Together he and Greene dashed into the moat. Tim heard a splash. Greene lay in the water, face down. Tim reached for the boy to pull him out but Greene jumped up. “I’m alive. I only tripped,” he screamed. “Alive, alive!”
Tim choked down a desperate laugh as he rushed for the massive, sloping bank of earth. Scrambling up the rutted parapet, he felt something sharp prick the seat of his pants. He swung around and looked into the dogged face of Private Greene.
“Private Greene,” he said. “Watch what you do with that bayonet.”
Daybreak was streaking the sky in the east. In the gathering light a scattering of Yankees had dug in just below the crest of the parapet, firing rapidly into the fort. The ground below the fort was peppered with rifle and cannon fire.
It was clear to Tim that the Federal ranks were threadbare. The supporting regiments had dropped to the ground behind the outer work. A shell hit a portion of the work, spraying sand into the air, picking up men like jackstraws in a gale and sending them sprawling back to earth.
Tim whipped the air with his sword and shouted through the smoke and noise, rallying his men. He slipped and scrambled to the crest where the sandbags were stacked. He kept moving as he reached the crest, half sliding, half jumping into the fort. He was blinded for a moment by a thick cloud of acrid smoke that made him cough and choke. As the smoke blew away he saw a Rebel sergeant straight in front of him and cannoneers at either side. He lowered his sword.
Off to the right a big voice commanded the sergeant, “Hold your fire.” A Confederate lieutenant moved toward Tim, his pistol ready, a broken-toothed smile cracking his leathery face. “A prisoner, sir.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tim sheathed his sword.
“Your sword and pistol,” the lieutenant said.