“Fire!” Starbuck shouted. Dimly over the crack of his rifles he heard the clatter of bullets striking the cannon. He hauled out his revolver. “Now charge!”

He ran from the trees and could see that the gunners had been hit hard. The gun captain was on his knees, holding his belly with one hand and the gun’s wheel with another. Two other men were down while the rest of the crew hesitated between reloading and looking for the danger.

The Yellowlegs charged. The gun lay beyond the junction of the turnpike and the Smoketown Road and the remnants of two sets of fences lay in their path, but the men leaped the rails and stumbled on as fast as their tired legs would carry them. It was a race now between the weary infantrymen and the hard-hit gun crew, who began trying to handspike the Napoleon round to face the attack. A wounded gunner was holding a charge of canister, ready to plunge it down the barrel, then he saw the race was lost and he just dropped the charge and fled toward the east, his suspenders flapping about his legs as he limped away.

The second gun tried to save the first, but before its gunners could charge the barrel and turn the gun, the defenders of the Dunker church gave way. They had been attacked from two sides, caught in a screaming vice of vengeful gray, and the thousand Yankees under General Greene had taken enough. They scattered and fled, and the gunners of the second Napoleon simply brought up their horses, limbered up the gun, and galloped away. Starbuck’s men, still screaming their challenge, pounced on the first gun, slapping its hot barrel and shouting their victory while, just yards away, the broken Yankees streamed past, pursued by rifle fire from the woods. Starbuck’s men watched them go, too tired to make an effort to interfere. A wounded gunner begged for water and one of Starbuck’s men knelt beside the man and tipped a canteen to his lips. “Never knew you boys were there,” the gunner said. He struggled to sit up and managed at last to prop himself against his gun’s wheel. “They said it only was all our boys in the trees.” He sighed, then felt in his pocket to bring out a wrapped tintype of a woman that he set on his lap. He stared at the image.

“We’ll find you a doctor,” Starbuck promised.

The man looked up at Starbuck briefly, then stared again at the tintype. “Too late for doctors,” he said. “One of you boys put a bullet in my guts. Don’t hurt much, not yet, but there isn’t a doctor born who can help. If I was a dog you’d have put me down by now.” He gave the portrait a gentle touch. “Prettiest girl in Fitchburg,” he said softly, “and we’ve only been married two months.” He paused, closed his eyes as a spasm of pain flickered deep in his guts, then looked up at Starbuck. “Where you boys from?” he asked.