"Alright, men. Now we all know what transpired this afternoon on the old Sullivan plantation. We can't just let our women get attacked like that! We must protect them. Now, Mr. Wilkes, Dr. Meade, you both, as married men, have a vested interest in this cause. So, let's show that rabble how gentlemen fight!"
Mr. Kennedy stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He had not ever delivered a more spirited oration- never in his life.
"Quite true, Mr. Kennedy."
"Now I don't know how you gentlemen feel about it, but I'm done fed up with it. We can lick those scoundrels in half a minute!"
"We must be ready, Mr. Kennedy. Now does everyone have their pistols and ammunition? Enough to clear out those woods? Good. Let's go."
Frank, Ashley, and Dr. Meade, walked out of Kennedy's store, donning their robes. They walked the road to the shantytown, remaining silent for the entirety of the journey.
As soon as they arrived at the shantytown, shots rang out. Residents of said shantytown had seen similarly garbed gentlemen before. Frank was especially bold, exposing himself a little too much. His opponents made their move, quietly shifting into a good position. Seconds later, a single shot rang out, seemingly louder than the others. Wilkes turned, only to see Kennedy slump back, his head bleeding spectacularly. He rushed over, certain that Kennedy was dead, but determined to get his body out of the crossfire. Unfortunately, it didn't occur to Ashley that he was exposing himself overly much, as Kennedy had done. He hefted Kennedy over his shoulder, and moved away, almost clearing the area when a single bullet hit his shoulder. He stumbled, but didn't fall, carrying the body into a less exposed area, and whipping out his pistol again. He fired at the very man who had killed Kennedy. He fired twice at men who were shooting at his position, hitting with deadly accuracy and felling them in one swoop each. He paid little to no attention as to the color of the men, not daring to think of whom he had just killed. Wilkes listened for more gunfire and scoped the area. Finding no more resistance, he took time to examine his wound. He pulled back his jacket, and tried to peel away his bloodstained shirt, but stopped, wincing at the pain the action caused. He leaned against the mill's exterior, feeling very faint and drowsy. His fingers lost sensation, and he dropped his gun as the scene seemed to swirl and dull around him, particularly at the edges. He fell forward, face burrowing into the ground. He had not the strength to rise.
Dr. Meade observed that the firefight had ceased. Apparently, they had been victorious. Orhadthey...?
The sound of yet another round of gunfire pulled him out of his reverie, nearly startling him to death. Then the sound of horses.
Yankees!
As the fire intensified, he searched for Ashley and Kennedy. After a time, he found them.
"Ashley!"
Wilkes lifted his head slightly, blinked several times, and began to speak.
"Dr. Meade- should we not-?"
"We should leave immediately."
"Of course we should." An over-confident Mr. Wilkes stated, "I believe I can walk..."
Ashley pushed himself out of the dirt, swooning at the effort. He slowly knelt, on one knee, then both, trying to push himself up and spare himself the indignity of being carried. He fell back to the ground, exhausted.
Meade had no choice but to manage on his own. He retaliated against the shooters, at least deterring them sufficiently, if not killing them. He didn't have enough time to determine which. He then withdrew, carrying Ashley, who moaned in protest. He left Kennedy.
Captain Rhett Butler, the famous blockade runner and hero of the Confederacy, sat with several Union officers, playing poker.
"I'll raise you ten."
"Fold."
"Fold."
"What's the matter?"
The Yankees exchanged glances.
"We have to go. There's going to be trouble. Typical Southerner action. Are you aware of what happened to Mrs. Kennedy this afternoon?"
"Of course I am. Go on."
"Well we think that those Southerners are gonna try something- tonight."
"Ah. That does change things. If you don't mind, I'm leaving."
The Yankees waved dismissively and excused him.
Meade attended to Ashley, whose situation seemed rather helpless. He had been attempting to staunch the bleeding ever since he had become aware of Ashley's status, but had been having little success. He didn't have a tourniquet, merely a hankerchief and some whiskey in his jacket. He had been applying pressure, but had to occasionally return fire as the attack continued.
A few other men had refused to leave for a time, but soon left. Little time was left. Help had to be obtained.