In the Heat of Battle

by karilyn

WHI for A House Divided - When Adam leaves after he tussles w/Joe over political views, he heads east to join the Civil War. Joe follows and both wind up in Gen. McClellan's headquarters where Joe is suspected as a spy. They are caught up in the chaos of the battle of Antietam, on separate sides. Afterward, they search for each other, not knowing if the other has survived.

IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE: A WHI for A House Divided

When Adam pushed Ben out of the way and scrambled to mount Sport and sprint desperately away from the Ponderosa, he had no idea where he was headed. He only knew that the ongoing clashes between himself and Joe over the War Between the States had intensified over the past several months, and that the appearance of Frederick Kyle in Virginia City had only exacerbated that chafing. Kyle had courted Joe, conjured up romantic images of Joe's mother Marie, and generally inflamed the young man with Confederate passion.

Feeling sick over the recent pot-stirring, as he considered Kyle's behavior, Adam let Sport have his head, and the horse naturally took the main road toward Virginia City. Adam knew he had broken Pa's heart, leaving in a state of uncharacteristic emotional turmoil, Hoss remaining to piece together what remained of the family. As Sport galloped toward town, he realized that was the last place he should be heading. That's where Joe was helping Kyle meet Virginia City's businessmen in an effort to have them invest in Kyle's silver mining interests on behalf of the Southern Confederacy. Running the risk of meeting Joe face to face was probably not a good idea, but at the moment he didn't care.

He pulled the horse to an abrupt halt and caught his breath while Sport pranced and tossed his head. Adam threw his head back and looked up at the inky black night, pierced liberally with pointy white stars. He tried to think but found himself at a point where he had eclipsed the world of thought, only to make an unfamiliar landing in the world of pure emotion. Feeling something akin to panic, he realized his departure had left out something critical: planning. He didn't even know how much money he had on himself. He had his rifle, his jacket and his bedroll. He could live off the land and find work as needed, but that was a pretty thin premise for Adam Cartwright. Acting more like Joe than he realized, he let Sport have his head and resumed the path to Virginia City.

At a back table in one of Virginia City's finest saloons, Frederick Kyle spun a tale of southern magnolia blossoms and Spanish moss to a star-struck Joe Cartwright, who was staring at a Daguerreotype of his mother, Marie.

"Joseph, she was one of the most beautiful women in New Orleans. Duels were fought over her. She loved her gentle, graceful state, and it would devastate her to know what is happening there now. Why, for a state not to be able to govern its own affairs! It would be like the Ponderosa having to ask the people of San Francisco what type of cattle it could buy. You know, you have so much of her in you, Joseph. Her fire, her warmth, the color of her eyes …"

Joe looked up, a mist of emotion in his expression. "I wish I remembered more about her," he said thickly.

"What you're doing here with me would make her very happy," Kyle assured him. "Very happy indeed."

Joe smiled wistfully and handed the gold picture frame back to Kyle, who held both hands up.

"No, no, Joseph. That's for you to keep. It's far more important to you than it is to me. I have memories. You don't."

Reverently, Joe closed the case and slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket. What Kyle said made sense. It would be unthinkable if his family had to ask the people of San Francisco what kind of cattle it could buy. It was the perfect analogy to represent the issue of states' rights to him. A small, slow burn began in the very essence of his soul. This diminutive, cultured man made all the sense in the world. Of course Joe would help him. And of course, Adam was wrong. Times had changed, and even though southern states had fought long and hard to form the United States, things were different now. It was almost one hundred years later, and Adam had to face that. From the corner of his eye, Joe saw the owner of the mercantile walk by. He hailed the man, brought him into the saloon, and introduced him to Frederick Kyle, savior of the Confederacy. He was just warming up to his fresh prospect, Will Cass, when someone spoke behind him.

"Cut the nonsense, Kyle."

Everyone looked around to see a dour Adam Cartwright watching from under hooded eyes. Kyle smiled warmly and greeted Adam. Joe looked at his brother suspiciously.

"Good to see you, Adam. Please, won't you join us?" Kyle indicated an empty chair.

"I'm just here to take my kid brother home," Adam bit off each word, knowing how Joe would react. Joe obliged by jumping quickly to his feet.

"I don't answer to you, Adam," his voice was tight with anger.

Adam walked over to Joe and gripped him tightly by the arm. "We're late for dinner," he said mildly as he began to haul his brother forward, tipping his hat to Kyle and Mr. Cass. Joe pulled back brusquely, and Adam met the resistance with greater propulsion. Once outside the saloon, he grabbed a fistful of Joe's jacket in each hand and pulled him up nose-to-nose.

"What kind of fool trouble are you courting now?" he ground out.

Joe's arms came up and flung Adam's away; then he charged his brother, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him down a side alley. Bringing his arm back with lightning speed, Joe clipped Adam in the jaw and watched with satisfaction as he sprawled in the dirt. He moved to stand over his brother as he lay catching his breath.

"Don't ever interfere with my affairs again, Adam. My business isn't yours."

Adam laughed harshly. "It is when you're being used and you don't even know it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Your one-armed friend is merely using you to romance Virginia City's businessmen into sounding the death knell of the United States. He's gotten you under his spell, and now you're helping him move on to more appealing prey."

For a moment Joe was speechless. This was harsh even for Adam. He leaned in and returned the barbs, word for word. "At least he still believes in maintaining our freedoms, unlike your President Lincoln."

Adam got to his feet, dusting off his pants. "You mean the freedom to enslave other human beings? To beat them? Breed them?"

Joe swung again, but this time Adam was ready. He caught his brother's arm and wrenched it behind his back, forcing him to stand still. "He's using you and your Southern mother's memory to funnel Nevada silver into the Confederacy. And you're not going to do it," he said in a low, hard voice. Joe struggled then, infuriated by Adam's tone. He had the right to believe anything he chose to believe, and he was free to associate with Frederick Kyle as well.

"How are you going to stop me?" Joe snapped.

"I'm going to take you home and turn you over to your father." Adam realized that statement was delivered without forethought, and it sounded rather silly. Pa couldn't keep Joe from going into town, and Adam himself had just dramatically run away from home. He supposed he could deliver Joe safely to their father and then leave once again. Silently he chastised himself. This is what comes from lack of planning, he thought.

"Let's see you do it," Joe's voice was sneering and he wore a snide smile. He was sick and tired of Adam's holier-than-thou attitude, as well as his assumption that he was the family sheriff. Pa knew how to do that just fine, and he hadn't told Joe to stop meeting with Frederick Kyle.

Adam shoved his brother forward into the street to the hitching post where their horses were tethered side by side. He let go of Joe's arm and grabbed the scruff of his collar.

"Now mount up," he reached for Cochise's reins as he spoke.

"What are you going to do? Lead me home?"

"If need be," Adam swung up onto Sport and pulled a good length of Cochise's reins into one hand. The two horses were close enough to each other that Adam's leg and Joe's leg touched at times as they started out of town.

Bristling with anger and embarrassment, Joe concentrated on ways to escape Adam's dominance, but at the moment they were too close for him to make a getaway. Adam would either grab him or chase him down. There had been a coldness in his brother's calm exterior that gave Joe pause. But emotion won out, and before they had left the town proper behind, Joe slid off his horse backwards and took off in the direction of the saloon. Adam shouted after him, throwing in a curse for good measure, but Joe kept moving, quite sure his brother wouldn't shoot him in the back, and knowing that he was faster and more agile on his feet.

Listening for sounds of imminent capture behind him, he reached the saloon and stopped momentarily to catch his breath before sauntering back inside to sit again with Kyle and Will Cass.

"Joseph! I didn't expect to see you again this evening. Welcome back," Kyle flashed a friendly, knowing grin at the younger man and then turned unctuously back to the shop owner. "Will, I'm sure that if you invest in this venture, not only will you make a wise investment, but you'll also have the deep satisfaction of knowing that you helped your country at a critical time in its continuing evolution."

