Billy Brady screamed and clutched at the sudden rip in his worn gray sleeve, now stained with red. The Yankee lead bullet fired from a Springfield rifle fifty yards up the hill had been meant for his chest, but the growing darkness made accurate shooting difficult. Case swung his head to the left and anxiously watched as the boy, no more than sixteen years of age, staggered back from the wavering line of hard-pressed Confederate soldiers to join the drift of the wounded making their way back to the retreating lines of their comrades. The delaying action the unit was engaged in was allowing the rest of the brigade to get away to Sharpsburg. The Union forces, vastly superior in numbers, had pushed them back off the ridge of the pass they were trying to hold and now they were giving ground downhill. Bodies marked their retreat and their line had shrunk as their casualties mounted. Most of them, like Billy, were merely wounded, and these men made their way as best they could down to the surgeons or along the road to Sharpsburg where the retreating Army of Northern Virginia was heading. “Hold firm!” Sergeant Case Rafferty Lonnergan screamed, frantically ramming yet another lead bullet down the barrel of his rifled musket. The men of his platoon, part of ‘J’ company of the 1st Virginia infantry regiment, grimly stood and kept on firing as the advancing blue uniforms closed in. To their left the South Carolinians of General Evans’ brigade were firing rapidly against the Pennsylvanians, the same who were pushing the Virginians back. To the right the sound of shooting had worryingly passed behind them, a sign that the exhausted Alabamians there had almost collapsed. He fumbled in the small leather pouch on his belt and withdrew another small percussion cap. He fitted it to the nipple of the musket and fully cocked the hammer. Case glanced once more up at the darkening sky. Night was almost upon them. Ammunition was running out and their supply wagons would be halfway to Sharpsburg by now. Damn! Unless they got out of there pretty soon they’d all end up dead or captive. “Captain!” he snapped. The platoon had no lieutenant, their last one having fallen victim to the battles they’d fought outside Richmond earlier that year. The company commander was Captain Skivenham, a scarred veteran who’d become captain by virtue of having not been killed so far. The bullet meant for his brain at Manassas had merely left a red furrow on his face that would fade with the years. Case had a scar himself, but that hadn’t been earned in battle; this had been a result of short-changing a whore in Greece nineteen centuries back. That had been before Case, then known as Casca Rufio Longinus of the Roman legions, had been transformed into an immortal by the dying Jesus at Golgotha. Casca had wandered the earth, seeking God-knows-what, always having to move on before his unique condition became known and the superstitious and frightened people did unthinkable horrors to him. He always ended up doing what he was best at; fighting. So now he was here fighting for money and a free Virginia, part of the Confederate army. “Sergeant?” Captain Skivenham came running across the angle of the slope, glancing warily uphill as more shots rattled down on them, one whining off a rock and sending chips flying. Skivenham grimaced and crouched by the side of the bulky but reassuring figure of the sergeant. Sweat ran off his face and he was filthy, like his men. The saber he clutched was more decorative than useful, but it marked him as the leader and the men needed leaders in the thick of a fight. CASCA: The Confederate by Tony Roberts “We’re outflanked,” Case jerked his head to the right. “If we don’t get out of here soon our war will be over.” He suddenly spotted a dark shape rising up ahead of him no more than twenty yards away. A Yankee had scuttled along a small gulley, hidden by rocks, and sprouted up as if out of the ground too close for comfort. Case leveled his firearm and loosed off a shot that smashed into the Yankee’s shoulder, causing him to spin round and yell in agony. The man dropped out of sight. “Nice shooting, Lonnergan,” Skivenham nodded in approval. “I’ll go tell the Colonel. Hopefully we’ll be given the order to get out of here. The men are pretty well finished.” Case nodded and began reaching for his cartridge case. He cursed. Empty. Well, now its back to the old fashioned way, he mused. “Corporal Munz, how are the men for bullets?” Munz, a tall, phlegmatic man, spat out some powder and pulled a face. “We’re jus’ about outta them, Sarge.” Case cursed again. They were finished now unless the order came for them to get out of there. The Union troops were coming down at them, supplied and with reserves. The Virginians had done all that could have been asked of them, and now it was time to get out of there yesterday. Facing a whole brigade with a shrinking company was suicide. No matter they killed three to every one of them, they would still be overrun. The line gave ground again and the men looked nervously at the stony surface they were stumbling down. A fall now could be fatal with the enemy so close. A bullet spat past Case’s face, the sharp crack making his ears cringe. “The hell with this!” he growled. Cheers came to him from the right and behind. The Northern troops had broken their opponents. Now their retreat line was threatened. The crash of rifle fire and the bright flames of each shot filled the air, which was heavy with smoke, bringing an unreal quality to the scene, like a painting of Dante’s works Case had seen many years ago. What had it been called? ‘Inferno’. Yes that was it. “Sergeant,” Skivenham’s voice came to him. Case scuttled behind the line of cursing, sweating and exhausted men. The captain was pointing his saber downhill. “Get the men out of here. One last volley and then run like crazy. The flanks have collapsed.” “Captain!” Case ran back, stumbling over some rock and nearly falling on his face. He tapped the men as he ran, whispering fiercely for them to fire then get away downhill. The shooting uphill slackened and the Union men sensed things had changed. They stood up, confident. “Now!” Case snapped and pulled Private Joseph Siddeley after him. He saw Munz loping off downhill, hand on hat, and the others fleeing left and right. A whoop of delight came to him from behind as the enemy realized they had the Rebels on the run. Now was the time for stout legs and lungs. Anyone who lacked either or both was in deep shit. So they ran, ran for their lives. The sound of pounding feet behind them urged them to greater efforts as their last reserves of energy were tapped into. Case wondered again at the complexities of the human body; here they were, almost spent, yet the fear of being captured pushed adrenaline through their bodies, giving them a second wind. As night closed in the men ran hard, fear driving them on. Would any of them make it? Case hoped they would as he leaped a black rock that threatened to trip him up. He pounded on, hoping no Yankee was right behind him. Men to left and right ran downhill, all wild eyed and fear driven. And behind them came the Pennsylvanians, intent on catching as many of the fleeing Rebs as they could.   From "CASCA: The Confederate #27" Offered by: AMERICANA BOOKS Nashville, Tennessee June, 2008