“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.
“Sorry Sir. It is an inspiring sight.”
With a concurring nod, he quickly moved the glasses to his eyes. Staring intently, he said, “That brave man, Arles Moore, is a hero. He deserves a medal.”
-----*-----*-----*-----
Standing at the top of Compton’s Hill, a thousand men stared in awe at their brave comrade. Their disbelief was eclipsed only by their pride. With pride also came a sense of responsibility. Their friend, their comrade, had crossed from the safety of the hilltop and was now bringing the fight to the enemy. Their sense of duty could not allow him to fight alone. One by one, they leaped from the safety of the trench and headed down the hill to join him.
Arles continued his rapid chase. Firing three rounds a minute while on the run, he was a force unto himself. He stopped for only a moment to pull back the hammer on his musket and fire. With the enemy now only two hundred yards away, his accuracy became more deadly, felling a higher number of soldiers with each yard he gained.
Arles stopped for a moment. He let out a loud rebel yell and waved his flag. He felt the euphoria of his success. Suddenly, he felt the side of his jacket tug on his body. Looking down, he saw the unmistakable bullet hole in the cloth.
“Bastards!” he shouted loudly.
He fired again in retaliation.
“Die you blue cowards!” he yelled angrily.
On the run once again, the flag waved as he hurried to reload. Suddenly, he winced as he felt the sting of hot lead from a bullet that grazed his thigh. He stumbled forward, found his balance and stopped. With his free hand, he rubbed his thigh, momentarily soothing the pain. He raised his fingers and noticed blood. Greater anger now raged inside him.
“You sons-a-bitches! You’ll pay for this,” he yelled in near frantic tone.
He fired blindly and quickly reloaded.
Far down the hillside and all alone, Arles made a conspicuous target… even for a retreating army. As the Union soldiers hurried over the breastworks at the bottom of the hill, several men stood and fired uphill, covering their exit. The sight of Arles was irresistible. Through the hale of bullets that streamed from the top of the hilltop, they concentrated their fire at the lone man at the mountain’s center.
Arles heard the whistle of bullets as they passed his ears. Instinctively, he ducked, then continued moving. He reached for his powder flask and felt excruciating pain in his leg. Instantly, he fell to the ground and clutched his throbbing thigh. Writhing in pain, he looked down and saw the gaping wound. Blood and flesh oozed from his wool pants. More bullets embedded the ground around him. He bit his lip, refusing to yell and crawled to a large boulder a few feet away, dragging his rifle beside him. As he lay with his back against the stone, he looked up and smiled. There, racing toward him, were his fellow soldiers. To Arles, the sight was awe inspiring.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. Wrapping it around the wounded limb, he pulled it tight, hoping compression would ease the pain. He let out a cry of agony, realizing only too late, the error in his logic. With his leg roughly bandaged, he turned over on one knee and placed his hands on the rock. Pushing in one effort, he was able to stand. He looked back at his approaching comrades and smiled through his pain.
“Whoop them blue-bellies,” he shouted up the hill.
Turning back, he began to limp down the hill. With his adrenaline pumping wildly through his body, he reloaded his rifle and fired. He hobbled along for a few more steps and reloaded. Moments later, his hat flew off his head. He ducked instinctively once more, causing his wounded leg to flex. He cried out in pain, nearly hyperventilating from the act. Looking down, he noticed his hat lying on the ground. He tried to bend over to pick it up, but the pain in his leg stopped him short.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said under his breath.
Looking down the hill, he reloaded his weapon. As he dragged his painful leg beside him, he fired. A hundred and fifty yards away, another Union soldier fell to the ground and died.
More bullets streamed by his ears. Each time he ducked, then winced and each time, he kept moving forward. Looking back up the hill, his fellow soldiers neared his position. The warmth of camaraderie raced through his body and gave him strength. He smiled as he reloaded, nearly ignoring the pain. He fired quickly and reloaded once more.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the faces of his men now only a few yards away. As he turned back, several rushed past him and let out a rebel yell.
Inspired by their spirit, he yelled, “Come on boys, our time’s at hand.”
He limped forward and waved his flag.
-----*-----*-----*-----
Private Alfred Jones stood with his back to the column of escaping Union soldiers and fired rapidly at the approaching Confederates. Looking over his shoulder, he watched the flow of men cross over the hastily strewn logs and boulders in retreat. Nervous beads of sweat formed under his cap and dripped down his forehead as he wondered about his turn to escape.
He heard a dull “thud” in the grass beside him. Looking down, he saw a raised bump that streaked along the surface, showing the path of the bullet. Snapping him back into focus, the scared seventeen-year-old reached for his powder flask and began to reload. His hands trembled slightly as he poured a measure of black powder into the muzzle of his rifle. As more Confederate bullets passed nearby, he loaded wadding and a lead ball, then rammed the contents down the barrel.
