Prisoner in Time (Time travel) (36 page)

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Union Pvt. Robert Tucker ran at a fast pace, shoulder to shoulder with his comrades. Holding his rifle pointed forward, his right hand rubbed the trigger guard as he scanned the skirmish line for a target. He looked toward the base of the high cliff. On an elevated cluster of boulders, he watched a man shouting orders to his men. With fierce determination, he zeroed in on his target.

“I got that officer just below the cliff,” he shouted to the men beside him.

“I saw him first,” came a voice to his right.

“He ain’t an officer. That’s a sergeant,” another voice shouted out.

“Whatever he is, he makes a fine target standing proud like that,” Pvt. Tucker retorted raising his rifle.

“He’s too far away. Don’t waste your shot,” the voice to his right challenged.

“Two bits says I get ‘im on the run,” Pvt. Tucker responded, picking up the challenge.

“You ain’t got two bits, Tucker,” another voice joked.

Pvt. Tucker raised his rifle to the ready while he jogged. As the rifle bounced on and off his target, he concentrated harder. Looking down his sights, he noticed a puff of smoke to the right of his target.

Suddenly, he felt his chest erupt as a bullet tore through his uniform and smashed through tissue and bone. He saw blood spurt into the air in front of him. Simultaneously, a thunderous pain numbed his senses. As the blackness of faint closed off his vision, he dropped to his knees. Falling forward, his last conscious thought centered on his loving wife and children. One second later, Pvt. Robert Tucker lay dead.

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Geoff quickly dropped his rifle and picked up another. Like before, he exhaled, aimed quickly and fired. Out in the distance, more Union men lay dead.

David reloaded as fast as he was able. With powder, wadding, ball and caps lined up in piles in front of him, he ran through his routine. Every fifteen seconds, three rifles lay ready for action.

Off to their right, Sgt. Cooper watched proudly as the pair produced more than twice as many shots fired as the other sharp shooters. Out in the distance, he marveled at the teen’s accuracy.

“He ain’t missed one yet, boys,” he shouted to the rest of the sharp shooters, hoping to inspire them to greater accuracy.

Moments later, now within range, the whole of the Union line, stopped and open fired. Instantly, dozens of Rebel soldiers lay dead all along the quarter-mile skirmish line.

“Fire!” Sgt. Cooper commanded. “Shoot them blue bellies.”

Hundreds of rifles roared to life. As their report was heard further up the line, other sergeants sounded their orders to fire as well. In seconds, dozens of Union men lay dead or dying.

Reloading on the run, the Union men fired at will. As they shot volley after volley of lead at the enemy, Rebel soldiers returned in kind. Cries of pain pierced the air and distracted those unharmed from their duty.

Fired upon with elevated force, the Union line broke rank and retreated. Falling back to natural protection and out of range of the enemy, they regrouped and charged once more.

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Through the eastern forest, far from the Confederate’s right flank, Union Gen. Powell pushed his brigade of soldiers south. Moving through the dense foliage, they leaped over logs and forged their way through the heavy underbrush. Suddenly, Gen. Powell heard the first rifle shot. He craned his head and listened intently. As more shots sounded, panic swept him.

“My God Major, we’ve been traveling over two hours through these woods and we still haven’t come abreast of the enemy’s position. They’re still ahead of us,” Gen. Powel pointed through the woods, off to his right.

“Yes Sir General. I fear we won’t make our position in time,” Maj. Canton responded with apprehension.

“The hell we won’t. Order double-time, Now!” he shot back.

As the order to speed up spread through the brigade of men, they crashed through the woods with reckless abandon.

Several hundred yards ahead, Confederate scout Cpl. Jarod Weiss listened to the sounds of rifle fire as the battle raged to west. He hiked to the top of a small bluff and scanned the forest with his monocular, searching for signs of the enemy. From the heavy roar of gunfire, he missed the tell-tale sounds of the approaching army. Moving his scan from his right back to his left, he finally saw them: Union soldiers… less than a hundred yards away. Before he could react, he was spotted. Rifles echoed through the forest, as the Union troops tried to stop him.

With bullets embedding in trees all around him, he quickly spun on his heel and headed for his horse. In hot pursuit were the forward soldiers of Gen. Powell’s brigade. Running swiftly, Cpl. Weiss dodged low level branches. Panic swept him as he heard the sound of whistling bullets pass by his ears. As he reached his horse, he ripped the reins from the tree branch and leaped up onto its back. With a quick kick of his feet, he drove his boots into the horse’s side. Instantly, the two sped off. Galloping away, he felt a tremendous pain in his back and he lost all the air in his lungs. Gasping for breath, he slumped forward in his saddle. Losing strength and barely able to hang on, he grasped the saddle horn in one hand and the reins in another. As his vision blurred, he shook his head and righted it momentarily. Riding through the woods, his horse instinctively followed a worn path with little input from him. Looking over his shoulder, he realized the enemy was out of sight. As he cleared the tree line, he headed for command to sound the alarm.

Back inside the dense forest, Gen. Powell shouted orders to his men.

“Cease fire!”

As the order found its way to the front of his brigade, he shouted orders to recall the men.

