The Great Mudbug War

The June sun illuminated fresh green leaves, sending dappled cool shadows spilling along the quiet banks of the sluggish Rappahannock River. The splash of a jumping fish sent ripples of light in concentric circles, the liquid sound breaking the stillness with all the power of the shattering of glass. Hardly making a sound himself, James Anderson padded through the brush barefoot in his ragged gray and butternut uniform, a slouch hat pulled low on his head with the crown punched to a round dome. This was his sixteenth summer and by far the worst one yet. In his right hand he carried both a musket and a fishing pole. The musket was loaded, at half cock with a percussion cap in place; a brutal reminder of his present reality. The fishing pole, just the opposite, stirred cherished memories of a peaceful past filled with idle summer hours at his favorite fishing hole on his aunt's plantation. His left hand brushed the branches out of the way. As he walked, he glanced to his left at the sluggish river, ever alert for those people on the other side.

Those people, blue bellies, Yankees, it was all the same to him, were the enemy. A faceless and soulless blue army, defeated at Chancellorsville and licking its wounds on the other side of the river. Only a few weeks past, the battle had been bloody work, he recalled. A few of his friends had fallen. What was supposed to be a glorious defense of the land and way of life had left holes in his heart. He pushed away the dark thoughts from his mind. The river was calling. To hell with the war and guard duty. The day was too good to waste on war and killing. There were fish to catch.

He paused at a more open spot on the bank where a large flat boulder leaned into the green water. He studied the river. By the look of the slow current the water was moving over a deep hole in the riverbed. In the shallows stood reeds and a few water lillies. A perfect spot to fish. Cautiously he crept onto the rock and set his musket down within easy reach. He put his fishing pole next to it and dug in the haversack slung over his shoulder for the peach can full of worms. In no time he had baited the hook with a plump nightcrawler, tossed it into the river and settled down on the sun-warmed rock. As tempting as the river called his mind to wander, he did not allow it to lull him into a false sense of security. A part of him was fully aware of his exposed position. He decided to divide his attention between watching the cork float bobbing gently on the water and the far bank where brush and trees could hide the approach of those people. Only a thrush called from the green shadows over there. An early cicada buzzed its song above him and all seemed right in the world. He let his gaze wander back to the cork float. It bobbed and dipped under the water. He pulled up on his pole, feeling the weight of the fish as the pole bent almost double. He stood up and backed up the rock to the bank hauling hard. A huge bass broke the surface fighting wildly until a last deft yank on the pole landed the glistening fish on the rock. James quickly pounced and grabbed the line dragging the fish over into the grass. He removed the hook and laid the gasping fish safely in the grass. Smiling broadly, he re-baited the hook and settled down to await the next catch.

Jeremiah Spooner in his well-worn blue uniform, was approaching his riverbank post with all the stealth of a hunter, rifle loaded and ready. Splashing had alerted him that he was not alone. He could not believe the brazenness of the Rebel soldier he glimpsed through the brush. He sat just across the river fishing. Jeremiah was in no mood for such an affront. His regiment, the Twentieth Maine Volunteer Infantry, had had nothing but hard luck from the day it arrived in the theater of war last September. They had been held in reserve at Antietam. In December they were trapped on Marye's Heights above Fredericksburg for thirty-six freezing hours. They suffered almost as bad in January they got mired in the mud trying to surprise Lee in his winter quarters. But, worst of all, they had been held in quarantine due to a bad batch of smallpox vaccine that had caused eighty-four cases of the disease. That had kept them out of the battle at Chancellorsville, which turned out to be yet another Union fiasco. At this point, he and many of his friends were doubting if they would ever do their part in ending the rebellion. They had yet to be in a real stand up fight. As far as he was concerned, he was ready to do his part right now.

