Out of the corner of his eye Patrick saw Stephen’s big white, rear on its haunches. He turned his head fully to see the red patch spread out over the stretched white coat of the animal. Then horse and rider collapsed. Nearby, a bluecoated infantry sergeant who had fired the shot also saw the Rebel captain go down.
Patrick, reading the sergeant’s mind, followed him with his sights as the Yankee moved through the fray towards Stephen. His captain was somewhere on the ground but Patrick could see only the kicking frenzy of the dying horse. Then, deliberately, he turned his musket away from the unfolding scene, seeking instead his original target, Union colour bearers. He spoke out loud his sharpshooter’s instructions – Stephen Joyce’s instructions.
‘The colour bearers – bring down the flag!’
Beyond that Patrick had no other duty to Stephen Joyce.
Now, in his sights, Patrick had found the flag of the enemy. He dropped his aim down along the flagstaff to the hands which so ferociously gripped the Northern banner. Then, he followed the line of the arm to the curve of the man’s shoulder, slightly adjusting his aim the eight inches or so to the cavity of the colour bearer’s chest. A pressure on the trigger and the flag carrier would fall.
Afterwards Patrick couldn’t reason it out. Why he had relented. Turned instead back to the writhing horse and the Bluecoat sergeant, bayonet raised for a fallen Secesh captain. Patrick had fired before he knew it. Didn’t much care if his aim was true. The Yankee’s mouth was opened wide in the killing yell, as he gathered himself to deliver Stephen Joyce of this earth. Mesmerised, Patrick watched, his bullet drawn by the curdling sound, until it tore the man’s mouth apart – transforming the death-dealing yell into a muffled cry. Then Patrick put the big white out of its misery.
In the respite after battle Stephen came to him.
‘You saved my life, Patrick – I am in your debt …’ He paused before asking the question … ‘It must have been hard?’
‘It was,’ Patrick answered.
His captain made no reply but turning to go, turned back.
‘When I was down … facing my Maker, my last thoughts were not of salvation but of your mother. Without right or hope have I loved her … since you were a boy.’