A whole regiment came at them. They dissolved out of the smoke and thunder like wraiths on a foggy night.
Margaret, with expert movements, loaded her pistol and fired. Shot after shot she fired, and since she was an expert marksman, she hit every shot.
Her father would be proud.
A bullet thunked into the tree next to her, causing her to duck. For a brief moment, she glanced around her, trying to take in everything. She took it in a moment. Chamberlain (she didn't have the mental awareness to realize that she had forgotten his title) was also crouched beneath a stone wall, firing off as much as he could. The younger brother was hunkered behind a tree, also firing as much as he could with bullets flying all around him.
A new wave of firing happened. Margaret's eyes widened, and her stomach twisted when she noticed a man on his knees, facing the enemy and arms clutching his stomach, throwing obscene words to the wind. There was more chaos here then on any battlefield that Margaret had been apart of. Noises of all sorts going off around her: guns snapping as they fired, men screaming with different emotions, pain from wounds, joy and rage.
Blood splattered on the tree next to her suddenly.
She continued to fired.
It took her a moment to process the fact that the men were moving back, that the Twentieth Maine had stopped them dead in their tracks.
There were a few men that continued to fire as the Rebels fell back, but this time it was slower. Margaret fought to regain her breath. There was a slightly ringing in her ear.
"Half expect 'em to come from behind." Kilrain muttered, barely over the ringing in her ears.
"Did you hear from Morrill's company?"
"No, sir." Kilrain shook his head, leaning up against his carbine. "Couldn't hear nothing over that mess."
Margaret glanced over at Lieutenant Chamberlain, who looked rather…...out of it. Like a man who had heard a rather loud noise and had yet to recover from it. "Lieutenant? Are you alright?"
Thomas glanced at them; a bit empty eyed. She watched the two have a moment, with the Colonel putting a gentle hand on the boy's cheek. "You stay down boy."
"Damn right." He nodded a head to her. "Begging your pardon, ma'am."
She waved him off before turning to assess the damage. "My guess, Colonel, if you'd take it, is that Captain Morrill might have run into them already, might have already been wiped out."
"With Morrill gone, I have perhaps three hundred men. Maybe a few more, maybe a few less. What do I do if they flank us?"
That question left a vacuum that was difficult to fill with what they had, the reality that was difficult to right.
There was another attack that broke before she could process it, a willful mistake that she shouldn't had made.
The attack came all down the line, a full, wild leaping charge. Three men came inside the low stone wall the boys had built. Two died; the other lay badly wounded, unable to speak. There was a call from for a surgeon. Margaret's stomach lurched, despite the hardened nature of her lifetime, when she saw a young man with his face gone, the half of his right jawbone visible. She heard Kilrain and Chamberlain discussing something, something about the Second Maine prisoners.
"Buster? Are you alright?"
Without thinking, and taking her eyes off the battle in front her, she noticed that her old family friend was grey, holding his side. Margaret's stomach dropped.
"BUSTER!" She rushed to his side, where she was pushed off gently.
"Alright, lass." He muttered. "Hardly touched me."
The tear was just underneath the right shoulder, blood filling the armpit. Margaret felt sick, with both worry and at the sight. She felt…frightened. Kilrain stuffed white cloth into the hole.
He grunted. "Be fine in a moment. But plays hell with me target practice. Would you care for the carbine?"
He turned ashen white, dropping down abruptly. Margaret whirled around, her eyes betraying her worry and franticness.
"Surgeon!"
"Tom, go find a surgeon."
"Of course." The younger Chamberlain rushed off quickly.
The colonel turned back to Kilrain. "Now you stay there. Tom'll find a surgeon."
Margaret held the man's hand, her heart beating fast as she saw Kilrain give her and the Colonel a wide smile. "Hell, Colonel. I feel saintly. Just a bit of bandage is all I'll be needin'. And a few minutes off my feet. Me brogans are killin' me."
He lapsed into brogue, looking very much like he was mentally distancing himself from the pain. His eyes glazed over, leaving Margaret very worried. She gripped his hand,
"Colonel! You need to come and see this!"
The man left, leaving Margaret alone with Buster. She smiled at him.
"Now…..no tears, lassie." He ordered. She ducked her head to wipe the tears away that were threatening to spill.
"You were always there. For both Henry and I." She squeezed his hand tightly. "Just hang in there, okay?"
"Ah, ya know that I'm tougher than that. By all the saints, Maggie, show a little bit more faith."
Margaret smiled a bit more widely, knowing full well that Buster was much stronger than he looked. There was some movement behind the two of them, some chaos that was going on. She heard Colonel Chamberlain shouting something to the men, causing her to lift her head upward and swivel it around to see what was going on. Men moved about, hurriedly shouting orders down the line.