He kept his aim on the Rebel and took another step past a drooping branch for a clearer view of his target. His foot crushed a stick hidden under the tall grass and the loud crack it made might as well have been a rifle shot. His heart leapt and he cursed himself for his stupidity. The Rebel instantly dropped his pole, grabbed his rifle and dove for the cover of the brush next to the rock before he could get off a shot. Jeremiah pulled back to the cover of a tree trunk. "Who goes there?" Jim demanded, his heart pounding in his chest. He saw movement in the brush and demanded louder, " I said, who goes there?"
"You stay right where you are, Johnny Reb," Jeremiah yelled in his most commanding voice, angry at himself for being so damn careless where he put his feet. He leaned a little against the tree to steady his aim. Jim could just about see the shadow of his enemy in the brush next to an oak and shifted his aim just a little. He only needed slightly more of a target for a clear shot. That is, if his enemy really wanted a fight.
"I ain't mov'in from this post, Billy Yank. 'Sides, the fishin's too good."
"Well, I certainly ain't moving from my post," Jeremiah yelled back feeling his arm begin to cramp from the weight of the musket.
"No one's askin' you to, but you make a mighty easy target so close." Jim thought that a good bluff.
"So do you!" Jeremiah was getting impatient fast. He was not about to lose this war of nerves. No one could out stubborn a Maine man, he thought, least wise a sorry-ass Reb.

Birds singing and the gurgle of the river flowing past filled the sudden silence for what seemed an eternity. Jim noticed the cork float bob violently. "Damn", he thought, "this fool is ruining my fishing."
"Don't know about you, but my arms are gettin' a might tired and a fish is playing with my bait." Jeremiah's thoughts of blasting this Rebel out of existence suddenly began to fade. He seemed to like fishing. It was unexpected common ground. His own family's business was fishing, digging oysters and running a lobster trap line. He had even brought a handline from home. This whole hostile standoff was suddenly starting to look a bit foolish. He wondered.
"Want to call a truce?"
Jim had a glimmer of hope his whole day would not be ruined. "Sounds like a good idea to me, Billy Yank. You come out first."
"How do I know I can trust you?" Jeremiah shot back "I ain't in the habit of lyin' and you ain't no challenge to shoot. Be murder, not war like in a battle," Jim returned. Someone had to make a move. The words were somewhat encouraging. Jeremiah threw caution aside and stepped out from cover still aiming at the splash of gray he could see between the leaves across the way.
"I ain't putting my gun down 'til you do the same."
Jim smiled to himself and stood up sill aiming and calling out "Fair enough. Let's do it together." They both put their muskets down watching each other suspiciously.
"Is the fishing really that good here?" Jeremiah was seriously wondering at this point.
"Yep." Jim bent over and slowly held up the large bass he had hauled out moments before the disturbance. He looked at his enemy across the river, still unsure. It was a fine fish. Jeremiah could not help smiling.
"Mind if I join you. We can keep an eye on each other while we fish and still not get into trouble with our officers." James took it as a sign things were all right, at least for now. He put the fish down.
"Fine with me. I don't have no claim on the Rappahannock." He picked up his pole and settled back on the rock. "But, you'd best stay on your side. Don't want to start no battle over a damn fishin' hole. Personally, I'm gettin? mighty sick of this whole damn war." Somehow, Jeremiah found he was not that surprised at the Reb's words.

"To tell you the truth, so am I. What's your name, Johnny Reb?" He watched his ragged enemy as he settled on a near by log half in the river and took the handline out of his greasy haversack.
"James Anderson. What's yours, Billy Yank?" The Reb returned, still eyeing him suspiciously, or maybe it was just his imagination. He nudged over a rock near his foot with his toe and quickly snatched up a fat worm, baited the hook and tossed it in the river. "Jeremiah Spooner. Where you from in Rebeldom?" Jim allowed himself to relax more.
"Was born in New Orleans. I was twelve when my Pa died and I moved with my Ma and four sisters to her folks plantation outside of Birmingham. Where you from?"
"Rockland, Maine. Family owns a fishing boat," Jeremiah said proudly. "I work it with my Pa and two brothers. Dig oysters and trap lobsters, too. Or at least I did until I got all fired up and joined the 20th Maine last summer. Who you with?"
"The 15th Alabama," Jim answered not really wanting their talk to go back to the war. He decided to head it off. "You must be good at fish'in then it being your family business and all."
"Pretty fair when conditions are right."
"You like it?"
Jeremiah felt he should not hold back. "It's damn hard and sometimes dangerous work. Not pleasurable like tossing a line in a stream and sitting back to enjoy the day like we're doing." "Fishing like this is the most pleasurable thing a man can do." Jim found himself smiling broadly.
"Amen to that, Jim. Take this any day over marching and fighting." They both fell silent a moment to watch their cork bobbers and lightly tug on their line as if of one mind and body.

