Whistler Bischof knew it was going to be a bad day when he spied the giant boulders of rock that lay in his way toward the small round-topped hill. Tall trees lined the right and left of the route creating a funnel that led into the snouts of Yankee rifles. The defenders had stacked small rocks to form a wall between two house-size boulders. Puffs of smoke rose from the wall. Farther up the rocky ravine, cannon spit fire and death toward the Confederates. This fight had all the signs of becoming worse than the hell of the cornfield at Sharpsburg.
Whistler lay in the dirt trying to make his body hard to see by the enemy sharp shooters. How were he and his men in the Fifth Texas supposed to root out the Yankees in the rocks? Many of his men—perhaps including himself— would be killed in an upright charge. Leaning to his right, he detected that there was a space in the stone wall that was filled with blue of an enemy jacket. He propped his rifle in his left palm, sighted down the barrel and fired. Before the smoke cleared, he rolled on his back, wondering if he had hit his target. Chewing the paper top off a cartridge packet, he spit out the residue and poured powder and minie ball into the rifle barrel before tamping the ball down. After seating a firing cap securely, he rolled back and scanned the hundred yards ahead. Dead and wounded Confederates littered the ground in front of the wall. The first charge of the Texans had been repulsed, but Whistler knew they had to make another push.
The afternoon sun beat down on his gray officer's jacket. Sweat and dirt covered his face, and the tangy taste of saltpeter was like green persimmon shriveling his mouth. A bullet pinged off a nearby rock and a hundred others filled the air—a buzz of angry wasps.
Ritter snake-crawled to him. "We're in a helluva mess here, Captain."
"How many are down?" A bullet kicked up dirt inches from Whistler's hand.
"Six from the company. Probably fifty in all." Ritter’s nickel-colored eyes were steady. If people were animals, Ritter would be a mountain lion.
A cannon bellowed behind them, almost deafening Whistler. He peeked over his boulder in time to see pieces of rock wall falling on the heads and backs of Yankees. "Looks like we got help." Whistler rolled on his back and looked at his comrades.
Confederates who had taken cover behind rocks and trees cheered. Captain Reilly's artillerymen swabbed the barrel of their cannon, preparing to fire another round at the Yankees.
Whistler squinted at the wall. A few of the Bluecoats edged back from their defenses. "Fifth Texas! Prepare to charge."
"I'm sticking with you," Ritter said.
Ka-boom!
Whistler stood and waved his rifle in a forward motion. "Charge!" He ran for the wall, shooting a fleeing Yankee in the back. Other soldiers in blue scrambled away from the onslaught of Rebels.
A blue-coated sergeant stood as Whistler reached the three-foot pile of stones. The Yankee brought his rifle up, but it snagged on a rock, giving Whistler a split-second advantage. He drove his bayonet above the sergeant's defending arms, slicing heart-deep into flesh. The Yankee appeared surprised—a raised-eyebrow, squinted-eyes look that Whistler had seen more than once during two years of fighting. The dying man’s mouth formed a silent oval. Whistler prepared to vault over the wall. He jerked in surprise as a hand clamped his shoulder.
"Stay down," Ritter said. "They got cannons, too."
Whistler squatted behind the rocks and watched the last of the Yankees run into a line of trees. Then he noticed what Ritter had already spotted with his frontiersman sight. The ugly snouts of two field artillery guns poked from under tall green pines. The first one coughed smoke. The shot screamed overhead in a locomotive rush of air. In front of the cannon, an expanding smoke ring roiled toward the Confederates.
Whistler glanced right. A dozen men in distinctive butternut-colored clothing stood next to the wall and pointed at the pine trees. "Get down, you idiots!" he yelled. He duck-walked to a huge rock that anchored one end of the Yankee wall.
The wall in front of the soldiers disintegrated, flinging the men like splinters in several directions. The cannon ball propelled rocks and stone chips outward. A gourd-size rock struck Whistler in the side, whooshing breath from his lungs.
Ritter rolled him over. "Are you hit?"
Whistler scrunched his eyes tight and sucked in air. He shook his head in response.
A second cannonball blasted another hole in the wall and spurred Yankee hurrahs.
Ritter lifted Whistler by the armpits. "Let's git."
Whistler stumbled after Ritter and other Texans toward a tree line on their right that teemed with Confederates of Law's Alabama Brigade. The Federal cannon fire followed them. Earth exploded in front of him, raining clods. He held one arm over his head to protect himself. He tripped over a moaning soldier, falling flat.
Ritter again jerked him up by his coat collar, dragging him like a yard puppy to the inviting safety of the trees. He unceremoniously dumped Whistler behind a fallen tree branch as grape shot rattled the upper timber.
Whistler gulped in a lung full of air mixed with smoke, which burned his already-dry throat. No time for a drink of water, as much as he wished for one.
A lieutenant colonel from the Fourth Texas, his ripped sleeve stained with blood, yelled at the commingled Texas and Alabama troops. "Who's with me? We have to charge those guns!" He stood and ran through the skirt of trees, passing the stone wall. A dozen men bunched behind him, the haze making them seem like floating ghosts.
Whistler pulled himself upright. "Fifth Texas! Let's go." He trotted forward, following the colonel who dodged trees through the smoke.