He raised his weapon, then suddenly felt his jacket tug along his right shoulder. He turned quickly and noticed the torn and ragged seam where a bullet had passed through. Immediately, his stomach churned with fear. He considered turning and running for safety, but a sense of duty held him to his station.
He raised his weapon and searched for a target. His eyes immediately sighted a waving Confederate flag. Staring through the sights on his gun, he lined them up with the limping figure a hundred yards up the hill. He took a deep breath, exhaled and pulled the trigger. A cloud of smoke and flames instantly discharged out the end of the gun barrel.
The bullet roared through the crisp December air, barely losing altitude as it traveled. Halfway to its target, the limping man stared down the sights of his own weapon. Lined up with a young man of seventeen, he began to squeeze the trigger.
-----*-----*-----*-----
High up on the distant bluff, Gen. Hood stared anxiously at the action taking place far out on the western slope of Compton’s Hill. Watching through his field glasses, he squeezed their metal frames involuntarily in anticipation of the heightened drama. Seated beside him, Captain Gabriel squinted hard, but it was no use. The action taking placing was far beyond the limits of his vision. Impatiently he shifted in his saddle and waited for reports from his superior.
“My God, he’s been wounded,” Gen. Hood announced in distressing tone.
He shot Captain Gabriel a fearful look, then quickly returned to his field glasses. Captain Gabriel shielded his eyes and squinted harder.
/> “Sir, he’s too far away. Can I borrow your glasses momentarily?” he asked, in respectful tone.
The General didn’t answer. Still concentrating intently on the action, he rolled his finger over a dial and sharpened the focus.
“He’s ok… he’s limping now. It’s only a leg wound,” the General shouted as he continued to monitor the brave man’s actions. “He just fired again.”
He shot Captain Gabriel an approving nod and said, “By God, he’s tougher than Injun leather.”
“General Hood Sir. Please, may I borrow your glasses? I’ll return them in short order,” Captain Gabriel pleaded.
General Hood continued to observe, his stare went unbroken. Suddenly, his shoulders hunched and his face became drawn. Slowly he lowered his field glasses.
-----*-----*-----*-----
Arles felt a shiver run through him as his blood-soaked pant leg cooled in the December air and chilled his body. He looked down at his gray wool pants and noticed his right leg was completely red. For the first time, he realized the extent of his bleeding. Looking back behind him, he noticed a trail of blood in the grass.
“Mangy blue dogs,” he cursed under his breath.
He lifted his rifle once more in the air and waved the Confederate flag. Lowering the barrel, he took aim at a young soldier a hundred yards away. As he stared down his sights, he saw a cloud of smoke rise from the young man’s rifle.
Arles swallowed hard. For a moment, time seemed to slow as he listened to the faint sound of a whistling bullet. He closed his eyes and waited.
In an instant, Arles felt the impact to his stomach like the blow from a sledgehammer. As the bullet pierced his jacket, it tore through his belly and into his internal organs, finally exiting through his back. He let out a guttural moan and dropped to his knees. For a moment, he knelt in shock, then fell forward and lay motionless on the ground. Excruciating pain radiated from his wound and he let out a blood curdling shriek. With his eyes closed tight, he took shallow breaths and tried to overcome the pain.
He opened his eyes. Lying beside him, he saw the blood stained flag he so cherished. He smiled at it like an old friend. Slowly, delicately, he moved his hand from his side and placed it on top of the flag. Wincing in pain, he rubbed his fingers over the heavy woven cloth and felt the pride of the Confederacy.
Arles felt weak and his pain began to dull. As he closed his eyes, his rapid breathing became slow and shallow. Drifting off, he recalled his loving wife and children, and their memory gave him comfort.
He heard a dull “thud” and opened his eyes. His flag had moved and now carried a large hole through its center. The sight of the desecration angered him once more.
“Sons-a-bitches,” he said in a low tone, barely audible.
He dragged the flag closer to him and touched the hole. Just like him, bullet ridden and blood stained, the life of the flag was drawing to a close. Its existence would end much like his life: buried and forgotten. In his clouded state, he made one last decision.
Still lying on his stomach, he moved his hands out in front of him. Using all his strength, he pushed on the ground and shoved himself to a kneeling position. With one last effort, he splayed his legs and dropped to a seated position with his legs nearly crossed in front of him. Crying out in agony, he breathed heavily and absorbed the pain. In shock and shaking, his eyes had trouble focusing. Reaching for his rifle, he dragged his hand over the grass, jerking it slightly from side to side to keep it moving. As his fingers touched the weapon, he grabbed it and pulled it slowly in front of him. With each tug, he winced in pain, and tears streamed from his eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, he began to raise the barrel of his gun. With each new height he raised it to, he cried out in pain from the effort. A minute later, he rested the butt of the gun on the ground between his legs. Over the roar of nearby gunfire, he heard the faint sound of his flag flapping in the wind. His eyes drew to the sound. Looking up, he smiled at the sight of his Confederate flag fulfilling its duty one last time.
