Prisoner in Time (Time travel) (3 page)

“They’re being cut to ribbons,” Gen. Hood said loudly. “Keep your heads down!” he shouted further.

Looking through his field glasses, he now stared at the unthinkable: he was being outflanked on both sides of the battlefield. He knew as the Union troops continued their advance, they’d eventually encircle him completely, cutting off all chance of escape.

Shock and horror raced through his mind as he thought about his capture. Desperate for a solution, he shouted the call for withdrawal.

“Captain Gabriel sound the retreat,” he yelled, his tone now harried and frantic.

Instantly, the bugler blew into his horn. Across the valley to Compton’s Hill, the distant sound was heard over the roar of rifle and cannon fire. Other buglers picked up the call and relayed the message to distant troops. As the men heard the frantic report, they quickly turned and headed for their escape, only to be caught in crossfire from the surrounding Union troops.

Gen. Hood stared out over his defeat. His shame was second only to his worry for his men. He had waited too long to sound the retreat and now there was little chance for any escape.

“Sir, any ideas,” Captain Gabriel asked in fearful tone.

Gen. Hood bowed his head in remorse. In a solemn tone, he spoke his simple reply:

“Pray for a miracle.”

-----*-----*-----*-----

Firing atop Compton’s Hill, inside a shallow trench, Sergeant Arles Moore encouraged his men to fight. As he stared down on the approaching enemy, he searched for weakness in their advance and directed fire from his troops. Although the Union advance up the sloping terrain was spirited and heavy, it was also chaotic. Arles noticed gaping holes in their defenses and took action.

“To the left boys!” he shouted loudly. “Them yanks down yonder, separated from the others. Let ‘em have it.”

Instantly, a volley of musket fire hurled down the hill. In seconds, a dozen Union soldiers lay dead. As their comrades fell, the few remaining took cover behind rocks or lay in shallow depressions, narrowly escaping the fate of the other’s.

Arles searched the scene once more. Again, he spotted weakness.

“Over there boys!” he shouted while pointing. “Get them leaders.”

A moment later, all guns were trained on a pack of soldiers leading a charge. Far out in front, they made easy targets. As Arles’ men opened fired, they cut down the blue coated soldiers with ease.

“That’s it boys. We’ve got ‘em now. Keep a-firing,” he shouted enthusiastically.

With even greater furor, the men from his company trained their sights on the endless sea of Union soldiers. Although dozens were falling in the charge, many more advanced.

Suddenly, Arles heard the sound of the bugler. Spinning around, he looked behind him and noticed the frantic retreat of his fellow soldiers on the opposite side of the hill.

“Retreat?” he shouted incredulously. “Impossible. We’re whooppin’ them blue dogs,” he continued in disbelief.

“Not so, Sergeant,” Lt. Drake shouted from nearby, overhearing his false claim. “The Yankees are outflanking us.”

“Sir, we rule the high ground. Surely we won’t just let them blue cowards have it.”

“They’ll be taking it from us shortly, I reckon. Better move along while you still can,” Lt. Drake ordered by suggestion.

“But Sir, we can whoop ‘em. I know we can,” he pleaded, then added in frustration, “This is madness.”

“Sergeant Moore, fall in with your men. That’s an order,” Lt. Drake shouted, unwilling to discuss the matter any further.

With a simple nod, he reached for his rifle. Instantly, the wooden stock exploded into splinters as a Union bullet found its mark. Arles jump back from the sudden violent event. For a moment, he stared down at his rifle, now a useless mass of wood and steel. Anger raged inside him at the destruction of his trusted weapon.

“Them filthy blue dogs have wrecked my rifle,” he shouted loudly, now incensed over the sight.

“Leave it,” Lt. Drake shouted back as he hurried away. “You’ll get another.”

“Don’t want ‘nother,” he said to himself, now holding the broken rifle.

As his fellow soldiers rushed past him, several bumped his shoulders. He looked around and realized the hilltop was quickly emptying of all men. Instantly, he hurried along with the escaping horde.

As he ran, he felt a sense of shame that seemed to overpower his emotions and logic. Soon, anger raged inside him as he thought about the wasted opportunity to beat the opposing force. He had lost many friends and now, just when they were so close to avenging their deaths, he was forced to give up.

Up ahead, Arles spotted a Confederate flag waving in the wind. Pierced through its cloth with a bayonet, it was attached to a musket that was propped up with a small pile of rocks. The lone symbol of his proud Confederacy was now ignored like useless trash.

The insult of the act was too much for him to stand. Arles felt crazed with rage and anger. He wanted to take action. He needed revenge upon the enemy.

In an act devoid of logic, he stopped and grabbed the rifle. Gently laying his own weapon on the ground, he reverently gave it a nod, then turned and headed back against the flow of retreating men. Holding his Confederate flag high above his head, he waved it vigorously as he ran.

“Come on boys! Let’s show them blue dogs,” he shouted loudly. “Follow me!” he yelled.

Arles ran for the trenches that guarded the hilltop. Dodging soldiers headed for their escape, he repeated his call to duty.

“Come on boys! Let’s show them blue cowards what for,” he roared enthusiastically.