"Oysters," Jim said, suddenly voicing his thoughts. "They're a delicacy for rich people. My Aunt Betty featured them at one of her fancy balls. Shipped them in from Mobile on ice. I can't see how people can eat them things. Must be like eating snot. How'n blue blazes do you catch them? Dig 'em up or something?"
"You don't catch them. You use an oyster rake and wade in during low tide and just rake 'em up and put 'em in a basket."
Jim nodded and smiled. "That makes sense."
Jeremiah felt a fish play with the bait. Then there was a light, steady pull. "Think I got one," he said and pulled hard to set the hook. In a small explosion of white water a brown trout broke the surface, trying desperately to throw the hook.
"Whoo-eee! Looks like you got a fair size one" Jim called, glad the fishing luck was good for the other side too. The trout dove to continue the fight, but Jeremiah was quicker. He hauled it in hand over hand and held up the dripping, flapping fish. "Trout, I reckon. Or what passes for a trout in these parts." He quickly removed the hook and put the trout on the bank. Grabbing a grub from under the overturned rock, he rebaited the line and tossed it into the river. If his luck held he could feed the whole company something better than salt pork and hardtack, and possibly keep from getting chewed out by Lieutenant Birch.

"There are good sized catfish in here, too," Jim said, breaking into his thoughts. "But, they're a bit puny compared to what I pulled out of the Mississippi when I was six years old. Hooked into one off the levee that was almost as big as I was. My Pa had to help me pull it in."
"Go on! You're pullin' my leg."
"No, Jer. It's the God's honest truth. There's channel cats that come upriver from the Gulf. Some grow to be damn near the size of a man. You must have caught some big fish in the Atlantic."
Jeremiah always liked fish stories. He decided at that moment he'd give Jim something to think about. "My Pa hooked into a swordfish once. Took all of us to haul it in. Weighed near five hundred pounds. Dangerous fish. Fights back something fierce. Has a big bill like a sword."
"Ha! Now who's tellin' fish stories? A fish with a sword on it's nose. Next you'll be telling me about harpooning sea monsters." A fish hit his bait before he could continue the teasing. "Whoa, got another." He pulled in a modest sized trout, removed the hook and quickly rebaited.
"It's the God's honest truth, Jim. You ever been to sea way beyond the sight of land, out to the blue water and rolling swells?" Just talking about it brought a wave of nostalgia. He could almost smell the sea.
"I reckon not. And I ain't likely to neither. River's enough water for me. Can get pretty choppy when there's a storm."
"Afraid of the sea?"
"What?" Jim couldn't believe he was being challenged.
"Are you afraid to go to sea?"
"No, I just ain't got no inclination to leave land."
"Well, there's a lot of big fish out there." Jeremiah found himself smiling. "Some even bigger than that swordfish my Pa caught. A whale shark for one. That's bigger than our fishing sloop."
A crazy notion hit Jim so hard in the funny bone he laughed. "Sure you ain't from Texas and got transplanted?"
"Texas!" Jeremiah burst out as if it was an insult.
"Yep, Texas. They got the biggest of everything ... or so I've heard them brag. Biggest state, biggest cattle ranches, biggest you name it." Jeremiah smiled. "Sounds like those fellows are all mouth like some fish." Jim's infectious laughter danced again across the river. "You got that damn straight. Speakin' of big mouths ... we ought to shut ours a spell. Think we're scarin' off the fish."
"You might be right, Jim. You might be right." They fell silent and let the river sounds and bird song soak away the bloodstained thoughts of war until only the present tranquility was their reality.

