evidence that the rebels had pushed the Yankees back across the valley before being routed in the far woods. Or perhaps, Starbuck thought, the limber had been captured earlier in the war, for it seemed that at least half of the rebels' equipment was of Northern origin. A solid shot landed close beside Starbuck, then ricocheted up and back. The nearness of the shot made him wonder why the Yankee gunners were aiming at a scattered skirmish line when they could be firing at the massed ranks of the Faulconer Brigade, and that curiosity made him turn to look for Swynyard's promised reinforcements.
But Swynyard had vanished, and with him the whole Faulconer Brigade, leaving Starbuck and Medlicott alone in the field. Starbuck turned back. The Northern skirmishers were close now, close enough for Starbuck to see that their uniforms were smart, not patched brown and gray like the rebels'. The Northerners were advancing in good style, the sun reflecting off their belt buckles and brass buttons. Behind the skirmish line a battalion trampled down a row of standing corn. There were a half-dozen mounted officers at the rear of the Yankee formation, evidence that at least one of the attacking regiments was new to the war. Experienced officers did not invite the attention of sharpshooters by riding high in saddles. But nor did two companies of skirmishers stand to fight against a whole Yankee brigade.
'Fire!' Truslow shouted, and the Legion's skirmishers began their battle. The men were in pairs. One man would fire, then reload while his companion looked for danger. The red-haired Yankee was already down, clutching his chest.
Truslow ran across to Starbuck. 'I was never a religious man,' the Sergeant said as he rammed a bullet down his rifle's barrel, 'but ain't there a story in the Bible about some son of a bitch king sending a man to die in battle just so he could riddle the man's wife?'
Starbuck peered through the veil of rifle smoke, saw a Yankee go onto one knee to take aim, and fired at the man. A Northern bullet whipsawed the air a few inches to his left. Behind their skirmish line the Northern brigade advanced stolidly beneath their bright flags. He could hear their boots crushing cornstalks, and he knew that as soon as the marching line reached the further edge of the wheat field, they would stop to take aim, and then a killing volley would scream over the field, with every bullet aimed at the two stranded companies of the Legion. There was nothing to check the Yankees out here in the open. No rebel guns were firing, there were no bursting shells or clawing sprays of canister to fleck the wheat field red. Tom Petty, an eighteen-year-old in Starbuck's company, turned round with his mouth open and his eyes wide. He shook his head in disbelief, then sank to his knees. He saw Starbuck's eyes on him and forced a brave smile. 'I'm all right, sir! Just bruised!' He managed to stand and face the enemy.
'King David,' Starbuck said aloud. King David had sent Uriah the Hittite into the front line of the battle so that Bathsheba would become a widow. 'Set ye Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle'—the verse came back to Starbuck—'and retire ye from him, that he may be smitten, and die.' Well, damn Faulconer, who had made Swynyard set Starbuck in the forefront of the hottest battle that he might be smitten and die. 'We're getting out of here!' Starbuck shouted across to Captain Medlicott.
Medlicott, though officially in command, was grateful for the younger man's leadership. 'Back!' he shouted at G Company.
The Yankees cheered and jeered as they saw the handful of skirmishers retreat. 'Enjoying your licking, boys!' one Northerner shouted. 'Keep on running! We'll be right after you!' called another, while a third shouted to give his respects to Stonewall Jackson, 'And tell him we'll hang him real gentle now!'
'Steady now!' Starbuck called to his men. He kept his back to the enemy, concentrating on his company. 'Back to the trees! Steady, don't run!' No one else from the Brigade was in sight. Swynyard or Faulconer must have taken the whole Brigade back into the woods, abandoning Starbuck and Medlicott to the enemy. But why had Bird not protested? A shell landed just behind Starbuck, buffeting him with its hot punch of air. He turned and saw the Yankee skirmishers running toward him. 'Double back to the woods!' he shouted, so releasing his men from their slow, steady withdrawal. 'Muster them by the road, Sergeant!' he called to Truslow.
