LITMIR.BIZ

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returning from a midnight meeting at Jackson’s headquarters. Lee, Longstreet and Jackson agreed the Yankees must not be made aware of Lee’s arrival, and therefore the Confederates in the cut must not be told. Because they could not be reinforced.

      “Pope and McClellan must be totally convinced that we are helpless,” said Jackson. “General Longstreet will wait until McClellan has committed all reserves to the battle. We must hold until that time.”

      The atmosphere in the tent was grim as the news.

      But here, Canon understood, was an opportunity that must be exploited, regardless of cost. The Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, fifty thousand men under Robert E. Lee, now had a real chance to completely destroy the Union Army of the Potomac, one hundred fifty thousand men under John Pope.

      But the Stonewall Army would be at sacrifice. “We must make sure that Pope and McClellan have committed their entire force before we counterattack,” reiterated the plump, intellectual Longstreet, fingers twining his long brown beard. Jackson nodded. Lee looked unhappy. Canon still couldn’t believe his ears.

      General A. P. Hill, who commanded one wing of Jackson’s infantry, said incredulously, “Sir, we probably have no more than fifteen thousand effectives fighting in the cut. We will be outnumbered ten to one. What do you expect us to do?”

      “You will hold, sir,” said Jackson. “At all cost.”

      “We will try, General Jackson,” replied Hill, stiffly, “but it might interest the generals to know that we are also almost out of ammunition. Right now, we have men out removing cartridge boxes from the dead. But we are almost out of bullets.”

      “Then, sir,” said Jackson, “give them the bayonet.”

      Canon, riding to the Black Horse encampment, understood the situation perfectly. Even if Pope and McClellan held only a quarter of their men in reserve, they would still have superior numbers to drop on Longstreet’s counterattack. Canon knew it was all or nothing. What he didn’t know was how to explain it to soldiers like the two he had left at the campfire.

      He didn’t know how to tell these men that help had arrived but, whoops—we’re sorry, it’s unavailable at the moment. Didn’t know how to tell them that yes, there’s plenty of ammunition just back up the road a piece, but there’s only so much time to get the men in position for a counterattack, you see, and so only a few crates of ammunition can be gotten here tonight. Reinforcements? Sure. You’ll be reinforced just prior to the counterattack, which will come whenever Pope and McClellan send Union Soldier Number One Hundred Fifty Thousand at you. You’ll get help, just exactly when it’s too late.

      Back at the breach in the cut, Canon found most men asleep. Exhausted sentries challenged him in the dark. As he unsaddled Hammer, Canon tried to be hearty with the small group who clustered around him seeking news. Yes, Canon said, yes, help is on the way. Drained soldiers had searched out every stone in the area to try to fortify the forty-yard wide ravine. Corpses in blue and in gray lay where they had fallen. The men had put what remained of their exhausted energies in attempts to make the position defensible. The living tried to take care of the living. There was no time for the dead.

      Canon called an aide to take Hammer back to the horse line and return with Scratch. Removing holster, pistols and saber, Canon used them for a pillow as he stretched out on the ground. Just before sleep took him, Canon recalled a story from ancient Greece, from the time of the warrior Spartans.

      Defending their border at Thermopylae against an imminent invasion, the Spartans sent one small band under Leonides from the main force to guard a hidden gap in the hilly terrain. It was unlikely the gap would be discovered, they were told. But if so, they must hold at all cost. Through luck or treachery, the invaders learned of the gap and threw the brunt of their force against it.

      The little band held, but the fighting was so fierce that even the survivors died from their wounds. The Spartan commander was found at the foot of a rocky wall. On it, he had chalked a final message: “Traveler, go tell the Spartans that here, in accordance to their rules, we lie.”

      Canon awoke after two hours of sleep. He expected an attack at dawn and was accordingly up and moving, readying the forces. All along the line, commanders were rallying the men for the fray. Jackson commanded the right, Hill the middle, Canon the left.

      Adrenaline began to pump through the worn bodies as the gray line braced for the assault. Nothing happened. Hour after hour passed, but no shells rained on them, no infantry rushed.

      In the Union camp, men on the staffs of McClellan and Pope listened as the two men railed at each other. Pope wanted an all out assault. The ever cautious Little Mac was holding out a quarter of his men. Little heed had been given a scouting report that Confederate reinforcements had arrived.

      Noon approached, arrived, passed. Finally, agreement was reached. McClellan would withhold twenty thousand men through the first assault. If it failed, and there was no Rebel counterattack, then the full army would be thrown against Jackson.

      Movement was detected in the Union camp at one P.M. Word raced up and down the trench. Get ready! Here they come!

      At two P.M., Pope renewed his attack, driving against Jackson with a line two miles long. But it was a thousand yards down the ridge from the Union camp, then another five hundred across the open plain to the railroad cut.

      In the Rebel line, battle was a welcome relief from the tension which had steadily increased since dawn. At the ravine, Canon led a foray out to meet the onrushing Union troops. They were to absorb the shock, then fall back to a perimeter set up around the edges of the ravine. Grunts, shouts and shots rang around Canon as the fever of battle gripped him.

      Face flushed from heat, eyes red from smoke and strain and lack of sleep, Canon used a pistol with his right hand, the saber with his left. He hacked and stabbed and shot and slew.

      Men in his own command were afraid to get too near Canon when blood lust was on him. They tried to stay close enough to offer some help and protection as he ranged among the blue troops.

      The blue army’s vast number had one drawback. The Federals were forced to bunch as they neared the shortened Rebel line. Only the leading units could get a clear shot. And the massed Union attack presented a target that no Confederate would miss. But the weight of numbers was inexorable. Slowly, Canon fell back, shouting and shooting and slashing. Relentlessly the Union troops pushed Canon and his men back to the cut. But the retreat also opened new fields of fire for the Rebel troops on each side of Canon’s men. They poured a galling volley into the advancing blue sea, pushing it back across the plain.

      The Federal attack did not break, but fell back and reformed, ready to surge again. McClellan ordered in his reserve. In the respite, Canon checked his pistols. His cartridge belt was empty, as was one of his pistols. He had three loads remaining. Breathing heavily, Canon allowed an orderly to bind a slight bullet wound that furrowed his side. He also bled from a cut to his cheek where a Union bayonet nicked him as Canon sabered its wielder. Another bullet had torn a furrow in his calf.

      In the ravine, men were using bodies of the slain to construct a ghastly wall. Brushing aside the orderly, Canon went to lend a hand. He wondered what had happened to the low wall of rocks that had been piled in the ravine during the night. He received the answer from Billy, the young boy he had seen at the campfire during the night.

      Standing in the breach with a rock in each hand, Billy handed one to Canon. “Here, Colonel,” Billy said with a grim smile. “Have some ammunition.” Five hundred yards away, a wild shout marked the beginning of the renewed Union attack. This time, it surged into the ravine, up and over the wall of the parapet. “Yanks in the cut! Yanks in the cut!” came cries up and down the writhing battle line. Sensing a movement behind him, Canon ducked, spinning as he reached for his right hand pistol. He heard the deadly hiss of a bullet passing over his head as his answering shot took the Federal soldier in the throat. The man fell on his back, then rolled down the hill, almost reaching Canon’s leg before he stopped. Canon reached for the rifle the man held, even in death, and grabbed for the cartridge box.

      Along

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