Magnolia Grove

Without thinking, Michael dropped his rifle, leaped to his feet, slid down the bank and ran the thirty yards to where Paul lay motionless, a deep gash bleeding profusely over his left eye. Ignoring the crack of passing bullets, Michael pulled Paul to a sitting position, grabbing both hands. Standing at Paul's feet, he heaved Paul up and over his own shoulders, adopting a fireman's lift. He turned and, wincing at the strain put on his knee by the extra weight, staggered back towards the levee. To Michael, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. With his heart pumping and adrenaline pouring into his veins, he was acutely aware of an anxiety level he had never before known. Football is a piece of cake, he thought grimly to himself, as he finally reached the levee after what seemed to be an interminable length of time. Two of Paul's men slid down the bank towards them and hoisted him and Paul to the top of the levee. He couldn't understand why he had not been hit and hoped that Paul had not acted as a barrier to any bullets. The Confederate troops were still raking the woods with a hostile crossfire hoping to hold the Union troops in the tree line. Michael reached the top of the levee, at the same time being jolted by what felt like a hard slap on the back. That's all I need, he thought, as he was shoved head first down the far side of the levee, Paul's limp body rolling before him. He picked himself up and scrambled to Paul. He did not seem to have been hit and his eyes were open, but clearly not focusing well. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael noticed a man kneeling beside him, the three stripes of a sergeant on his arm. "Get the captain into the boat and call your men back. We are leaving: now!" he commanded. He slid down the bank towards the boat with Samuel at his back. "You been hit, Master Michael," Samuel shouted, highly alarmed. "Where?" Michael cried, puzzled, beginning to loosen the mooring lines of the boat. He had felt nothing. "In de back," Samuel pointed to a patch of blood creeping over Michael's white shirt below his right shoulder blade. Michael put his hand on his back and felt the wetness of his shirt. He was rewarded with a sharp stabbing pain from his ribcage, which seemed to penetrate into the center of his chest. He examined his blood stained hand, surprisingly dispassionately. "No time to worry about it now," he said as Confederate soldiers begun to pour down the slope and into the boat. The Sergeant carried Paul over the side and laid him gently in the bottom of the boat. Michael looked around quickly and, spotting no other men, yelled at Samuel to push off. They both heaved on the boat and climbed aboard the heavily laden craft. Michael tugged on the sheet and felt the sail fill, pulling the boat firmly away from the shore. There were only about twenty men in the boat, as Paul had predicted, several with obvious wounds, but none showing anything in their eyes but grim determination. A splash of the water to the left indicated a straggler from the downriver rearguard, who was pulling for the boat with all his might, but loosing the battle with the wind and current. Michael could see the frantic look in the pale face that belonged to a boy no more than seventeen or, at most, eighteen years old. Michael swung the boat round towards him, now paralleling the riverbank, but reasoning that they would still be drifting down stream and away from danger. The boy was converging on the boat as Samuel threw a rope, which landed squarely on the lad’s head. Michael looped the other end of the rope around the sternpost, as the boy clung to it and started to haul himself towards the boat and safety. Michael glanced anxiously at the levee where he expected to see the Union troops appear, but was relieved to see none. He reset his course away from the bank, heading diagonally across the river and directly away from the anticipated danger. Two soldiers clambered past him and began hauling the boy over the gunwale. They were fifty or sixty yards out from the bank and thirty yards, downstream from their embarkation point when the first Union soldiers appeared at the top of the levee. A burst of fire from the boat had the men on the levee huddling low for cover. More soldiers arrived, pushing their rifles over the levee and firing towards the fleeing boat. Michael crouched low in the stern, as bullets and musket balls peppered the boat and the surrounding water. One of the young soldiers cried out as he was struck in the arm, dropping his musket, which splashed into the murky water. He slumped back in the boat, cradling his shattered arm, a numb expression of confusion on his face. Michael was beginning to feel a tightening in his chest, which he assumed must be due to his wound, although he still felt surprisingly little pain. He looked down at the front of his shirt, half expecting to see blood; - nothing. He felt the front of his chest for an exit wound - nothing again - the bullet must still be inside, he thought, a brief flood of anxiety welling up. Apart from his shortness of breath, however, he felt only a mild discomfort somewhere deep in his chest. He looked around, trying to gauge the distance to safety. The boat was now well over halfway across the river and, although the men in the boat were still firing as rapidly as they could, Michael felt they would soon be out of range. Musket balls and bullets were no longer shattering woodwork, and only occasionally did one drop anywhere near the boat, although the Union troops were still firing incessantly.