Edge: Killer's Breed

As other mortars zeroed in on what had been the Union line, the Yankees streamed forward, yelling their enraged hatred and firing as rapidly as their gunmanship allowed, having no time to aim but successful in harassing most of the rebels into an equally wild and inaccurate defensive fusillade. Inevitably, however, stray bullets and ballshot found their marks in vulnerable flesh and blue-coated men pitched to the ground at a rate matched only by the piling up of grey clad forms at the bridge.

Hedges felt invincible as he ran, emptying the rifle and then the Colt, drawing exhilaration from the whine of lead about his ears. He transferred both guns to his left hand and drew his saber as a Confederate lieutenant seemed to materialize ten feet in front of him.

The man aimed a revolver at him and the hammer fell with a dry click against an empty shell case.

"Sickening, ain't it," Hedges said as he lashed out with the saber, then twisted it.

The point sliced through one eye, carved a path through the bridge of the nose and gouged out the other eye. The man screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at his face.

"See what he means?" Forrest yelled as he launched a mighty kick at the jaw of the kneeling man, sending him over backwards.

"Aye, aye!" Seward said with a shriek of laughter, veering to run alongside the two men.

Three rebels came towards them, swinging their empty muskets around their heads like clubs. Forrest threw his knife into the throat of the man on the left. Seward fired his Colt into the stomach of the right marker. Hedges went in below the swinging musket of the center man and lashed sideways with the saber, severing the wrist.

"Guess he'll have to finish the war single-handed," he muttered as he leapt over the falling man, and slowed his pace as he peered through the smoke of battle. There were a great many grey-clad figures in evidence, out they were no longer standing up to face the advancing Union men. They were fleeing.

"We got 'em on the run!" Seward yelled in delight, surging forward, waving is empty Colt.

Hedges halted and dropped into an exhausted crouch, breathing deeply and feeling the strain of the advance for the first time now that he was no longer under fire. As he glanced around he saw other men were experiencing a similar degree of fatigue. But all were following his example by reloading their rifles and revolvers. Ahead, Seward, suddenly realized he was alone in chasing the fleeing rebels and abruptly halted, turned, and came back to the position of Hedges and Forrest, a shame-faced expression on his immature features.

"Forward to Richmond, Frank?" he said breathlessly, voicing the slogan dreamed up by some chairbound staff officer in Washington.

Hedges' hooded eyes examined the battlefield, with its many bodies sprawled in attitudes of death, and the greater number of writhing wounded calling for help. "You reckon it'll be worth it?" he asked of nobody in particular.

"Only if I get there alive," Forrest answered.

Hedges looked into his hard, cruel grin. He nodded. "Guess that's the only way to look at it," he said softly, as a supply wagon trundled across the Stone Bridge and the men gathered around it to receive an issue of ammunition.

A hospital wagon was immediately behind it and then, as the wounded were put aboard, a column of artillery moved forward and was hauled in the wake of the rebel retreat. Captain Leaman and the remnants of his troop followed the big guns. His arm was still in a sling from the wound he had received on Rich Mountain, but the gauntness of his face, which seemed to have aged ten years since Hedges had last seen him, told of a mind scarred more deeply than his flesh.

"The rebs are massing at a place called Henry House, downriver," he told Hedges. "Looks like they intend to make a stand there. We're going to throw everything we've got at them."

And indeed, as he spoke, a second battery of heavy artillery crossed the Bull Run.

"We winning, Captain?" Seward asked, as he finished loading his guns and packing his ammunition pouch.

Leaman grimaced. "Any man still alive must be winning," he answered softly, clasping his hands together to stop them from trembling. He turned to his men. "Right, let's go."

Hedges gave no instruction to his own troopers or the infantrymen who had lost their own officers and chose to follow him. He simply set off and they straggled along behind him. Douglas, Bell and Scott were among them and Hedges began to wonder if somehow Forrest and his henchmen were immune to hurt and death. Whether their individual toughness and amorality fused into a single, penetrable shield against enemy bullets, protecting them while men with the higher attributes of humanity were killed and maimed. It was a futile and fruitless line of thought, but it enabled Hedges to occupy his mind as the Union army swelled around him on the forward push.