Joe sat back and nodded at Mr. Cass while keeping one eye trained on the saloon entrance. After the storekeeper took his departure, Adam came walking in, heading again for the back table, moving at a leisurely pace. Only a slight flush on his face betrayed any sense of disturbance. He pulled out a chair, turned it backwards and straddled it, facing Frederick Kyle. There was just a ghost of a smile on his lips when he spoke in a well-modulated voice.

"Kyle, I want you to stop filling my brother's head with your treacly propaganda about the war. We have enough to do just operating our ranch without taking on that issue as well. It doesn't concern us here, and if I were you, I would head back East on the morning stage and leave the citizens of Virginia City well enough alone."

Kyle smiled condescendingly. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Adam my boy. That war is going to touch everyone on this continent and others before it's through. My business here is no impulsive lark. It is, in fact, official business of the Confederate States of America. And just as we would not presume to interfere in the business of the Ponderosa, we would not expect you to interfere in our business."

"Nor would I desire to," Adam replied, knowing it was not exactly truthful. "However, when you occupy my brother's time, you do, in actuality, interfere with the operation of the Ponderosa, which is my family's business."

Kyle sat back, appearing suddenly remorseful. "I'm so sorry, Adam, Joseph. I never realized that in spending time with Joseph I was harming the Ponderosa. You should have said something, Joseph." He waved his hand through the air. "We won't speak of this ever again. Consider it over and done with. Joseph, you need to go on home with your brother, but I thank you most appreciatively for your assistance during our short acquaintance." He smiled benignly.

Adam smiled back mockingly, but it was Joe's turn to be flushed. Anger radiated from him like brushfire in a drought. Nostrils flared, he was breathing deeply as he eyed his brother.

"Mr. Kyle," he said turning to the other man, "Adam doesn't speak for me, nor does he represent the Cartwright family in expressing its political views. I choose to help the Southern cause and would be pleased to continue to assist you in your efforts here."

"Joseph, the last thing I want to do is cause strife between you and your family. Maybe you should just leave with Adam," Kyle spoke with a straight face, eye-to-eye with Joe.

"That's a good idea," Adam said smoothly as he stood. He took Joe by the arm and lifted up. However, Joe surprised him by grabbing his shoulders and slamming him against the saloon wall. It always surprised Adam when Joe chose this type of maneuver, since he was shorter and lighter than Adam. However, fueled by anger, he was quite capable of overcoming him in certain circumstances.

The saloon went silent; everyone was waiting to see what happened next. It wasn't every day that a Cartwright fought a Cartwright in public. Adam's face went carefully blank and he forced his body to relax. He shifted his shoulders and took a small step forward, forcing Joe to step back.

"Joe," he said quietly, "let's not air our differences here. Let's go home and sort things out privately."

"Forget it, Adam. I know what our differences are. You're entitled to your opinion, and I'm entitled to mine. It's gonna stay that way."

"Well, that doesn't mean we can't discuss things. Come on, Joe, let's go," Adam put his arm around Joe's shoulders as he began to walk forward. But he was stopped when a swift left hook caught the side of his face. Stunned and stumbling, he stopped when he backed into a poker player at one of the tables. The man quickly vacated his chair and moved away. Feeling the sting of the punch, a series of lightning fast thoughts raced through Adam's head, all of them ending with Joe in a heap on the floor. Knowing he'd regret it later, he gave in to the satisfaction of pure impulse and advanced on his brother.

As they tore into each other, they could each hear the shouts of the men around them, "Fight! Fight!" But Adam and Joe only had eyes for each other as they advanced and retreated, jabbed and ducked. One punch from Adam sent Joe reeling backward over a table, taking it down with him. He rose and gave Adam an evil grin, one of his eyes beginning to close and his cheek shining purple. Adam watched his approach with caution, retreating slowly, feeling blood trickle from his newly split lip. When Joe had advanced enough, Adam threw an unexpected punch, knocking him down. Adam was quick to straddle him, holding his arms against the floor.

"Enough, Joe, enough!" he entreated, even though the voices surrounding them demanded more. Joe was struggling mightily to free himself, except that this time his brother had a firm grip. It should have ended right there, but Joe raised his legs, locked them around Adam's neck, and flipped him over. Within the space of a few seconds Joe straddled Adam and he pummeled him relentlessly as the crowd roared.

Sanity prevailed in the form of Sam the bartender, who fired a rifle into the air, and Frederick Kyle, who pushed his way through the crowd and hauled Joe off Adam by grabbing the back of his collar and yanking. At the same time, Roy Coffee tore into the saloon and was shocked into silence at the sight of Joe and Adam sprawled on the floor. He looked at Sam, who simply shrugged his shoulders and offered, "They wasn't even drinking."

Roy rapidly dispersed the onlookers and pulled both brothers to their feet. Joe still looked ready to pick up where he'd left off, while Adam mostly looked at the floor and gingerly felt his bleeding mouth.

"Well, I don't know what's got into the world when you two fellas are beating each other senseless in the saloon. I ought to haul you both down to the jail … and the only reason I won't is out of respect for your Pa. Sam, you put the damages here on the Cartwright tab. Now you two get home, and I don't want to see either of you anywhere near here for a good long time. You stay at home and take your tempers out on some firewood that needs choppin'!" With that he marched them to the door and out into the street, going so far as to dust off his hands as he turned and headed back toward the jail.

Adam put his arm around Sport's neck and leaned his face against it, resting. Joe mounted Cochise, but then gave in to the aches and pains by leaning over Cooch's mane and resting his head in his folded arms. Eventually Adam mounted up, but then sat, watching Joe.

"What are you waiting for? Get going to wherever it is you're headed," Joe growled.

"I told you I'd deliver you to your father, and let him decide what to do with you. So actually, we need for you to get going."

"I'd like to see you try, Adam."

"Well then, you don't have much longer to wait. If I so choose I can render you unconscious and take you home that way. It's entirely up to you."

For what seemed like forever the brothers glared at each other in the dark before Joe swung his horse around and headed slowly in the direction of home. Adam followed, leaving just enough distance to make any kind of talk impractical. It was well after midnight when they arrived. A glow coming from the windows told them that at least Ben was waiting up—presumably for Joe, since Adam was technically gone. Joe turned to Adam.

"You can leave now," he said dismissively.

"I'll wait until you've put up your horse and gone inside," came the even response. During the silence that ensued, Adam prodded, "You aren't planning to leave him out all night, are you?"

Joe snorted in disgust and headed toward the barn, where he unsaddled Cochise and brushed him down. He closed up the barn and headed for the house where Adam waited for him, and together they went inside to find Ben dozing in his red leather chair close to the fireplace. He sat up quickly when he heard the door open and close, a joyous expression on his face to see his sons together. That changed quickly enough when he saw their swollen, discolored faces.

"Tell me you were both waylaid on the way home," his voice was low and ominous.

"I simply brought him home for you. He's making a spectacle of himself in town, helping Frederick Kyle channel Nevada silver into the Confederacy."

For once Joe said nothing but kept his head level and met his father's gaze.

"Well, thank you for bringing him home. Saved me a trip to town," Ben's voice was sharpening. "And just how was he making himself a spectacle?"

"He's introducing Kyle to all of Virginia City's businessmen, and Kyle tries to charm them into investing in the Confederacy."

"Did Roy say that was against the law?"

Adam's chin jutted out. "No. But Kyle is using Joe and he's using anyone else he can corner to listen while he spouts propaganda about the war."

Ben's eyebrows rose. "So Joseph has an opinion you disapprove of."

Adam knew where his father was headed with this dialogue, and knew he was defeated. "You know he does," he answered.

"Do you think Joseph believes that you have an opinion which he may disapprove of?"

"Pa, that's not the point …" Adam began, but was cut off abruptly.

