The thunderous report of hundreds of rifles echoed across the meadow. A carpet of thick gray smoke was added to the already heavy morning fog, reducing visibility from yards to feet. Pritchard and Ditch heard the sound of a bugle. The footsteps and battle cry of an entire Union brigade closed in behind them.

Lieutenant Gabel and four of the firing squad were hit and fell to the ground. The fifth went to a knee and fired his rifle into the fog before he, too, was felled. The sixth member of the firing squad dropped his rifle and ran back toward his regiment’s lines.

At the sound of the first shots, Pritchard elbowed Ditch backward into the trench. They landed heavily among the pile of dead.

“Don’t move,” Pritchard whispered to Ditch. “Play dead.”

Pritchard and Ditch lay motionless among the rancid bodies for long minutes as countless men and horses moved past them in waves. Twice men in Union uniforms fell into the trench, obviously unable to see the large hole due to the fog and smoke. Both cursed and immediately climbed out to rejoin their comrades in the attack on the Confederate camp. Soon the sounds of even more gunfire, the clash of steel, and the fierce and agonizing screams of men in battle were emanating from within the rebel post across the meadow.

“Now’s our chance,” Ditch said, once the fighting shifted to the camp. “We’ve got to get going before this fog lifts.”

“Right behind you,” Pritchard said.

They had to move together, since they were still connected by leg-irons. They clambered out of the trench and belly-crawled through the grass toward the firing squad.

They found Lieutenant Gabel lying faceup with a gunshot wound in his chest. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t move. Ditch and Pritchard began searching his pockets for the key to the irons.

Ditch found the key and grinned when Pritchard located his father’s bag of gold coins, tucked away in the officer’s inside breast pocket.

“Thieving bastard,” he said, taking the purse from Pritchard.

Gabel suddenly opened his eyes and grabbed for Pritchard’s wrist. The officer’s lips parted to release a shout. With his other hand, he went for the butt of one of the Remington revolvers in his belt.

Pritchard clamped one giant hand over the lieutenant’s mouth, stifling the bellow before it began. He beat the officer to the draw for the revolver with the other.

“Looks like I’ve got no regrets at all now,” Pritchard said, remembering his nearly last words. He snatched the revolver, cocked it, and put the muzzle against the officer’s head while Ditch occupied himself unlocking their irons.

“Go ahead,” Lieutenant Gabel said through a mouthful of blood. “Finish me, you coward.”

“Who’s calling who a coward?” Pritchard said. “Ain’t you the feller who marched us out here, unarmed and in chains, to be shot?”