“We got one of them. Stupid man got too far ahead and Case pulled him down.”

“Case? So Dennison’s company is here?”

“Private Case is,” Potter said, jerking his head west to show where Case was crouching behind a fallen tree. A dead Yankee was beside him and Case had taken the man’s breech-loading rifle and was using it to fire steadily into the brush where puffs of smoke betrayed Yankee positions. “The fellow had a deer’s tail pinned to the back of his hat,” Potter went on. “Full of fleas, it was. He’s dead now. It’s difficult to live with a slit throat, it seems.”

“Where’s Sergeant Rothwell?”

“Sent him back for ammunition.”

“What’s happening out there?” Starbuck jerked his head toward the east, where the Smoketown Road angled through the trees.

“God only knows,” Potter said.

Starbuck peered eastward, but could see nothing beyond the trees. He knew some of the Pennsylvanians had got past this point and were now firing toward the graveyard from the southern edge of the wood. For a second he thought about trying to lead an attack that would cut those men off from their companions, then he abandoned that idea. The Yankees were too thick on the ground and too good to be taken that lightly. A Yankee counterattack would destroy his skirmishers and open the brigade’s flank to the fire of the Pennsylvania breech-loaders.

“There’s blood on your back,” Potter said.

“Bullet scrape. Nothing serious.”

“Looks impressive.” Potter had made a loophole in the cordwood and fired through it. The shot was answered by a half dozen bullets that made the whole log pile quiver. “The bastards can fire three bullets to our one,” Potter said. “They’re using Sharps rifles.”

“I heard. Can you hold?”

“So long as the Yankees don’t reinforce.”

“Then hold on.” Starbuck patted Potter’s back, then dashed to his left. His appearance provoked a flurry of shots, but Starbuck had already dropped behind the dead tree where Private Case had found refuge. Case glanced at Starbuck, then peered back toward the enemy. The dead Yankee’s throat was cut almost to the spine so that his head lolled back in a mess of fly-encrusted blood.

“Where’s Captain Dennison?” Starbuck asked.

Case did not answer. Instead he aimed, fired, then levered down the trigger guard to expose the breech of the Sharps rifle. A puff of smoke curled from the open breech as he pushed a stiff linen-wrapped cartridge into the barrel. He pulled up the trigger guard and Starbuck noted how a built-in shear sliced the back off the cartridge to expose the powder to the firing nipple. Case put a new percussion cap on the nipple and aimed again.

“Where’s Dennison?” Starbuck asked.

“Ain’t seen him,” Case said brusquely.

“You came up here with him?” Starbuck asked.

“I came because there were Yankees to be killed,” Case said, as loquacious suddenly as he had ever been with Starbuck. He fired again and his shot was rewarded with a yelp of pain that turned into a wail of agony that echoed through the wood. Case grinned. “I do so like killing Yankees.” He turned his flat, hard eyes on Starbuck. “Just love killing Yankees.”