More Northern jeers and a handful of bullets followed the skirmishers' hurried retreat. The Yankees were in high spirits. They had waited a long time to give Stonewall Jackson a whipping, and now they were laying the lash on thick and hard. Back among the trees beside the turnpike Starbuck's men panted as they crouched and looked nervously at their officer, who, in turn, was watching the shadows lengthen across the wheat field. He was also watching the far tree line, where still more guns and infantry had appeared. The Yankees were triumphant and the rebels beaten. 'If we stay here'—Medlicott had joined Starbuck again—'we'll like as not be prisoners.'
'Swynyard put you in command,' Starbuck said pointedly.
Medlicott hesitated, unhappy to take responsibility, then diffidently suggested that the two companies should retreat further through the trees. To the east of the turnpike a furious artillery battle was deafening the evening air. Smoke poured off the hillside where rebel guns were emplaced, but those cannon were of no use to the beaten men west of the turnpike, where the Yankee line had crushed the standing corn to drive Jackson's infantry back into the timber on the valley's southern crest. The Northern guns had the range of those trees now, and the green summer woods were filled with the whistling menace of shrapnel. Starbuck wondered where the Georgia regiment had gone and where the rest of the Brigade was hidden.
'I can't see the Brigade!' Medlicott said despairingly. A salvo of shells cracked ahead of the skirmishers, filling the trees with whistling shards of hot metal. The men leading the retreat had followed the twisting path into a small hollow, and now they instinctively crouched rather than leave their scanty cover to walk into that zone of fire. The perplexed and frightened Captain Medlicott seemed content to let them rest. 'Maybe we should send a patrol to look for the Brigade?' he suggested to Starbuck.
'While the rest of us wait here to be captured?' Starbuck asked sarcastically.
'I don't know,' Medlicott said. The miller was suddenly bereft of confidence and initiative. His doughy face looked hurt, like that of a child struck for an offense it had not committed.
'Yankees!' Truslow called warningly, pointing west to where blue uniforms had appeared in the woods.
'Stay still!' Medlicott shouted in sudden panic. 'Get down!'
Starbuck would have gone on retreating, hoping to join up with the rebel reserve, but Medlicott had been panicked into making a decision, and the men crouched gratefully in the shadows. Two of Starbuck's company lowered a body they had been carrying. 'Shall we bury him?' one of the two men asked Starbuck.
'Who is it?' It was dark under the trees, and the evening was drawing in.
'Tom Petty.'
'Oh, dear God,' Starbuck said. He had seen Petty wounded but had thought he would live, and surely Petty had deserved to live, for he had been a boy, not a man. He had used to shave each morning, but the blade had made no difference to his cheeks. He had only used the razor to explain his lack of beard, but he had been a good soldier, cheerful and willing. Starbuck had planned to make him up to corporal, but now it would have to be Mellors, who was not nearly so quick on the uptake. 'Scratch him a grave,' he said, 'and get Corporal Waggoner to say a prayer for him.'
All around them the shouts of the Yankees grew louder. The woodland was filled with screaming shells, so many that at times the torn leaves looked like a green snow drifting through the warm evening air. The trees echoed with the pathetic cries of dying men. Lieutenant Coffman hunkered down beside Starbuck, his small face showing bewilderment because his beloved Southerners were being whipped, because the North was winning, and because nothing in his world made sense.
The Reverend Elial Starbuck shared in the joy as the realization of victory dawned on the Yankee headquarters. And what a victory it was proving! Prisoners had confirmed that the enemy commander was indeed the notorious Stonewall Jackson. 'The wretch won't be fetching his supper from my supply wagons tonight!' General Banks exulted. It was true that the enemy was still holding firm on the slopes of Cedar Mountain, but Banks's staff brought message after message that told how the Federal right wing under General Crawford was driving the rebels clean across the valley and into the woods beyond. 'Now we'll turn their flank!' Banks exclaimed, gesturing extravagantly to show how he meant to hook the right wing of his army around the backside of Cedar Mountain and thus surround the remnants of the Confederate army. 'Maybe we'll have Jackson as our supper guest tonight!'
'I doubt he'll have much appetite after this drubbing,' an artillery major observed.
'Fellow's reputed to eat damned strangely anyway,' an aide responded, then blushed for having sworn in front of the Reverend Starbuck. 'Nothing but stale bread and chopped cabbage, I hear.'
'You and I could chop the rogue some cabbage, eh, Starbuck?' General Banks thus drew his distinguished guest into the jubilant conversation.