Jeremiah sat contentedly on the log, this time his line was firmly attached to a long pole. He had brought a sizable catch back to camp, enough for his company and the officer's mess. The reprimands had melted away with the presence of real food. That morning his friend, Ezra, had even given him a bean can full of nightcrawlers before he left for guard duty. Yet, as he watched the bobber floating in the current, he knew he could not become complacent. He watched the opposite bank, his musket within easy reach, loaded and ready. There was no guarantee that the guard across the way would be the amiable James Anderson today. At the sound of crackling brush, he dropped the pole, grabbed his musket and settled behind the log, aiming his weapon towards the opposite shore. There was a brief silence and he felt a drop of sweat slide down his chest beneath his grimy shirt . The cracking of brush sounded again.
"Jer, is that you at the post cross river?" came Jim's familiar drawl.
Jeremiah sighed with relief. "Yep, just me. You gave me a bit of a fright." He got up, put his musket to one side and took up his pole as Jim pushed through the brush with his musket and pole over his shoulder in a casual manner. Jim put his musket down, settled on his rock and pulled a can of worms from his haversack. He baited his hook and tossed it in the river. "Everything go all right for you last night in Yankee land?"
"Got a bit chewed out by Lieutenant Birch for fishing while on guard duty. That man's a real pain in the brass, if you know what I mean," Jeremiah returned, remembering the red faced officer who about had apoplexy at the sight of him carrying a line heavy with seven bass and five trout back to camp.
Jim grinned. "Yep. We got a few pains in the brass over here, too. But, the company sure appreciated the fresh fish."
"The cook made sort of a fish chowder with my catch. Managed to add some potatoes, onions and carrots to it. Much better than salt pork and hardtack. Got orders for another catch ... when I'm not watching for you and your crowd. According to the top brass you might be crossing at any point and time. They've all been real nervous since Chancellorsville." Jim laughed.
"Officers are always nervous about one thing or another. Sounds like your diet ain't much better than ours, but at least you got food."
"Now, maybe, as bad as it is, but when we get to marching, half the time we get only what rations we draw beforehand. Often as not it has tenants already munching on it. Still, the officers have to warn some of the boys to make it last."
"Know what you mean, Jer. But, now we got us a good source of fish. Noth'in better'n a fried catfish or trout."
"That's for damn sure. I miss my Ma's cod cakes something fierce."
"Only had cod once, dried and salted. Even reconstituted it didn't taste too great. Like dirty socks with a fish aftertaste." They both laughed.

