising from the picket line.

His matches were damp and he broke three of them before giving up, carefully knocking the unused tobacco back into its pouch and tying it shut. He would have given anything for a light, but his squad was perpetually short on matches and fires this close to the line were forbidden. Theo and Greg produced some cheese, which they sliced into small pieces and passed around; one of the other men shared his crackers. He felt isolated, separated from his usual mess. Jess, always looking for a fight, had gone forward into the picket line; Sean had vanished as well, presumably detached on a sharpshooting detail. He did not know these other men, did not feel comfortable with them, and still the incessant picket fire drove small spikes into his skull.

The squad turned at the sound of hoofbeats. A group of cavalrymen, disparately armed, was moving up to the line with a casual arrogance, looking down at the infantry with ill-disguised contempt. The infantry returned the looks with interest.

"Whoever seeeeeeeen a dead calvryman?"
"Picket post four, ten o'clock an' heeeere's yer mule!"
"Flicker flicker!"

The cavalry refused to rise to the bait. They dispersed into groups of four; three dismounted, handed their reigns to the fourth, and loped off towards the sound of the firing with the unsteady, swaying gait of men who are more accustomed to riding than walking. The men disappeared into the tall grass, and soon the sounds of shotguns and carbines replaced those of rifles. The horses rolled their eyes and jerked away from the sound of the guns, one whickered nervously.