"That's exactly the point!" Ben thundered. "How many times have I told you boys not to bring the war into this house? And here you are, beating each other up because you disagree about something happening thousands of miles from here! There are bound to be differing opinions about it, but there is no rule anywhere that says everyone has to agree on the same one. The only rule is to keep the war away from the Ponderosa … and if you can't …" he trailed off, looking at Adam, sparks of anger flashing in his eyes.

Adam bowed his head as he took a step back. "Well, I can't, as I told you earlier." He looked up at Joe and politely raised his arm toward the door. "I apologize, Joe. Feel free to spend as much time as you please recruiting new members for your Cause. I wish you good luck and peace," and then he turned smartly on his heel and left the house. In moments, Joe and Ben heard him ride away, just as he had done hours earlier.

Hoss appeared in his nightshirt at the head of the stairs, scratching his head and yawning.

"What's all the yelling about?"

"Adam left again," Ben muttered.

"Again? You mean he came back?" Hoss' face was quizzical.

"He brought Joe home for safekeeping."

For the first time, Joe registered in Hoss' sleepy head. His eyes grew round as he stared at Joe's misshapen face.

"Lordy, it looks like someone hung you upside down in a wind storm."

"You should've seen the other guy," Joe muttered, a forced smile on his lips.

Yawning again, Hoss waved a hand in Joe's general direction and disappeared down the hall toward his room and his warm bed. He knew there was nothing more to be done tonight.

Joe turned tiredly and headed for the stairs, stopping when his father spoke.

"Joe, do we need to discuss this?" Ben's voice was calm now.

"No, Pa. I can make up my own mind. I'm a big boy now."

"I know you are, son. Just be careful."

"I will, Pa. G'night."

In the morning, Joe's horse and gear were gone, and his bed had not been slept in.

He wasn't completely sure why he was following Adam, especially with so much recent enmity between them. He only knew that some unseen force impelled him, as surely as if someone had placed a hand on his back and pushed. Joe knew he wasn't the scholar his brother was, but he did keep up with current events, in which he had an avid interest, and for him the war certainly qualified as avid, if not passionate. Was he following Adam to convince him to change his views? To make sure he wasn't heading off to join the Army? To join an army with him? To make peace with his kin? Any of those were possibilities, and they were all circulating through Joe's mind.

While he pondered, he tracked his brother to Carson City. A cursory search failed to uncover Adam's presence, and it brought Joe to the livery stable. He found Sport right away. Inquiring about the horse, the livery owner, recognizing Joe as a Cartwright, asked if he had come to take Sport home. When Joe failed to understand this question, the man explained that Adam had boarded Sport and promised that someone would pick him up to return him to the Ponderosa. When Joe was still scratching his head with his eyebrows raised, he was at last informed that Adam had left on the Carson City stage, bound for San Francisco, and then to Chicago.

Chicago? Joe immediately quizzed the stable owner and discovered that he had only missed the departure of the stage by a short time. He made a concerted effort to focus his scattered thoughts, because they were running in all directions just then. If Adam was heading for Chicago, that meant only one thing to Joe: Adam was going to war. Why would he do it? Were his principles that deeply rooted, or did he just want to rub Joe's face in the flimsy nature of the Southern cause? That thought riled Joe, and he headed directly for the stage office himself. The next stage to San Francisco left the next day. That was too long for a young man like Joe to wait, and before he half realized it he was back on Cochise, racing toward Virginia City.

In the end Joe wound up on the next day's stage to San Francisco. Virginia City had nothing to offer that would get him to Adam any sooner. Even though there was plenty of room in the coach, Joe rode shotgun with the stage driver, which gave him the sense of moving faster and following his brother with a greater sense of urgency. There was a surreal sense to his mission. He had plenty of time bouncing along to contemplate what they had done. Not only had he and Adam left home, they had left very little explanation behind. Ben and Hoss were in the unenviable position of trying to figure out where they had gone, and for exactly what purpose. Joe wasn't altogether sure himself. He pictured Adam riding topside the same way he was, only Adam would be looking far down the road, eyes narrowed, will unflinching, mission clear. And he would never waver, doubt, or debate the decision. He would also walk into battle fearlessly, even if it meant giving up his life. Joe wondered if he really believed as deeply as that. In Virginia City, with Frederick Kyle at his side, it was easy to embrace a fiery cause, because it always ended with him safe at home in his bed at the Ponderosa, well fed and still alive. He wished there was a way to talk to Adam again, to find him before they both made an irretrievable mistake.

Chicago led to the City of Washington in the District of Columbia, and then north to a small town called Sharpsburg, in Maryland. It was the middle of September, and hot. Joe had long ago stripped off his green jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, but in the merciless humidity it made little difference. He wasn't used to this kind of heat. In Nevada it got real hot, but not like this, when even a breeze didn't help a man cool down. The mule he was sitting on moved forward occasionally. There were no horses to be found. Sharpsburg was small, sleepy, quiet—and shut up tight. Flies could be heard buzzing in the still air. The corn still stood green and tall in fields next to Antietam creek where Joe stopped to cool off. The water sluicing down his face and neck felt wonderful beyond imagination. He wet his shirt to keep the coolness around a bit longer. Pausing in the quiet, Joe sensed something else around him. There was an electric tension in the air, as well as the feeling that just over the next rise there was something of significance about to drown out the slumbering afternoon lethargy.

As he mounted the animal again, he felt goose bumps on the back of his neck. Trying to move the sorry excuse for a horse forward, Joe concentrated on the road ahead, and finally dismounted and began to lead the mule, which plodded slowly after him. Holding the tether rope over his shoulder and pulling, Joe looked down as he trudged along slowly, dragging the lazy animal behind him. He really should just abandon him right there on the road, he thought, but then remembered the struggle it had been just to find the old thing, much less a real horse. All the horses had been given up for the Cause, he'd been told. Whose cause, he wasn't sure, but he'd taken what he could get at the time.

It seemed only minutes before he felt sweat trickling down his back again, and he knew his face was flushed, even though he'd just left the creek. Lost in his own thoughts, he was caught up short when he heard the sudden ratchet of rifle levers and jerked his head up to see two Union sentries step out from the trees on either side of the road. The rifles were aimed at him.

"You got a pass?" one of them growled. He looked downright miserable in a blue wool uniform.

"A pass for what? I just got here from Nevada Territory. I'm not in any army."

"Nevada Territory?" the other sentry repeated in distinct disbelief. "What for?"

"I'm looking for my brother," Joe replied.

The first sentry narrowed his eyes and leaned toward Joe. "Your brother a soldier?"

"No, but I think he headed this way."

"To join which side?" came the snide query.

Joe was taken aback with the sense that the roadside interview was veering out of control.

"No side. I don't know. I don't know what he came out here to do." He knew he was sputtering and felt more sweat trickle down his neck.

"Search him," the first sentry directed his partner.

Joe submitted himself to the search, which turned up, as he knew it would, his guns and saddlebags. His saddlebags contained only personal items, but his pistols were the object of intense interest on the part of the two sentries.

"No soldier I ever saw carried a pistol like this," one muttered.

"We'll confiscate them," the other decided.

Joe started to object, but stopped abruptly when a rifle barrel was pressed into his midsection.

"Maybe he should have a little talk with General McClellan."

"But I'm a civilian! I'm not even carrying gear with me and I'm not in uniform. I'm not a soldier," Joe found his voice to protest.

"You could be a spy. All the more reason for you to visit the General's camp. Now start marching," came the order, this time with a rifle prodding him in the back.

Joe stumbled forward. The mule stayed behind.

Adam sat comfortably with his back against a tree while he chewed on a piece of hardtack his new acquaintances, Barton Mitchell and John Bloss from the Indiana infantry, had shared with him. It took a fair amount of effort to chew hardtack, and it gave Adam time to think in the companionable silence. In the City of Washington, he had gravitated toward the Union soldiers lounging on the White House lawn. They were bored and ready to exchange small talk with a stranger new to town, especially one from far-away, cowboys-and-Indians Nevada Territory.