With the Confederate flag moving high through the air, several men stopped to take notice. As they did, others joined the spectacle. Moments later, a hundred men stood and watched proudly as their comrade bravely fired down upon the approaching enemy with his flag-draped rifle. He reloaded quickly and fired again… then again.

Several of the men hurried to Arles’ side and fired their rifles at the enemy. Inspired by their valor, other men joined the heroic cause. Soon, hundreds of men stood on the hilltop’s shallow trenches and laid down bursts of unrelenting fire.

As the enemy’s pace slowed to a crawl, more Confederates were added to the melee. In very little time, the roar of repeated fire was deafening as one rifle became a thousand. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they sent a hail of bullets that turned the hillside a crimson red from the blood of fallen Union soldiers.

In minutes, the proud advancing army now organized a retreat of its own. Hurling back toward the breastworks at the base of the hill, their slow progress over it created a bottleneck that extended their casualties.

-----*-----*-----*-----

As General Hood rode away, he took one last look through his field glasses. To the east, his men were fighting for their lives while trying to escape. The Union right flank had nearly closed off their remaining route of retreat. Within a short time, they would be encircled and their capture would be complete. His stomach churned as he thought about their fate.

Scanning to the east, his mind suddenly became confused. What he expected to see was very different than what he saw through his binoculars. He pulled them from his eyes and stared out over the eastern slopes of Compton’s Hill.

“This can’t be,” he said under his breath.

Quickly, he brought his field glasses back to his eyes. Adjusting the focus, he shouted in disbelief, “This can’t be!”

“Sir?” Captain Gabriel shouted a short distance away.

“Captain, sound the buglers. All men advance to the east,” he shouted. “We just might be able to save ‘em.”

“Save ‘em? Sir, with all due respect, we’re being overrun.”

“Captain, I found our miracle,” Gen Hood said, now handing him his field glasses. Pointing to the top of Compton’s Hill, he said, “There… there’s our miracle.”

Captain Gabriel stared across the valley to the action taking place at the hilltop.

“Sir, I don’t understand. Who ordered those men to fight?”

“I don’t know, but whoever it was deserves a medal. Now, sound that advance,” Gen. Hood responded once more.

“Yes Sir,” Captain Gabriel replied enthusiastically.

Within seconds, the buglers horn signaled a return to battle. Moments later, more buglers carried the order. As the retreating men hurried back to their station, General Hood monitored the action from his distant bluff.

-----*-----*-----*-----

“We’ve got ‘em on the run now, boys,” Arles shouted. “Let’s get ‘em.”

With his adrenaline pumping and with little regard for his safety, he leaped from the trench and hurried down the hill toward the retreating men. All sense and logic seemed to fade as raw determination replaced his reasoning. Arles was now focused. He had his foe on the run and the taste of blood on his tongue. Nothing would deter him.

Racing down the hill, he fired his weapon, then stopped. With a quick roll of his wrists, he unfurled his proud Confederate flag from the gun barrel. He waved it above his head for all to see and continued on. He ran a few more yards, stopped, reloaded his rifle and fired on the escaping enemy once more.

“Wooo... wooo… wooo…” Arles shouted at the top of his lungs, yodeling the infamous Rebel yell.

Reloading on the run, he now continued his crazed pursuit. Twenty seconds after his last shot, he fired again. The bullet sailed through the air, descending lower in elevation toward the Union masses. Moments later, one man cried out in agony as the lead mini-ball tore through his wool jacket and embedded in his spine. The unlucky soldier fell forward and impacted the ground. He lay motionless, trying to breathe in spite of his paralysis. Seconds later, he was dead.

Arles let out another blood curdling Rebel yell, reloaded and continued forward. A satisfying smile curled up the corners of his mouth. He felt invigorated… he felt alive.

-----*-----*-----*-----

A half mile away, high up on the distant bluff, Gen. Hood watched in curious fascination at the spectacle unfolding beyond his orders. Looking through his field glasses, he watched a curly red-haired soldier, wave a Confederate flag above his head, jump from his protective trench and chase the enemy downhill. Suddenly, a rush of excitement raced through him as he focused on the recklessly brave soldier. Standing in his stirrups, he bent forward subconsciously, trying to get a closer look.

“My God!” he shouted loudly, unsure of the fate of the lone man.

“Sir, what is it?” Captain Gabriel responded, now riding up beside his commander.

He passed his binoculars to his officer and pointed.

“I don’t know if that man is inspiringly brave or profoundly stupid.”

The Captain stared through the binoculars at the heroic sight. He became mesmerized by the lone soldier waving his flag and chasing the enemy while firing. He felt a rush of pride to know the man he just spotted.

“Sir, that’s Sergeant Moore,” Captain Gabriel shouted. “Sergeant Arles Moore.”

“My God man. How could you possibly know that?” Gen. Hood asked, in surprised tone.

“Flaming red curly hair, Sir,” Captain Gabriel responded. “I recognize him from Captain Livingston’s unit.

Still looking through the field glasses, he felt a gloved hand pull them from his eyes. Momentarily surprised, he released his grip on the binoculars.

“You don’t mind if I have these back, do you Captain?” Gen. Hood asked in joking tone.