“Yes.” Starbuck would have agreed with whatever propositions Bird wanted so long as the Major hurried.

“I mean how many hundreds of bullets have been fired on this pasture this morning,” Bird went on, suddenly enthused by his new proposition, “and how many casualties have they caused? Remarkably few, really.” He waved with his unblooded sword at the grass where maybe three score of bodies lay where the Legion’s charge had failed. “We should look at the tree trunks to see where the bullet scars are, and I’ll wager you, Starbuck, that most will be at least eight or ten feet above the ground.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, sir. I really shouldn’t.” Starbuck could see the fence rails ahead now. Just another few paces and they would be among the trees. Most of the Legion was already safe in the woodland, or as safe as any men could be who were crouching among trees that were being shelled by a dozen federal howitzers.

“There, look! You see? Twelve feet up, fifteen. There’s another, ten feet high if it’s an inch. See?” Major Bird had now stopped altogether and was pointing with his sword at the interesting phenomenon of how high the bullet marks on the trees were. “That one’s a little lower, I admit, but look, see? There, on that hickory, Starbuck? Not one bullet strike below ten feet and how many can you see above that height? Four, five, six, and that’s just one trunk!”

“Sir!” Starbuck shoved Bird onward.

“Steady!” Bird protested, but did start walking again so that, at last, Starbuck could take shelter under the trees. He saw that most of the men had retreated farther among the trunks, instinctively seeking safety, though a few, the brave few, lingered at the trees’ edge to keep steadily firing on the advancing Yankees.

“Go back, lads!” Major Bird realized the southern stand was beaten. “God knows where,” he muttered under his breath. “Sergeant Major Proctor?”

“Sir!”

“Make sure the colors are safe!” How ridiculous, Bird thought, that he should think of such things, for what were the colors but two gaudy flags, stitched together from scraps of silk in his sister’s bedroom? The northern bullets were ripping and tearing through the leaves. “Starbuck?”

“Sir?”

“Would you mind warning Doc Billy? Tell him we’re retreating. He must rescue what wounded he can, and leave the rest. I guess the Yankees will treat them right?”

“I’m sure they will, sir.”

“Be off with you, then.”