The soldiers had been drilling and marching for days, getting ready for the battle rumored to come, somewhere in Maryland. General George McClellan was going to follow Robert E. Lee's rebels north in what was the first invasion of the Union states by the Confederate army. Adam had been able to buy an old horse from a private who had mustered out after serving the three months he signed on for. He'd seen more war than he cared to and was heading home to Ohio.

Adam followed the ragtag columns of migrating troops north into Maryland, having met Corporal Mitchell and First Sergeant Bloss along the way. They talked about the war and the merits (and demerits) of joining the army. Mostly, the two officers wanted to know what life on a western ranch was like, so Adam accommodated them.

As they sat, Adam realized that his clothing smelled like the smoke of the ever-present campfires, and he could feel the scruff of his own four-day beard scratching his skin. He hadn't allowed himself to think deeply about leaving home. He missed his family—even Joe—but he wasn't allowing himself to think about that either. He simply leaned against the tree, chewed the hardtack, and listened to the crickets in the deepening twilight outside the town of Frederick, Maryland. Next to him, John Bloss shifted slightly and reached over for something lying nearby on the ground. He picked up a packet wrapped in paper, but Adam and Barton Mitchell paid him little attention until he let out a low whistle.

"Well, what do you know? I'm sure that this wasn't supposed to be left here," Bloss whistled again, and handed a cigar each to Adam and Mitchell. He stuck one between his own teeth while he studied the paper that had been wrapped around the cigars toward nearby the firelight. "This is Special Order 191 from General Robert Edward Lee, boys. Old Bobby Lee's split the Army of Northern Virginia in two and sent half to Harper's Ferry, West Virginia, and the other half to Hagerstown, Maryland. All General George McClellan has to do now is isolate and impale each half for a quick, neat victory." For the third time, he let out a whistle of disbelief.

Adam and Barton sat up at attention quickly as Bloss read from the paper. They looked at each other silently for a moment, amazement dawning on their faces. Adam moved to the fire and touched the tip of his cigar to the flame. He inhaled the rich tobacco in deep satisfaction and returned to light the cigars of his new comrades with his own. In the meantime, Mitchell had taken the paper from Bloss and was reading it himself to make sure what they had heard was really true. Mitchell handed it to Adam when he was finished, and then turned to Bloss.

"We have to take this to headquarters right away. It could turn the tide of the war for the Union."

After an hour's ride south to McClellan's headquarters near Porterstown, Adam found himself standing with Bloss and Mitchell in a cramped tent before the General's adjutant, who was studying the note. After reading a few words, he looked up sharply at the three men before him before he resumed reading. After several minutes he looked up again, studying each man intently before he shot off several direct questions. Then, evidently satisfied, he excused himself and left the tent to report directly to General McClellan.

Before he quite realized what was happening, Adam was being ushered into McClellan's presence along with Bloss and Mitchell. The General had them repeat their story twice and spent at least five minutes studying the note.

"Where are the cigars?" he asked without looking up.

There was some guilty fidgeting before Corporal Mitchell reported, "We smoked them, Sir."

One side of the General's mouth quirked slightly. "That's too bad, officer. I would have liked the opportunity to enjoy some fine Southern tobacco." Fortunately, there was no reprimand in his voice. He sat back in his chair behind a small table which served as his desk, putting his hands behind his head, considering his options.

Just then there was a ruckus outside as some newcomers entered the camp. McClellan paid no attention, but his adjutant exited the tent to investigate. There were some sounds of altercation, and then some low voices as the party entered the tent of another officer in the camp. The adjutant returned to report the capture of a rebel spy. McClellan merely made a noise of acknowledgement as he continued to lean back, staring at his desk where he had laid the note. Adam continued to stand respectfully before him, as did Bloss and Mitchell.

Everyone's attention was interrupted when a nearby shout broke the silence in the General's tent.

"I am not a rebel spy!" This was followed by the sound of a fist punching human flesh and a low grunt of submission.

Heads in the tent turned briefly toward the sound, so no one noticed when Adam stiffened and held himself perfectly still, with only his eyes darting about carefully. He did not believe his ears at first, but there was no mistaking that voice. It was sharp and angry, cracking in distress and unnaturally high, but it was undoubtedly Little Joe's. A rebel spy? That was too absurd, since only days before Adam had left Joe at the Ponderosa. He wondered suddenly whether Joe was more involved with Frederick Kyle than anyone realized, but even that didn't matter to Adam by then. Somehow he and Joe had wound up in the same spot, thousands of miles away from home, and Joe was in trouble. Despite all their recent differences, Adam was already planning his brother's rescue.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said with a slight bow. "Since I am only a bystander here, I'll take my leave in order to put up the horses." Despite the fact that he was non-commissioned, Adam saluted General McClellan, who responded with a nod of his head. Bloss and Mitchell quietly nodded as well as Adam silently departed the General's tent.

Once outside, he stood for a moment, assessing the layout of the camp. There were tents everywhere attesting to the large entourage of the General of the Union Army. Beyond that were thousands of enlisted men who were camped around fires, talking, sipping coffee or stronger beverages, singing, writing letters. They knew a battle lay before them and they were each preparing themselves in their own ways.

Adam collected the three horses that had been hastily tethered to a low-slung tree branch when he, Bloss and Mitchell had galloped into McClellan's camp, and he headed toward the corral. As the guard on duty eyed him suspiciously, Adam explained that he was a courier who had accompanied Corporal Mitchell and Sergeant Bloss to the camp with important strategic news for the General. The guard quizzed him as to why he wasn't in uniform.

"It's easier to travel across the countryside as a civilian. General McClellan requested it since this is a highly sensitive mission," Adam lied smoothly, his voice belying the sweat that was beginning to trickle down his back.

"Are you turning these mounts in?" the guard responded, losing interest in Adam and his mission.

"Yes, and requesting two fresh ones."

Interest rose again. "Why two?"

"It's a two-man mission, Private. McClellan's orders."

The guard grunted, but accepted the reins for the three horses. "Wait here," he instructed.

Adam waited for what seemed an eternity as the guard saddled two fresh horses. Not one given to jitters, Adam felt like hopping around on both feet, or at least moving into the corral to spur the guard along. Instead, he forced himself to lean against a corral rail and carefully examine his fingernails.

The guard finally came forward, leading two horses. As he passed the reins to Adam he casually dropped a bomb, "Got a pass?"

Stricken, Adam smiled slightly, "Of course, private. Left it with the General's adjutant. Want me to get it?"

Losing interest once again, the private replied, "Nah, I'll check it over there later."

"Thank you, Private. Have a pleasant evening." Adam turned and led the horses away, blowing out a long breath he'd been holding, puffing out his cheeks with relief.

Hours later, Adam crouched silently behind a tent on the perimeter of the camp. It was several tents away from George McClellan's personal tent, in which Adam had earlier stood with Bloss and Mitchell. The horses had been secured further out in the woods, yet not too far from camp. Adam had painstakingly ascertained that this was the tent where Joe was being held. Not that it was any feat of skill, since it was easy enough to hear the accusations being thrown out and denied by various voices he didn't know, and of course, by one he knew very well.

Unfortunately Joe's interrogators had resorted to physical punishment when he failed to produce the information they demanded. Every time they struck his brother, Adam cringed. He longed to rip his way into the tent and crush the Union officers, but as long as two of them worked on Joe, he knew he would fail. So he waited, and smoldered.

"Listen, Rebel boy, we hang spies in the General's camp, and right now you're just hours away from dying. Tell us who sent you and what your mission is."

Adam heard Joe breathing heavily and knew he was bound and being held upright by one man while the other barked out questions.

"Cartwright … not a soldier … Ponderosa Ranch …Virginia City … Nevada … not a spy…" It was the same message Joe had repeated over and over, only it was growing less coherent. Adam knew that he was close to breaking, weak from being beaten. He closed his eyes tightly as he heard another punch hit Joe in the stomach. He felt ill as he heard a slight cry escape Joe's lips, and knew that time was running out. He prayed for one of the men to leave the tent. Please, please, just leave the tent.

