We may be annihilated, but we cannot be conquered.
– Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston
Within a few moments, the firing on the other side of the river diminished in its intensity, indicating the enemy was maneuvering for some new assault.
The men around her began maneuvering as well, most preparing to make a stand at the ford while others, like Pierce’s company, rushed forward to check the advancing forces before a new attack could be made. Andrea glanced around at the picture of vigorous martial splendor surrounding her. She knew she would remember those grimy faces lit with battle fire for the rest of her life.
On both sides of the river, exhausted and desperate men summoned all their strength for a final convulsive effort to repel the enemy long enough to get the remainder of the battalion across to safety.
It appeared to Andrea that the hazardous situation only rendered the men more fearless. Their commander had apparently instilled in them the idea that they were unconquerable, and they therefore did not know they were not.
All too soon the onslaught began again as the guns of the enemy poured death and destruction upon the ford. The barrage was of a character more desperate and determined than Andrea had ever seen, but the ranks held, and the stream of gray kept moving to safety, despite the shelling that seemed to come from every direction.
“What’s your name?” Andrea kneeled by an older man she knew was one of Hunter’s officers.
“Boz,” he said grumpily. “Got me in my darn shooting arm.”
Andrea began tying a large handkerchief around his arm to help stem the flow of blood, when he struggled to his feet, almost pushing her down.
“Captain!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “To your right!”
Captain Pierce, sitting on his horse on the opposite bank, wheeled his mount around and shot a man in blue who had apparently crawled to the riverbank to pick off those who were crossing.
The Yankee, shot in the stomach or lower chest, went down, but Andrea and the man beside her watched in horror when the gun rose again.
What only took a few seconds seemed to play in slow motion to Andrea. The sharpshooter, struggling for his life, propped his back against a tree for support. Slowly and deliberately he lifted the gun to his eye and again took aim at Pierce, who by now was too far away to hear any shouts of warning from Andrea or Boz.
They both looked around wildly to see who could help, but everything was in a state of chaos with horses whinnying, water splashing, and guns firing in rapid succession.
Andrea did not remember thinking or reacting or planning a response. Without warning there appeared on the side of the Yankee’s head a horrid red fountain, and at the same instant, he fell a corpse. She looked at Boz in relief—the danger, it seemed, had been averted.
Boz’s eyes were not on the fallen Yankee. They were on her.
Andrea followed the line of his gaze to her outstretched hand, to the barrel of the still-smoking gun pointed toward the opposite bank.
She blinked, as if by doing so the gun would vanish. Then she glanced behind her, thinking surely someone else had taken the shot. But as for the former, the gun did not disappear, and as for the latter, there was no one in sight to assume the blame or accept the honor.
The cold reality of the situation rushed over her. With a shiver of revulsion that shook her, Andrea threw the dreadful instrument of death into the river.
“It was just a Yankee,” Boz said, watching a perfectly good weapon disappear. “And he was dead before you shot him. You just hurried him up a little.”
Andrea took no comfort in his words. She continued to stare at her hand as though it belonged to someone else, then turned away, unable to endure the sight of the opposite bank.
Stumbling into some bushes, she bent over, and with her hands on her knees, gagged and heaved. She turned back toward Boz, but took only a few steps before sinking to the ground at the thought she had sent a human soul, fighting for his country, into eternity.
“Don’t see why you’re so upset, but look at it this way, kid,” Boz said, walking to her and patting her on her shoulder. “You saved a life today. One man was already on his way out. If you hadn’t shot, there woulda been two.”
Andrea nodded, but it was plain to see his words did not ease her anguish nor console her mental torture. Boz had no way of knowing that she had not just killed a Yank, she had killed a former comrade—in order to save a Rebel, no less.
Andrea’s mind whirled with pain and confusion, but she had little time to lament. Hearing heavier gunfire, she caught a horse and rode to a small eminence a short distance away to see what was happening.
What she saw filled her with dismay and horror. Union troops attacking the rearguard with furious determination had almost surrounded those remaining, cutting them off from the river and safety. Although holding their ground tenaciously, there was only a small force to meet the shock of the advancing hosts.
And Alex was likely among them.
Andrea watched the two forces move closer and closer to hand-to-hand combat. Her soul froze at the sight of the Confederate banner waving defiantly within the chaos—tattered yet grand flaunting its noble heritage for all to witness.
This was not war, it was slaughter. A useless sacrifice! Her eyes dashed around in bewildered panic and at last landed on Carter.