Jim's pole suddenly jerked. He quickly fought a large bass into submission and hauled it in. "What I miss in the way of fish is my Ma's catfish fritters and hushpuppies," Jim said, still breathless from the struggle. "She stopped mak'in 'em when we moved to my aunt's plantation. My Aunt Betty wouldn't let her cook. She had a darkie do all the cook'in in her house. Made a real lady of my Ma. Never lifted a hand again to do any housework let alone cook. Well, maybe now that your Mr. Lincoln is freein' the slaves, my Ma will have to cook. I know I'll look forward to those fritters and hushpuppies when I get home."
The sudden thought of home fell heavy on Jeremiah's heart. "Lord knows when either of us will be getting home the way things are. Damn the men that started this whole war anyway."
"Was the politicians that done it according to my Uncle Matt," Jim said with assurance. "They started it and we end up fighting and dying. Of course that John Brown had a hand in it. You ain't one of them abolitionists are you?"
"Good Lord, no," Jeremiah said, pausing only long enough for a deep thought to surface. "But I do believe in freedom for all men."
"Well, it don't make no difference to me." Jim felt a sudden anger that just came out of no where. "I just want you fellows out of the South and to be left alone. Don't care for politics or officers or ...." The sharp words shocked Jeremiah into the deadly reality they were living.
"Let's not get ourselves all worked up. We just got to be friends." The calming words and the soothing gurgle of the water running past the rocks soothed Jim's anger.
"Yep, you're right. Neither of us has anything personal against the other. We are kindred spirits in liking to fish. Why you could be my neighbor back home. It's going to be an awful thing if we run into each other on the battlefield some place."
"No need to get all depressing now. No need to ..." Jeremiah's words were cut off by the sudden sensation of his bait being dragged with a light but steady pull. He quickly yanked up his line to find a large crawfish clinging tenaciously to what was left of a worm. "What the ...?" Jim looked over, saw the crawfish and laughed.
"Got yourself a mudbug, did you?"
"Got myself a damned bait stealing crawfish. What in blue blazes did you call it?"
"A mudbug. That's what we call 'em in Louisiana. Ain't you got any mudbugs up there in Maine?"
Frowning and careful not to get nipped, Jeremiah pulled the crawfish off his mangled bait and tossed it into the river. A funny thought hit with the plop of the crawfish in the water. Grinning , he looked at Jim across the way. "Sure we got some big mudbugs. The biggest mudbugs in the whole damn country. We call them lobsters."
"There you go with the oversized sea food again."
Jeremiah rebaited his hook with a fat worm and tossed it in the river. "Honest, Jim. These crawfish are poor puny things compared to their seagoing cousins. Why the biggest one we ever got in our traps was nearly fifty pounds. Caught it two months before I joined the army. Was the talk of Rockland for a month. Almost took my thumb right off when I was helping my brother get it out of the trap." He held his thumb up and wiggled it at Jim across the river.
"It still hurts when it rains."
"A fifty pound mudbug? Come on, Jer. I was born at night, but not last night," Jim said, sure this was a real fish story this time around.
"Well, if it weren't last night you must have spent your life under a rock if you never heard of or seen a lobster."
"I ain't been under no rock. I seen a picture of one in a book once. And we get a different kind from the Gulf. Just can't believe a seagoing mudbug could get that big."
"You ain't seen a Maine mudbug ... er lobster ... up close and personal."
"No, I must admit that. But, I do know Louisiana mudbugs are real good eating. Could eat a whole bucket full right now with some gumbo." The thought made his stomach growl with expectation.
"Don't need a whole bucket of lobster to get satisfied. The average is about two to five pounds."
"God Almighty, Jer. Your worse than the Texans with your fish stories."
"It ain't a story. It's the truth. It's the God's honest truth. We had a fifty pound lobster. I still got the scar to prove it. And the normal ones are two to five pounds."
Jim shook his head and smiled. "I just don't know about you, Jer. Seems to me maybe you Maine fellers are trying to outdo the Texans in tellin' tall stories. Fifty pound mudbugs ..." A fish hit his bait derailing his thought. He pulled up a small bass and quickly rebaited the hook, tossing it into the river. Jeremiah laughing hysterically.
"What in tarnation has gotten into you, Jer?" He couldn't imagine what was so funny about tossing a baited hook into a river or a fifty pound lobster, if there was such a thing. Jeremiah laughed even harder at the thought that had hatched in his mind. He laughed so hard he could hardly breathe.
"You're beginning to worry me, boy," Jim called to him. Tears in his eyes, Jeremiah finally got some control. This was a thought that had to be shared.
"I just ... I just thought ..."
"Oh, you can really think? Ain't used up all your air laughing like a hyena?" Jim's words started the giggles boiling over to laughter again. Jeremiah forced a deep breath to get the words out before he busted a gut.
"I just came up with the answer."
Jim was confused. "Answer to what?"
"The real reason for this war."
"You mind sharing it with this ignorant Reb?"
Jim grinned. "Mudbug envy."
"What?"
"The Texans couldn't stand it that Maine had the biggest mudbugs so they got South Carolina to fire on Fort Sumter." That was too much to bear. They both broke into hysterical laughter, the unbounded mirth echoing up and down the river. Jim got control first.
"I'm so glad I met you, Jer. Now you've finally set this whole war thing straight for me letting me know it's the damn Texan's fault. And let me know you Yankees have a good sense of humor to boot. I hope I never see you after this. No offense." His chest hurting, Jeremiah finally got control. "No offense taken. I feel the same about you."
"Too bad we two ain't in control of things. We could end it all right here and now and I could go home to my catfish fritters and you to your lobsters."
"You got that damn straight. Tell them all to go fishing with one another. They might learn something of the real world." With a grin so big he felt it would crack his face, Jim said, "Can just see the papers now - Two Fishermen End The Great Mudbug War." They both broke into laughter again.