"Jenkins, he might be tellin' the truth. The search didn't turn up anything at all. He's only carrying clothes and a razor. Had a little cash tucked in his boot and a couple of western style pistols in his holster."

"Ya know somethin' Powell? You're gettin' soft. Anyone can dress up like a cowboy, can't they Rebel boy? How'd you like to talk to General McClellan directly? He has a certain way with spies, he does. Powell, wait here." There was the rustle of the tent canvas as Jenkins parted the flap, and Adam knew he had only seconds to act.

As soon as he saw Jenkins strutting away, he stood, crept around the tent and silently entered it. Powell was holding Joe up beneath his arms. Joe's head hung limply at an angle and his eyes were closed. His face looked much worse than the damage Adam had managed to inflict in the saloon fight mere days ago. Before Powell could react, Adam slid behind him and caught him in a chokehold. He tightened his arm around the man's neck until he lost consciousness and slid to the ground. Joe slid down with him, but Adam was prepared for that. He took a knife out of his boot and slit the back of the tent open with one swift slash. Replacing the knife, he moved rapidly to untangle Joe from the sprawling Powell. Joe's eyelids fluttered, but he was in no condition to run. Stopping only to extinguish the one pallid lamp in the tent, Adam heaved his brother over one shoulder and exited the tent, disappearing quickly into the woods under the deep cover of night.

In a stuffy room at an inn in Sharpsburg, Joe Cartwright slept. His brother had rescued him from almost certain death in General George McClellan's camp outside of town, having procured two Army horses and ridden them through the night to relative safety. They'd stopped outside of Sharpsburg just before dawn, where Adam pulled Joe down and then loosed both horses. The last thing they needed now was to be caught with Army contraband. Then Adam had half-carried his brother into town, where he rented the little room at probably triple its usual price from a curious innkeeper already made edgy by the increasing numbers of soldiers moving through and about the town.

"What happened to him? He doesn't look so good," the slight man commented as Adam signed a fictitious name in the inn's register.

"He fell off a horse," Adam held his hand out for the key, with one arm tightly around Joe's waist. "He'll be fine." Heading for the stairs, he called back for food and water to be delivered to the room. Then he disappeared up the stairs, and hadn't been seen since.

Joe had been fed and doctored the best way Adam knew how. Once or twice, he had ventured out to gather materials to make poultices for Joe's injuries—an art he had learned long ago from Hop Sing, the Cartwrights' Chinese cook. Even though he left quietly and carefully through the back of the inn, Adam was alarmed by the sheer numbers of soldiers moving through the main street. Union soldiers. Even though it was unlikely that any of these soldiers would recognize Adam, he took no chances. Hiding behind trees and in brush, he gathered what he needed and returned quickly to the inn, and even then didn't go up the stairway until no one was about.

Later, when he sat at Joe's bedside holding a poultice over a swollen cheek or a hot compress over a bruised midsection, Adam wondered again at events that had brought him and his brother together in the roiling surge of war that was about to spill over. Joe had been sleeping since the moment he felt the bed accept his battered body early that morning, but he was beginning to stir now in the early afternoon and Adam hoped to get some food into him. Adam had catnapped off and on in a side chair, his feet propped up on the small table in the room, his hat over his face.

"Adam?" he waited until Adam was close to him, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. "How did you find me? How did we get away?"

Adam grasped Joe's stretched out hand as he chuckled. "Leave it to you, younger brother, to be captured as a Rebel spy within 24 hours of setting foot in the South."

Joe managed a small grin even though it hurt him to do it. "Maryland isn't exactly the South, Adam."

Adam's features took on a worried look then as he glanced toward the room's single window, its curtains fully drawn. "Might as well be, Joe, for all the military activity taking place right outside your window there."

"How did you find me, and better yet, how did you get me away from McClellan's camp?"

Adam's features softened again as he smiled at Joe. "You don't remember? Okay, then, I'll tell you the whole unbelievable story, and even I don't know exactly how we got out of there, so I'll have to figure something out by the time I get to that part. It starts with the skin of our teeth …"

Joe was duly amazed by his brother's story, and hungry too, as it turned out. Adam gladly fed him as much chicken and dumplings as he felt safe putting into a queasy stomach. And after that, while Joe slept again, Adam slipped outside to find out whatever he could about the presumed upcoming battle. He didn't have to go far, because the flighty innkeeper had big ears and had been busy all morning, darting from pillar to post, gathering information. Adam didn't even have to open his mouth when he encountered the diminutive man, since he spotted Adam first, rushed over and poured forth information from his newly acquired font of knowledge.

"Oh, Mr. Archer! You'd best be careful. The armies are setting up to have a conflict on either side of Antietam Creek. Most likely tomorrow. Bobby Lee's men have been on this side of the creek since early September, just after Second Bull Run, can you imagine? But I don't know, no I don't, since so many blue coats have been coming in past few days. I don't know how many men Robert E. has, but McClellan, he's got enough to splash all the water clear out of the creek. So you be on your guard, Mr. Archer. Say, how's that little feller you brought in earlier?"

As he looked down upon the innkeeper, Adam's eyebrows rose only slightly when he replied, "The little fellow is doing much better, thank you for asking. And please thank your wife for the delicious chicken and dumplings. I don't know how long we'll be staying, but when we leave, we'll heed your word and take great care," he tipped his hat and smiled as he turned to look out the inn's open front door. As had been the case all day, great waves of Union blue soldiers trudged north through the dusty street in the sticky heat of mid-September. As he climbed the stairs back to the room, he wondered what he would do if someone handed him a rifle and a blue woolen jacket in the next five minutes.

The unmistakable sound of gunfire woke them very early the next morning. It was coming from a distance, but it was continuous and sounded like hundreds of firecrackers exploding in the sky. Adam, bleary eyed, sat up in bed, leaning on one elbow. Joe had urged that they share the bed since he knew his brother hadn't had any decent rest in a good while. Something insistent and irrational pulled at Adam, like a sylph beckoning with a knowing look. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Joe, who, from the look on his face, was already under the imp's spell.

"Joe, can you walk?"

"Heck, yeah, I can walk!"

"This isn't a picnic or even a long, slow ride checking fence," Adam cautioned. "It's life and death. It's war and killing."

"We're not enlisted. We can just go to the furthest edges, or find a high hill and watch."

Adam sighed and swung out of bed, pulling his pants on. Joe was already tucking in his shirt and looking for his boots. When they got downstairs, there was a huddle of people standing around the inn's open front door. Dawn was barely breaking to the east, a hazy pink on a hot morning.

The innkeeper was quick. "Mr. Archer. If you're thinking of leaving town, remember that there will be sentries at every road crossing. My wife is cooking breakfast. Why don't you stay and eat something?" his attention turned to Joe. "Say, you're looking a mite perkier than the last time I saw you. Is your name Archer too?"

As Joe's brows drew together, Adam quickly stepped in, "Yes, it is. We're brothers from the West. San Francisco. And some coffee sounds mighty good right now." So, the adventure was postponed by thirty minutes, since it never hurt to start a long day on a full stomach. As they left the inn, the chatty proprietor let them know that the Union army all but occupied the small town, and if they wanted to see anything, they should follow the Potomac River, and stay away from Antietam Creek, which appeared to be the dividing line between the two armies.

Setting out to the north, it was impossible not to notice the many soldiers wearing blue who stood in groups or walked through town. Quietly, Adam handed Joe one of his pistols.

"I know McClellan's men didn't give you back your guns, so take one of mine just in case," he passed along extra ammunition as well.

The farther they walked, the closer they came to the Potomac River. After a while they realized they were behind the Confederate lines, between the area where fresh troops waited for their turn in battle, and the river.

Neither brother had spoken for a while when Adam stopped suddenly and turned to Joe.

"Joe, if anything happens and we get separated, meet me back at the inn in town, all right?"

