Bougainville's men bore no resemblance to their attackers. They were hired killers, ruthless men who offered no mercy nor expected it, but they were not prepared for the incredible onslaught of the Southerners and made the mistake of leaping from the protected steel bulkheads and meeting the surge head-on.

The Stonewall Jackson was wreathed in fire. The artillery men fired one last volley at the towboat, aiming forward of the men fighting aminships, their shot sweeping away the cables attached to the barge. Shoved sideways by the continued momentum of the steamboat, the two steel vessels jackknifed around her crushed bow.

The Sixth Louisiana overran the decks, lunging with their bayonets, but keeping up a deadly rate of fire. There were a score of individual hand-to-hand struggles, the five-foot Springfield musket and two-foot bayonet making a nasty close-in weapon. None of the weekend soldiers paused; they fought with a strange kind of recklessness, too caught up in the unimaginable did and excitement to be afraid.

Giordino didn't feel the blow. He was steadily advancing into the crew's quarters, firing at any Oriental face that showed itself when suddenly he was flat on his face, a bullet breaking the calf bone of his good leg.

Pitt lifted Giordino under the arms and dragged him into an empty passageway. "You're not armor-plated, you know."

"Where in hell have you been?" Giordino's voice tensed as the pain increased.

"Staying out of the way," Pitt replied. "I'm not armed."

Giordino handed him the Le Mat revolver. "Take this. I'm through for the day anyway."

Pitt gave his friend a half-smile. "Sorry to leave you, but I've got to get inside the barge."

Giordino opened his mouth to make an offhand reply, but Pitt was already gone. Ten seconds and he was snaking through the debris on the towboat's bow. He was almost too late. Free of its hold, the barge had drifted twenty feet away. A head and pair of shoulders raised from a hatch and fired off a burst. Pitt felt the passing bullets fan his hair and cheek. He dropped to the railing and rolled over the side into the sea.

Further aft, the Bougainville crew grimly hung on, obstinately giving way until they were finally overwhelmed by gray uniforms.

The shouting and the gunfire slackened and went silent. The Confederate battle flag was run up the towboat's radio mast and the fight was over.

The amateur soldiers of the Sixth Louisiana Regiment had handled themselves well. Surprisingly, none had been killed in the melee.

Eighteen were wounded, only two seriously. Laroche staggered from the minst of his cheering men and sagged to the deck beside Giordino. He reached over and the two bleeding men solemnly shook hands.

"Congratulations, Major," Giordino said. "You just made the playoffs."

A big grin spread across Laroche's bloodied face. "By God, we whipped'em good, didn't we?"