Arles closed his eyes and breathed his last breath. As his body lost its remaining strength, he rolled slightly forward and stopped, his body held upright as the gun’s hammer hooked inside his jacket. Although Arles’ heart had stopped moments before, his spirit lived on in his flag. Waving proudly in the wind for all to see, the flag now became a symbol of courage that inspired his fellow comrades to greatness. Charging down the hill, the angry wave of Confederate soldiers pushed back the enemy, creating a hole in the Union defenses large enough for the Confederates to safely slip away.
-----*-----*-----*-----
General Hood stared momentarily at the ground in sadness. With his mind racing with emotion, he glanced over to Captain Gabriel. Nodding approvingly and said, “Collect this Arles Moore’s body and flag. He won’t soon be forgotten. He will have a hero’s burial.”
“Yes Sir,” Captain Gabriel replied.
-----*-----*-----*-----
Chapter 3
Nashville, Tennessee
February 08, 2013
The bright orange,‘seventy-three dodge pickup slowed abruptly and veered toward the turn lane as the driver prepared to turn into the Fifty-Nine Diner. Waiting impatiently for oncoming traffic, he revved the engine loudly. Music blared from inside the closed cab, almost shutting out the roar of the engine. As seconds ticked by, he released the brakes and hit the gas, causing the truck to lurch forward momentarily, then stomping on the brakes, bringing the pickup to a sudden stop several feet ahead.
Even before oncoming traffic cleared, the driver hit the accelerator, causing the rear tires to spin in place on the wet pavement. Instantly the truck lurched forward once more, this time crossing into the other lane, narrowing missing the rear bumper of the last car in line.
As he entered the parking lot of the Fifty-Nine Diner, he raced around several parked cars, squealing his oversized tires, finally coming to an abrupt stop in a parking space in front of the restaurant. Seated inside and watching through the window, the spectacle did not go unnoticed.
Geoff Robbins sat at a window booth at the front of the diner and sipped his glass of coke through a straw. Beads of condensation dribbled down from the exterior of the glass and puddled on the table at its base. As he waited patiently for his friends to arrive, he ran his finger through the water and dragged it around the table top, creating a figure-eight design on its surface.
Sitting quietly, he rested his other hand on the side of this head and twirled his curly brown hair. With boredom setting in, he wiped away his water designs and checked his watch for the time.
“Come on guys. Let’s go already,” he said to himself in frustration. “The school dance will be over before we even get there.”
Suddenly, he heard the loud rev of an engine. Staring through the misty water-beaded windows, he spotted headlights near the entrance to the diner. He watched with curiosity as the bright orange truck lurched forward, then stopped… lurched forward, then stopped again.
“What the…?” he said, cutting himself off as he tried to make sense out of the strange scene taking place in the street.
He watched the truck jump forward again, then stop.
“What a doofus,” he said, chuckling to himself through his disgust.
Focusing more intently now, he gasped in disbelief as he watched the reckless maneuvering of the truck as it narrowly missed the oncoming car’s rear bumper.
“What an idiot?” he said out loud.
Realizing his volume, he scanned the patrons around him, only to see that they too, were equally disturbed by the spectacle in the street.
“Is Hero Boy one of you?” Carl Beckwith, the manager of the diner asked.
“No way… we don’t like him either,” Geoff shot back.
“Hmm, there’s just something not right about that kid,” Carl added.
Geoff nodded agreeably then stared back out the window. Not far behind the orange truck, a car pulled into the parking lot and parked in a
n open area away for the other cars. All the doors popped open and four teenagers emerged. With the light rain beginning to intensify, they ran toward the entrance.
Geoff smiled as they entered the diner and waved, “Hey guys, over here.”
The four teens smiled and walked back to the window booth, each man filing in on each side of the table.
“Where’s Bobby?” Geoff asked of Gregg, now seated directly across from him.
“Beats me… he’s your brother. Maybe I should be asking you,” Gregg teased.
“He’s always late. As my dad always says, ‘he’d be late for his own funeral’,” Ted added.
“Your dad said that about Bobby?” Geoff asked, mildly insulted.
“Duh… my dad doesn’t even know Bobby,” Ted teased, then continued. “I was just using one of his lines to describe him.” Seated next to Geoff, he elbowed him in the side and added, “Brainless.”
Prisoner in Time (Time travel) Page 3