"Okay, Adam, but since we're going together, what would separate us?" Joe was perplexed by the plan.

"I don't know … probably nothing. I just want a fallback plan in case we lose sight of each other."

They resumed walking; they were not the only men in civilian clothing. Some of the town folk had turned out too, no doubt to see the action or to protect their property and people. The sound of gunfire had grown louder as more divisions on each side had become engaged in the action. Smoke rose steadily into the air, mixing into the haze and making the hot day feel even worse. Every breath taken carried with it the smell of gunpowder.

After trudging through a field still bearing the trampled fruitage of its crop, they stopped just outside a wooded area, where they could see a small white church in the distance. It appeared to be the center of intense fighting, and both Joe and Adam could see columns of both gray and blue troops approaching each other and then stopping to aim and shoot, often felling the first several rows on each side. In some cases, hand-to-hand combat could be seen, often with bayonets. Joe knew he stood slack-jawed watching this violence. He would have said he was plenty used to violence, living in the west as he did, but to this deliberate degree in this theater—it stunned him. He was used to a man defending himself if he had to, but this was carnage planned in advance, and participated in willingly.

Adam too was staring in a sort of paralyzed fascination. He was watching men die by the dozens while he stood watching from a safe distance. He shook himself out of his reverie and pulled at Joe's arm.

"Let's go. Keep low."

They moved deeper into the woods, moving closer to the Potomac, careful to avoid anyone at all. Still behind the Confederate lines, they moved a bit faster, the shade from the trees cooling the temperature, which made hiking less difficult in the humid morning. Eventually reaching the end of the woods, they saw a cornfield ahead. They stopped to study the options before them. By the river, a Confederate cavalry division waited on nervous, prancing mounts. By the sheer energy that radiated from him, Adam guessed that the young man who appeared to be its leader had to be the famed Jeb Stuart. For a few moments, he couldn't resist watching Stuart and his men on their fine horses. He was thinking that if he were fighting, he'd want to be in Stuart's cavalry division, moving on the edges, darting in and out of battle, performing reconnaissance. It was bewitching. Then Joe was pulling on his arm.

"They're Confederates, remember?" he said drily. Hadn't that been the start of their entire feud?

Abashed, but without comment, Adam turned and he and Joe moved closer to the cornfield, with its tall green stalks almost ready for harvest. Thinking it was a safe cover, they crouched just inside a row by the edge of the field, and it was then that they noticed sunshine glinting off steel. Near the corner of the crop, they could see diagonally into the stalks which hid hundreds of Rebel soldiers with bayonets fixed. The cornfield was a time bomb waiting to go off, and they had walked right into it. Adam felt the blood drain from his face, and by his breathing, he knew Joe realized it too.

"Joe! Back to the river, now!" he hissed. They pivoted and headed west toward the Potomac, and shortly after they began moving, bullets began to fly into the corn, and the corn fired back. As they ran, bent low, Joe dared to look back when he heard men start screaming. Smoke was beginning to rise above the corn, just as artillery shells and canisters were fired over the heads of the Union infantry directly into the cornfield. Whole sections of the field blew up when the shells landed; Joe stopped watching and concentrated on running.

When they reached the river, Stuart's cavalry was gone. Unbeknownst to Adam and Joe, they had ridden ahead to back up their men with cavalry artillery aimed at the Union infantry. Reaching the river at last, both brothers flung themselves down, half submerging themselves into the water. For Adam, the cool water helped ease his pounding head, and for Joe it was a moment to pretend that the nightmare behind them didn't even exist. They drank thirstily and looked at each other, appraising the situation. Adam noticed that Joe still bore the black eye and bruises he'd received at the hands of McClellan's officers. What had they been thinking, coming here to Sharpsburg, and then deliberately heading into the battle zone? Adam wasn't given to hoping wishes would come true, but at that moment, he would have given everything to be miraculously whisked away from Sharpsburg, Maryland and back to the Ponderosa.

"Let's head back. This was a bad idea," Adam nodded his head in the direction they'd come from.

Before Joe could agree, they both watched in horror as Union infantry broke through the Confederate lines back by the small white church. That way was blocked, and there was no choice now except to continue around the line of fighting.

The day had turned hellishly hot, despite the artificial fog of smoke that blocked the sun and made it all but impossible to see the landscape ahead. They had kept far enough behind the troops that they had encountered few men, but when they reached one of the bridges crossing Antietam Creek, they began to see more and more Federal troops. The soldiers paid scant attention to the two Cartwrights, but they seemed in a hurry to head south, following the creek.

Adam stopped one injured man who was moving slowly along on his own, away from the action. "What's up ahead?" he inquired, gesturing south, back toward Sharpsburg.

The man gave an ironic smile. "Nothing you want to see. If I were you, I'd turn around and keep heading north, away from this hell. Go to Hagerstown or into Pennsylvania … anywhere but here." He adjusted the makeshift crutch he was using and continued on his way.

Joe and Adam looked at each other silently, and then kept walking in the same direction. Soon, however, the bridge filled with more soldiers going in both directions, horses, wagons carrying cannon and supplies. It was a chokepoint. Adam pressed on and reached the opposite side, with Joe a few steps behind him. A whine from above told everyone that an artillery shell was headed someplace nearby. When it hit and exploded 25 yards short of them, it blew a crater in the ground, heaving up clods of dirt and bits of shrapnel in every direction. Both Joe and Adam covered their heads and hit the ground. There was chaos all around them as everyone tried to assess the damage and injuries caused by the blast.

Joe lifted his head slightly to look around him, but closed his eyes quickly due to the dust and smoke surrounding him. There was little he could see, and at the moment little he could do. There was shouting all around him and the sound of men trying to calm terrified, bolting horses. He reached out and felt all around him for anything that would help him get his bearings. His hand closed around an arm, and he felt a brief second of relief knowing that someone else was close-by. He pulled himself closer to the man, only to realize he was looking away. Joe shook him and called out but received no reply. Turning the man over, he found himself looking into a pair of sightless eyes. The shock of it made him gasp, but he collected himself quickly and felt for a pulse at the man's neck. Nothing. There was no obvious wound, and yet the Union soldier was dead. His army issued rifle and canteen were nearby, so Joe took them even though he felt guilty doing it.

"Adam!" he listened carefully for his brother's response.

"Adam!" He slithered forward in the direction he thought Adam had been going before the shell hit. He heard nothing in return. Starting to scrounge around the area surrounding him, he heard the telltale sound of another canister. This time he stood up and ran with the rifle and canteen. He could barely see, but he knew the canister was behind him. Nearly running into a tree, he sidestepped quickly and kept moving, aware that other men were running frantically as well. When he heard the inevitable explosion, he shivered briefly, because now he really didn't know if Adam was alive or dead. He became trapped and disoriented in a clot of human traffic moving uphill on the bridge. Joe knew he had just crossed this bridge, so he was going in the wrong direction, but he couldn't stop or turn around for the press of people. He felt the rise of panic and he was propelled forward, and more than one person was trampled after falling in the midst of the rush.

Reaching the other side of the bridge, Joe could hear the sounds of battle again, so he instinctively headed away from them. Feeling as though he were suffocating in the heat, and with his eyes stinging from the ever-present gray smoke, he stopped to take a drink from the canteen. Welcoming the stream of water, he had taken a few hungry gulps when he became aware of an acrid, metallic taste. He stopped in mid-gulp and spit out what was in his mouth. Then he cupped a small amount in his hand and brought it up close to look at it. Pink. The water was tinged with blood. Fighting the effort his stomach made to turn itself inside out, he also resisted the urge to upend the canteen. Fouled as it was, he still might need the water before he was on safe ground again. Capping the canteen, Joe kept moving, listening all around him for clues as to his whereabouts. He was still surrounded by other men running in the same direction, and when one came close enough that Joe could see him, he kept pace with the man, a Confederate.

"Where are you headed?"

