6 am October 27, 1863
Brown’s Ferry
Eli entrenched furiously to the sharp cadence of men with axes felling trees. He was angry; angry at Big Joe for being here, angry at Blue for trying to push him into the river, and angry at himself for being angry at Joe, that slave holding white son of a bitch. Digging a trench felt good, although already his back ached from the effort. The pain took his mind off his rage.
Joe and Al heaved another log onto the barrier where Eli dug, and Al accidentally got a shovelful of dirt tossed in his face.
“Jesus, Eli,” sputtered Al, wiping the red clay soil from his eyes, “watch where you’re tossing that.”
“It improves your looks,” smirked Blue, leaning on his shovel watching them.
“Here they come!” someone shouted, and Eli looked to see a line of rebel soldiers advancing rapidly out of the mist. Men threw down their shovels and bolted for their guns. Because of the dim light and thin fog the rebels had come close before being seen. Eli got off one shot before they sprang forward in a rush, shrieking their wild rebel yell.
Eli reloaded as the first rebels reached their barricade and sprang over. Eli dimly heard heavy firing, but focused on the look on the rebel’s face standing before him. He was young and looked scared, his shaking hands fumbling with his musket.
Eli fired first, the force of the bullet to the boy’ chest picking him up and throwing him, wide eyed, back over the entrenchment.
Eli turned to find rebels all along their defenses. He noted Blue already running for the rear, cursing that his gun was not loaded so he could shoot the worthless son of a bitch in the back as he deserved. That would also solve any problem with Blue suspecting the truth about his gender.
The hand to hand struggle around Eli made him wish he had thought to fix his bayonet. A rebel pushed the muzzle of his gun into the belly of a 6th Ohio boy next to him and fired. Eli swung his musket by the barrel and hit the rebel square in the side of the head, making a satisfying crack that sent the man’s brown slouch hat flying and dropped him like a sack of flour.
Eli felt a heavy blow to his back, sending him sprawling to the ground on top of the man he just felled. He rolled over to find a Confederate soldier standing over him. This man had thought to fix his bayonet, and he raised the gun to plunge the blade into Eli’s chest. Eli raised his right hand to deflect the blow, while pushing himself away with his left. It was futile, and he knew it, but he acted on instinct.
Eli’s attention fixed on the point of the weapon looming large as a house. It descended on him, the sound of battle strangely silent now in Eli’s ears, when he heard a sharp pop and the man dropped, the gun flying from his hands as he collapsed on Eli.
The rebel’s eyes, wide open and already dead, stared horribly into Eli’s. He thrust him away to find Joe standing over him, the barrel of his gun trailing smoke.
God damn it, thought Eli, not again.