It didn't matter that there was a twelve inch thick tree trunk between him and the Rebels. Jeremiah never felt more like running in his life. For almost two hours his regiment had stubbornly held the rocky side of Little Round Top at the far left end of the Union line against repeated Rebel assaults. He had fired his musket until it was almost too hot to handle. From what he could see of their position through the battle smoke which hung like fog, it looked as if half the regiment was down - killed, wounded or mangled. The Rebel dead and wounded lay amongst the blood-slick rocks and underbrush. Even the trees bore witness to the brutal fighting, scarred by bullets up to the height of six feet and the thinner saplings cut completely down. The left wing of the regiment was bent back against the right and the worst area of casualties was near the center, immediately to his right. They had been hit from three sides by a crossfire. Only three men of the color company were still standing with the tattered flag among their fallen comrades. He had seen his commanding officer, Colonel Chamberlain, not far from the colors only moments before the last attack which had broken through their line and turned to vicious hand to hand fighting. He missed the Colonel's cool, confident presence. He feared the Colonel might have gone down in the last attack, which they had only barely managed to repulse.

Below their position smoke and brush masked much of what was going on, but the shouting and rattle of equipment signaled that the enemy was reforming for another attack. Jeremiah knew in his heart they could not take another attack like the last one. The last half hour had been filled with desperate calls for ammunition. The officers told them to scavenge from the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, but even that was running out now. He saw Sergeant Clark, a grim look on his smoke-stained face, heading past him along their ragged line. Growing more frantic by the second, Jeremiah had to voice his dire plight. "Sergeant Clark, I just fired off my last round." Clark paused to look at him.
"You and most of the rest of the boys." The increased crack of muskets and boom of artillery from the other side of the hill made him suddenly feel queasy. The enemy had probably broken through on the right and was going to slaughter them all.
"We ain't going to be able to take another attack like the last one."
"Pray the colonel comes up with a plan." Clark patted him on the shoulder. He watched as Clark headed off toward the center.

The sergeant only took a step before he froze as Colonel Chamberlain limped into view through the battle smoke, using his sword as a cane. He still looked the dignified college professor with his erect stance and full, back-swept mustache despite the smoke stains on his face and uniform. The Colonel stepped to the right of the colors, raised his sword and yelled, "Bayonets!" The noise coming from the other side of the hill drowned out the order to all but those closest to the Colonel. Jeremiah looked in disbelief at Chamberlain, but then pulled the bayonet from his scabbard and fixed it on the muzzle of his musket. Others down the line saw them and fixed their bayonets as the officers repeated the order. Chamberlain yelled , "Forward!" And the order was almost immediately lost in the loud, fierce cheer which poured from throats glad for a release of the awful tension. They moved forward, eager to turn the defensive fight into an offensive one as they charged down the hill, dodging past rocks and fallen soldiers.