The man barely looked at Joe. "Are you with Anderson? Pryor? Longstreet?" Not waiting for an answer, he gestured without slowing, "Follow me." Together they ran a considerable distance until gunshots could be clearly heard again. Obstinately, Joe stopped, but the other soldier grabbed his arm and pulled.

"Come on. If you stand here, you're dead. There's a sunken road up ahead; we can take cover."

Joe automatically moved, and as he began to hear bullets whizzing around him like bees, his comrade threw himself down in a shallow trench and sprawled on his belly. He waved Joe down and told him to keep his head low. Joe obeyed, but inadvertently landed on another soldier when he took cover. Startled, he began to apologize.

"Kid, is this your first time in battle? He's dead. That's good for you―take what he has that you can use, and then pull him over you for cover. He don't care anymore."

Shaken, Joe looked over at his advisor, who had now shifted his whole attention to shooting levelly over the top of the sunken road at the unseen enemy. Thoroughly horrified at the repugnance of what he'd been told, Joe nevertheless burrowed under the body of the corpse beside him. He kept his head down, didn't shoot, and shuddered every time he heard a bullet slam into the man atop him. Surely even hell could not be this obscene, he thought. And then another thought hit him―this one ice-cold and barren―what if another soldier somewhere nearby was doing this exact same thing with Adam's body?

Adam had walked south a long distance, keeping as far behind the Union lines as he could. He had seen fallen infantrymen now and then and had respectfully stepped around them. He had also seen other soldiers scavenging among the bodies and stripping them of useful items such as rifles, haversacks, canteens and even uniforms. Following his own stinging criticism of this desecration, he considered his own situation and then dispassionately forced himself to recognize that the dead had no further use for any of those items. This, plus his desperate thirst brought him to his knees by a deceased soldier along his path. He collected the man's canteen, rifle, and ammunition pouch. Then he gently removed the soldier's blue Union cap. It didn't fit him, so he carefully replaced it. He walked several yards away before stopping to drink from the canteen, grateful for the fresh, if not cool, water that slaked his thirst. And he walked on.

Ahead and to his right he saw another bridge looming. It appeared to be the center of considerable activity. There were troops on it, flanking it, and spread out behind it. As he slowly moved forward, he came abreast of the rear end of the troops behind the bridge. An officer on horseback with a prodigious amount of carefully trimmed facial hair that grew from his hair line out across his cheeks, rode back and forth exhorting the men to move into place.

Adam had stopped, not sure where to go at that point. He thought he was far enough east to be out of harm's way. But the mounted officer was very thorough. He pointed at Adam and swept his arm forward as he talked continuously to the infantrymen.

"Fall in, men, quickly. Remember, our mission is to hold and keep this bridge. Watch the bluff on the other side of the creek. It's a perfect spot for enemy entrenchment. Be prepared to fire on my order." As he spoke, he pointed Adam to the end of a row of soldiers already crouched in position.

Surveying the bridge and its enormous bluff on the west side of the creek, Adam spoke to the man on his left. "Aren't we rather exposed in this position?"

The young man grimaced. "Very exposed, but General Burnside is determined to hold this bridge."

"But it's suicide," Adam stated the obvious.

"That it is, and what's more, look at the boulders down by the foot of the bridge. Leftover from an old quarry. They make a perfect cover for snipers."

"I'm not even enlisted," Adam commented, wondering why he had ever come to this godforsaken place.

The man gave him half a grin. "Looks like Old Burnside just did it for you."

"Well as long as I'm here, I may as well learn how to shoot this thing," Adam replied, holding his purloined rifle out to his new comrade. For the next fifteen minutes, he watched as the young man demonstrated how to load and shoot the weapon. It was much the same as other rifles Adam had used. Attaching the bayonet was another issue altogether, and after watching it done twice, he knew where it went and planned to hope devoutly not to need it other than to spear a fish in the creek.

Just as the rifle lesson was finished, the first shots began to soar through the air from across the creek. It wasn't a full volley from all the Rebels by any means; just some shots from several directions meant to let the boys in blue know their counterparts had them well-covered. It didn't fool the Union men, however, but for Adam the random shooting gave him a sense of heightened anxiety. Every second ticked by as though it swung from a huge pendulum inside his chest. He'd fought against enemies before, even Indians, but nothing as detailed and broad as this battle plan. And never with less cover, either. How did these men feel about coming here to die, and why did they stay? Adam thought about the roots of his own ideals and the tug of war he and Joe had played with their differing political views. That had been very different from this―waiting quietly to die some type of death away from everything and everyone held dear. What he wouldn't give right now to have Joe attack him from a swinging chandelier in a Virginia City saloon! That would be safe, comfortable, and well-understood.

He was torn from his reverie by the sudden blast of a thousand guns fired from atop the overhead bluff. Burnside shouted at his men to fire at will. Ahead of him he saw men go down, wounded or dead. Others shot back, and still others just hit the ground flat. The rows in front of Adam moved forward as those before them disintegrated. Adam crawled with them, knowing the Yankees were taking a beating and wondering why Burnside ever agreed to such a tactical formation. His battle friend, whose name he did not know, rose on his knees to fire toward the bluff. As he fired, he was hit and flew backward. Adam quickly moved to check on him. He was silent, in shock, but he was conscious. A red stream of blood started and stopped and started again out the side of his neck, its activity governed by his pulse. Adam pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the wound.

"Lie still. I'll stay with you … I don't even know your name, I'm so sorry," he felt like a blathering idiot.

Brown eyes turned to his. "Lloyd … Elliott," he whispered. Very slowly his hand came up and patted the right side of his coat. "Letter for my wife … Lewistown, Illinois," he stopped, struggling to breathe. The handkerchief was already soaked, and blood was dripping between Adam's fingers. Lloyd Elliot's blood, his lifeblood, his life.

"I'll send the letter, Lloyd," Adam assured him softly.

"Water," Lloyd's final request was barely audible, and as Adam struggled to uncap his canteen, the man's head fell to the side and he went still. Despite this, as Adam watched, Lloyd's wound continued to pump blood for almost a minute before it ceased altogether.

The battle noise, which had been strangely absent as Lloyd Elliot died, returned in a shrill assault to Adam's ears as he checked the dead man's pockets until he found the folded letter to Mrs. Elliot. He put it quickly inside his hat band, rested a hand on Lloyd's shoulder, and turned back to the battle. He was shocked to see the number of men already on the ground. How many were wounded or worse, and how many were just playing safe he didn't know. The gray battle fog had risen again, but he rose up on one knee and got off a shot. The second time he did it, he felt a sharp burn in his side. His breath hissed in pain as he let himself down to look. A bullet had torn through his flesh, under his arm. Although it was a messy wound, the bullet appeared to have passed on after doing its damage. Adam made a clumsy attempt at ripping off the tail of his shirt to bind around his upper chest, and then he started making his way backward away from the heaviest fire. As he stopped to adjust the makeshift bandage, an officer on horseback, who was riding the back of the battle line, noticed him.

"You're wounded, private. Can you move?" When Adam nodded, the officer continued. "Get yourself to the field hospital before you bleed to death," and then he rode on, shouting over the roar to the men still fighting.

Adam kept his arm tight against his side as he dragged himself back, and finally lurched to his feet when he was out of the line of fire. Feeling queasy and trying to orient himself, he began to follow other soldiers who were trampling a path toward some white tents in the distance. Along the way he picked up a man who had been shot in the left leg, and together they limped toward the field hospital. Adam pondered his brief battle experience. In about the time it took to muck out half the stalls in the barn at home on the Ponderosa, he had prepared for battle, watched a man die, fired his rifle twice, suffered a wound, and been called a private. He shook his head as he limped clumsily with his partner. He would have thought he'd at least be taken for a sergeant.