“Well, that ends our mission. We’re useless now,” Gen. Powel said aloud in frustration.

“We won’t try to out flank them, Sir?” Maj. Canton asked.

“No. The scout got away. They’ll know we’re coming now. They’ll cut us to ribbons even before we see them,” he explained

“Yes Sir,” Maj. Canton concurred.

“Sound the alarm. Send a courier to Gen. Sherman. Inform him of our misfortune,” Gen. Powel ordered.

“Yes Sir, right away Sir,” he responded.

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Gen. Sherman continued his stare through his field glasses. As he watched the second advance begin to fail, apprehension filled his thoughts. Instantly, he began to think of alternate plans of attack. Pulling out a crude map of the region, he unfolded it and laid it over the top of his horse’s head. Running his finger over the ridgeline, he closed his eyes and tried to envision the difficulties of other routes. Suddenly, he heard the sound of fast approaching hooves. Turning, he saw a scout riding quickly toward him.

“Not a moment too soon,” he said under his breath.

“General Sherman, I’ve found a breach in the ridgeline,” Union scout Alfred Lovell shouted excitedly.

“Thank God!” he shouted loudly in relief. “Where?”

The scout hauled back on the reins, expertly bringing his horse to stop next to the generals’. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a folded map. Quickly, he spread it out and pointed to the location.

“Right here,” he said, circling the spot with his finger. “About a mile down the ridgeline from here. You can almost see the location from where we’re standing.”

General Sherman scanned the long ridge with his field glasses and smiled.

“Yes, I think I see it. Good work, Lovell. Tell me more.”

“It’s very narrow at the top, almost impassable, but it’s not impossible. It’s treacherous: one slip and you’d lose that man. Once you’re over the top though, it widens out and becomes more manageable.”

“Hmm, sounds like a bottleneck at the most critical point. If
Johnston knows about this, he would most certainly prepare an ambush for us up there.”

“Yes Sir, agreed,” Lovell replied. Pointing back at the map, he continued. “I also discovered a large pass, about eight miles south of here. It’s large enough to march a small unit through without concession.”

Looking at his own map, Gen. Sherman responded, “Looks like it exits out into Resaca.”

“Yes Sir. I’ve scouted the area and found no sign of enemy activity. It appears they either don’t know about it or they’ve discounted its importance due to its remote location.”

Gen. Sherman thought about the information. Rubbing his scruffy beard, he nodded his head approvingly.

“Good work, Lovell,” he said. Looking out at the troubled battle lines, he added, “Once Gen. Powel outflanks Johnston, I’m reasonably confident we’ll emerge victorious, but just the same, it’s reassuring we have alternatives.”

“Yes Sir,” Lovell responded, now folding his map.

Gen. Sherman ended their discussion with a sharp nod, then turned his attention back to the battle. Raising his binoculars, he scanned the Rebels’ flank.

“Where is he?” he groaned under his breath.

Looking toward Lt. Jefferson, he said, “Any sign of them yet?”

“No Sir, nothing yet. It does seem strange,” he responded.

Gen. Sherman shot him an uneasy glance, then returned to his binoculars. As the Rebel line unleashed another round of punishing firepower, frustration and worry swept his body.

“DAMMIT! Our line is retreating again,” he shouted in dismay.

Off in the distance, riding from behind, he heard another rider swiftly approaching. Turning to his left, he recognized one of Gen. Powell’s couriers headed his way.

“Uh oh, this can’t be good,” he said, under his breath.

“Gen. Sherman, Sir. Cpl. Penshier reporting for Gen. Powell,” the courier shouted as he neared. “The Rebs were waiting for us, Sir. Gen. Powel has abandoned his charge.”

“Blast!” Gen. Sherman cried out in anger. “I should’ve guessed that damn Johnston would be ready for us.” Turning to Lt. Jefferson, he commanded, “Sound the retreat… and get me Gen. McPherson!”

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As a veil of lead hurled past them, David and Geoff continued to fire down at the enemy. Hiding behind large boulders, they heard the frightening impact of bullets as they ricocheted off the rocky faces around them. Loud and repetitive, the terrifying sound never let them forget they were in mortal danger.

Nervous sweat dripped from Geoff’s face and onto his shaking hands, making his job more difficult. He wiped his palms on his pants, grabbed the next rifle in line and prepared to fire. With a fast count of “one-two-three”, he raised the rifle over the top of the boulder and fired. Instantly, he ducked back down for cover. Again, he grabbed another rifle and repeated the routine.

David knelt behind the large stone and continued to reload. He felt a measure of guilt each time he watched the teen place himself in harm’s way. Each time Geoff fired and retreated, David breathed a sigh of relief, only to realize the next shot might be the teen’s last.

After nearly two hours of continuous firing, the two began to tire. Sgt. Cooper noticed their condition and shouted a new command over the roar of battle:

“Warner, Robbins, fire independently now. Y’all ‘ill get more shots in the air.”

“Yes Sir, sergeant,” both men responded.

David instantly picked up a loaded rifle, inhaled and stood. Without warning, his hat flew from his head as a bullet passed through the material, grazing his scalp. He dropped the rifle and fell backward on the ground.

“David!” Geoff shouted in panicked tone.