Jeremiah moved forward at a half crouch, bayonet ready and yelling, as did Clark next to him. The wild, downhill charge took the Rebels by surprise. Many ran, others threw down their muskets and surrendered. Jeremiah made his way down the hill, passing trees, jumping rocks, meeting no resistance. He was conscious of men passing by him and sporadic shots. As he slowed to dodge around a large bush, a hand suddenly reached up and grabbed his pants leg, nearly tripping him. It was an enemy soldier. Startled, he stopped and raised his musket to defend himself with the bayonet. A weak but familiar voice reached him through the fog of battle that clouded his mind.
"Jer ... Jer it's me. Jer, remember the mudbug?" Jeremiah froze, the bayonet inches from his enemy's chest. He looked at the pale, smoke stained face and was struck with sudden recognition. Instantly he dropped to his knees, laying his musket at his side.
"Jim, you ... hurt?" He tentatively touched Jim's shoulder. Jim reached out a bloody hand to grip his shoulder, his face contorted in pain.
"It ain't good, Jer. Took a hit in front of my hip. Oh... God ... I never wanted it to come to this ..."
"Easy ..." He turned to check the wound, finding the edge of Jim's tattered coat and trousers stained in the dark red blood of a deep wound. He could not look further. He knew his friend was gut shot.
"Got this far ... couldn't go no further," Jim struggled, his voice almost croaking. "Don't want to die in a prison, Jer. Been bleed'in like a stuck pig ... Innards feel like they're on fire ..." Jeremiah felt so helpless, but he had to do something. He had to try.
"Got to be honest with you, Jim. It looks bad. I've got to get you to a hospital." He started to stand, but Jim grabbed his sleeve stopping him. "Your hospital? I'm a prisoner for sure ..." He didn't want to die in a Federal prison.
"No ... your hospital." That answer was no good. Jim shook his head. "Then you'll be a prisoner ... No, Jer. Just let me go like you did that ol mudbug last month ..."
"I can't. You need help," Jeremiah insisted. Jim frowned and struggled to sit, but failed, frightened and amazed at how weak he was now. He felt an anger rise at the cussed hardheadedness of his Yankee friend.
"I said ... I didn't want to see you again ... remember?"
"Yeah, I remember ..." He grabbed Jeremiah's arm with both hands and shook it with what little strength he had left.
"Well, I meant it. I know you mean to be kind ... but I meant it ... now git!"
"But ..." Jeremiah couldn't just give up, though he could see Jim was fading fast. No one should die alone, he found himself suddenly thinking.
"Damn it ... don't go hard headed on me like a damn mudbug ..." Was it getting darker or was his vision starting to fade? Jim wondered as he felt a peacefulness creep over him in spite of his angry words.
"I can't do it, Jim ... and you better not talk so loud. My friends might be back any minute. You got to let me help. Neither of us started this mess. I want to stop it. I want to get you to a doctor ... You need ..." All slipped away to a brightness like light playing on the surface of water. Jim suddenly went limp, releasing his grip on Jeremiah's arm.
"Jim ... Jim!" He grabbed Jim's hand. Then reached out to feel for a pulse on his neck. It was useless. He blocked out the terrible reality around him - only Jim mattered, and the way the light played on the river. If he looked hard he could see it again. Gut-wrenching remorse filled him.
"Damn it, Jim ... Why'd you have to ..." A crackle of brush and cheering cut off his words and pulled him back.

Not far away the color sergeant was waving the tattered flag. Colonel Chamberlain limped past, looking neither right or left, just staring ahead deep in thought. Jeremiah could see Sergeant Clark coming up the hill with the others, escorting Confederate prisoners. "Spooner, you there?" Clark called.
"Yes, Sergeant," he answered quickly.
"What the hell you doing?" Clark paused, staring at him.
"Nothing ..." He rose to his feet and picked up his musket.
"The colonel wants us back to our original position to hold the top of this damn hill. Come on." Clark moved past, joining the others as they headed up the hill. Jeremiah stared after them a moment mumbling to himself.
"Damn this war anyway. God forgive the fat politicians who started it ..." He paused and looked one last time at Jim's body lying near the large bush.
"Bye, Jim. Looks like we ain't going fishing no more." He headed off up the hill after Clark. This did not feel like any great victory. He hoped no one would notice his tears.

Nick Korolev has been a serious student of the Civil War since age 12. He is a professional published writer and artist and his interest in the Civil War has provided many subjects for both. He is author of a Civil War novel entitled Silver Eagles, about Cols. Ames, Chamberlain and the 20th Maine from the formation of the regiment to Gettysburg. Silver Eagles was nominated for the 2003 Michael Shaara Award for Civil War Fiction. He is currently working on a novel about McClellan and Stanton titled The Sword and the Lightning and a screen play about Brig. Gen William Averell's Salem Raid in December of 1863 currently titled Averell and the Raiders of the North Wind. He is a member of the Civil War Heritage Foundation for whom he portrays Gen. George McClellan and the First Regiment of West Virginia Cavalry, for whom he portrays Gen. William Averell. Nick is Secretary for the local Sons Of Union Veterans of the Civil War and recently joined the Falling Waters Battlefield Association.