“Bastards ran us back,” Truslow said grimly. “Reckon they’ve reached the road on that side of the wood.” He jerked his beard eastward. He was suggesting that the rebels now only held the southwestern corner of the trees. “Sons of bitches have breech loaders,” Truslow added, explaining why the Yankees had been so successful.

Breech-loading rifles were much quicker and easier to load, especially when a man was lying down or crouching behind cover, and so the Yankee skirmishers were pouring a much heavier fire than the rebels could maintain, but now the fight had stalled in the corner of the wood where thick brush, scattered stacks of cordwood, and the limestone outcrops gave the rebels enough shelter to frustrate the withering Yankee fire.

“Seen Potter?” Starbuck asked Truslow.

“Who’s he?”

“Thin fellow, floppy hair.”

“Over to the right.” Truslow jerked his chin. “Be careful going through here. Sons of bitches are good shots.” A bullet whipped a chunk of bark off the elm. “Like Gaines’s Mill,” Truslow said.

“That was a hellhole.”

“So’s this. Be careful.”

Starbuck gathered himself for the dash across the wood. He could hear the heavy firing from the cornfield, but that fight seemed distant now. Instead he had entered a different version of hell, one where a man could not see his enemy, but only spot the gouts of rifle smoke that marked where the Yankee sharpshooters lurked. It was dark under the trees, a darkness caused by the remnants of fog and the thickness of powder smoke. Starbuck wondered what time it was. He reckoned the Yankees had attacked at six o’clock and somehow it felt like midday already, though he doubted if even a quarter of an hour had passed since he had first glimpsed that blue mass marching steadily toward the cornfield. “Give my love to Sally if anything happens,” he said to Truslow, then he sprinted away from the elm, dodging and darting among the trees. His appearance provoked an instant fusillade from the Yankees. Bullets lashed about him, thumping into trees like ax blows, whistling in the air, flicking through leaves, then a shot seared across his back. He knew he had been hit, yet he was still running and he guessed the wound was nothing but a near miss that had laid open his skin. He saw Potter behind a stack of cordwood and dived to join him. A Yankee jeered his plunge for safety.

“I’m almost tempted to pray,” Potter said.

“Your prayers are answered,” Starbuck said, “I’m here. What’s happening?”

“We’re holding,” Potter said laconically.

“Where’s Dennison?”

“Dennison? Haven’t seen him.”

“I sent him to reinforce you. Tumlin?”

“No sign of him,” Potter said. Every few seconds the stack of wood was thumped by a Yankee bullet, and every thump would hammer a log a half inch out of alignment. “They’re Pennsylvanians,” Potter said. “Call themselves the Bucktails.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Starbuck asked. He had rammed his rifle into a space between the logs and, without bothering to aim, fired toward the hidden skirmishers.