When the shooting stopped, Joe waited and waited before daring to lift his head. It had taken some time lying face down in the dirt to realize that he was still alive. His head was pounding, but instead of the cold numbness that must be death, the pounding was probably a good thing. He reached up to touch a sore goose egg on his forehead, just at the hair line. He opened his eyes briefly and saw that the same smoke haze he remembered was still hovering. The body he had been advised to hide under had dripped blood steadily on him, and in addition, the road beneath him was running red with blood. What he saw astonished him. The sunken road he'd taken refuge in was filled with men, many dead, some writhing, others beginning to rise as he did. As far as he could see, there were bodies lying still. He was bloody, too, even though as far as he knew he wasn't injured. As he stood and looked up and down the road, he saw he was no different from anyone else. They had survived any way they could, and most of them looked a lot like he did.

There wasn't the same size throng at the foot of the bridge as there had been earlier, but soldiers were still crossing. He didn't hear battle sounds, fortunately, and he summoned the energy to drag himself over to nearby Antietam Creek. Plunging his hands into the cool water, he brought some up to scrub his face. Then he dunked his whole head in for general relief. As he came up dripping, he wiped the water from his eyes. Looking down at his own reflection in the water, he stopped short. This was not normal. Not right. He had never seen anything like this before. He didn't move a muscle; he just stared. The creek was red. The water was red. Blood red. After several more moments of sightless staring, he quickly used his sleeve to wipe his wet face, not caring at all that he wiped dirt from his shirt onto his face. The important thing was to remove the water, fast. Then he turned his head away from the creek and forced his body to follow.

He climbed onto flat ground and began walking, not even knowing where he was headed. It was as if his mind and his body were two separate, disconnected entities. Others were walking in front of and behind him, but almost no one spoke. At one point near the end of the sunken road, they all passed two mounted officers surveying the scene of devastation in rapt horror.

"It's a damned bloody lane," said one. "It's just a bloody lane filled with leftover bodies," he placed a gloved hand over his mouth as he struggled to take in the sight.

"Oh, my boys, my poor boys," murmured the other.

After hiking slowly for over an hour, Joe found a small tributary to the creek and spent close to thirty minutes there trying to wash the sticky, slippery, reeking blood from his body and clothing. Then, wet but feeling considerably better, he moved on. Then suddenly, as he came through a copse of trees, he saw a field littered with bodies, both blue and gray. They lay among broken corn stalks. With a start, Joe realized this was the corn field he and Adam had been at in the early morning. There was nothing left of it now. Every stalk had been mown down as if by a giant scythe. Joe stood staring fixedly. He couldn't begin to count the bodies that lay amongst the bright green broken corn, poking inches above the ground, now withering in the heat. The bullets had felled the corn and the men it hid alike, like tiny razors. The once tall and proud corn was destroyed, trampled, mashed. Joe stared hard, trying to take it in and failing. This, after the sunken road, was too much, too much. He turned away and began to retrace his steps. All he cared about now was finding Adam.

What fools they were, he thought, arguing over the war, taking sides, listening to Frederick Kyle. What a magnificent waste of time. Pa was right; the war should never have been brought anywhere near the Ponderosa. It was corrosive, poison. All it did was eat up families, not the same way it did here at Antietam, but still, destructive enough.

He remember that Adam said if they got separated they should meet at the inn in Sharpsburg. It was late afternoon and there was very little shooting to be heard. A supply wagon came clattering by, and Joe waved down the driver.

"Any room for a passenger into town?"

The driver gave half a chuckle, "If you can find room, friend, hop on board."

Joe gave him a quizzical look and parted the canvas drape to find the wagon loaded with human passengers, including women, men, the wounded, the able-bodied, even children. They all made room for one more man. They all had one thing in common: exhaustion. Joe leaned back, knees raised, and let his eyes close as the wagon swayed forward. It was hot and rank in the wagon, but no one cared; they were riding, not walking. He didn't know how much time had passed, but when the wagon stopped, he climbed out with the rest of the passengers.

Sharpsburg was awhirl with solders. There was a steady buzz that stopped just short of chaos. It was a brief walk to the inn and Joe went inside to find the innkeeper just where they'd left him, holding court near the front door.

"Oh, Mr. Archer! Say, you don't look so good. Where you been all day? I have to tell you, I don't have any rooms tonight. We're all booked up," he frowned as he peered into Joe's bloodshot eyes.

"I don't need a room. Have you seen my brother?"

"The other Mr. Archer? Not since this morning at breakfast, but if I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

Joe nodded woodenly and turned away. If Adam wasn't here, he could be anywhere, including lying dead or wounded on any part of the battlefield. Joe made a point of walking clear around the inn to make sure Adam wasn't anywhere on the grounds. The innkeeper came outside when he saw Joe passing the front again, and he directed him to the field hospital in case Adam had been wounded. An officer standing just inside the inn offered that the following day the task of laying out the dead would begin, and Joe could search for Adam there. After what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life, Joe didn't think it could have gotten any worse, but after that last bit of information, it had. Numbly, he headed in the direction the innkeeper had pointed to.

Joe staggered toward the field hospital where white tents were scattered across the grassland. It was nearing twilight and several campfires had been lit. He heard men everywhere calling out and moaning for help, for family. He passed one tent where several men were holding down a screaming man on a table. Joe moved away quickly when he saw a man, presumably a doctor, come forward wearing a bloody apron and carrying a saw in his hand. Joe swallowed thickly and headed for one of the fires near a tall tree that towered over a stack of firewood at its trunk. He needed a moment to think about where else he could search for Adam, or for his remains. As he neared the cord wood by the fire, he noted it wasn't neatly stacked. Another step closer and something came flying out of a nearby tent and landed on the stack. When he saw the hand and fingers, Joe stopped and gagged. The wood he thought he saw was actually a haphazard grisly stack of amputated arms and legs. On the opposite side of the large tree trunk, he leaned a hand against the rough bark and bent low as he retched violently. There was very little inside him to come up, but the atrocities of the day were at least being expelled. He couldn't seem to stop, even though he was empty. And hopelessly hollow.

"My feeling exactly." A hand on his back brought Joe upright and face- to-face with a tired, dirty, and disheveled Adam, whose expression was one of great relief and empathy.

With a sob, Joe threw himself into his brother's arms, not even noticing that he sucked in his breath suddenly when Joe's arms squeezed him tightly. Joe cried unabashedly for everything that was gone. For anger, for politics, for innocence, for safety, for civility, for sanity. Adam wrapped his arms around Joe and rested his chin on the head of brown curls. Looking above the wretched scene they stood in the midst of, silent tears ran down Adam's face. The brothers stood at length this way, and when they separated, they walked away slowly, each with an arm around the other's waist.

They were going home.

THE END

Author's Note:

The Battle of Antietam, on September 17, 1862, saw the worst combat losses in a single day in US military history. The Union lost 2,108 men with 12,401 casualties, and the Confederates lost 1,546 men with 10,318 casualties. Although the battle was declared a Union victory, George McClellan's performance was considered poor in that he only told his subordinate commanders the plan for their own corps, never the overall battle plan; thus, they fought like independent, uncoordinated armies. Robert E. Lee was considered to have shown superb leadership, making decisive moves, and taking swift advantage of McClellan's delays and persistent fears that Lee outnumbered him.

The cigar incident is true. The three cigars wrapped with Special Order 191 were actually found by John Bloss and Barton Mitchell. When the note was delivered to McClellan, he delayed 18 hours before taking action, which allowed Lee to strategically position his men defensively. And the cornfield, which hid Confederate soldiers early in the battle, saw intense fighting, changed hands 15 times during the battle, and at its end, had been cut down to the ground by the sheer number of bullets that passed through it. The Bloody Lane can still be seen today, and sadly, dead soldiers were used as human shields in the onslaught of gunfire that made the lane run red. After the battle, McClellan delayed three days resting his army, allowing Lee's army to pass safely back into Virginia. Lincoln removed him from command after multiple poor performances in 1862. Ambrose Burnside succeeded him.

This story, while taking some literary license, remains true to the main events of the Battle of Antietam.