Keep up the musket fire! The order went, echoed from each man down the line. We're about to be flanked! No breaks! Hold the line!
Margaret glanced down the hill, then to the right and left, spotting Confederate soldiers coming at them at an angle. She gave Buster's hand one last squeeze before she started to fire again, right along side the men of the Twentieth Maine. Smoke filled the air as did the sounds of popping and thumps as ammunition found a leg, chest or face.
During the fight, she glanced down at Buster, only to find that she had somehow drifted away from her old mentor in the heat of battle. He was doing okay, for a wounded man, firing off a carbine with as quick as he could with a wounded armpit. She shook her head as she returned her focus on the battle in front of her.
This fight didn't last as long as the last and pretty soon, the Confederates were retreating.
Margaret turned and searched the chaos for Colonel Chamberlain, instead spotting the lieutenant.
"Lieutenant!" the man halted, whirling towards her. "Where's the colonel?"
"This way!"
She followed him, and saw a man that was barely keeping his cool.
"Lawrence?"
"Tom! You alright?"
Lieutenant Chamberlain nodded. "They can't send us no help from the Eighty-Third. Woodward said they have got their troubles, but they can extend the line a little and help us out."
"Good." Colonel Chamberlain breathed slightly. "Go tell Clarke to shift a bit, strengthen the center."
While Tom moved off, Margaret and the Colonel moved off towards Kilrain, who had twice the blood on the underarm of his shirt.
He grunted. "They keep coming in on the flank."
"What do you think?"
"We've been shooting a lot of rounds."
Margaret nodded. "No doubt the men are running low on ammunition."
Colonel Chamberlain nodded in agreement as his eyes scanned the area. That is until someone came up behind them.
"Sir?" The four of them turned around. "Sir, Colonel Vincent is dead."
Both Chamberlains closed their eyes and exhaled through their noses.
"Yes sir. Got hit a few moments after the fight started. We've already been reinforced by Weed's Brigade, up front, but now Weed is dead, and they moved Hazlett's Battery in up top and Hazlett's dead. No good news sir, I'm afraid. Can't get any ammunition, sir. Everything's a mess up there. But they're holdin' up pretty good. Rebs having trouble coming up the hill. Pretty steep."
"We've got to have bullets." Margaret heard Chamberlain say. She could feel the stress coming off the man.
It was coming off her as well.
Another commander approached Chamberlain, looking frantic as he stated, "Colonel, half the men are down. If they come again…."
There was a pause, as everyone knew what would happen.
"Don't know if we can stop'em, Colonel."
"Send out word," Chamberlain said, "Take ammunition from the wounded. Make every round count."
Upon hearing those words, a memory sparked for the woman in Assassin garb. Margaret remembered stories that her grandfather would talk about the War of 1812. Down in New Orleans, where the British tried to invade, they had only a limited amount of ammunition, had to make every shot count. They were ordered not to fire until the whites of the eyes could be seen, then they could let loose a volley of fire.
Margaret's heart dropped as she remembered what the orders were for the Twentieth Maine. No possibility of retreat for them.
They had to hold until the very last.
It became clear as Colonel Chamberlain called his officers forward, to get a game plan going.
They had hold until the very last everything.
The last man.
The last piece of ammunition.
The last bit of ground.
"How are we on ammunition?"
"We're out sir!" Margaret's eyes went wide at the answer. "Some of the boys have nothing at all!"
"Sir, we have to pull out!"
"We can't." Margaret reminded the man.
The man with the very bushy beard shook his head. "We won't hold'em again. Colonel, you know we can't hold'em again."
"If we don't hold, they go right on by and over the hill and the whole flank caves in." Chamberlain bit out. There was silence, the firing of the guns far away the only sound. Margaret's heart felt very, very loud in her chest. She, after all the years of fighting on the field, couldn't' think of anything that would help them.
"Colonel, they're coming!" Kilrain's shout of warning came, and a moment later, after the barest hints of internal debate, Margaret watched Colonel's face light up.
"Let's fix bayonets."
Margaret couldn't believe that was the plan. But she saw where he was coming from, nodding as she thought about it. "We'll have the advantage of moving downhill."
"They've got to be tired, those rebs. They've got to be close to the end. Fix bayonets. Wait. Eilis, you take the left wing. I want a right wheel forward of the whole regiment."
A lieutenant looked perplexed. "Sir, excuse me, but what's a 'right wheel forward'?"
"He means 'charge', Lieutenant, 'charge'!"
"Not quite." Chamberlain said. "We charge, swinging down to the right. We straighten out our line. Clarke hangs onto the Eighty-Third, and we swing like a door, sweeping them down the hill. Understand? Everyone understand? Ellis, you take the wing, and when I yell, you got to it. The whole regiment goes forward, swinging to the right."
There were nodding among the commanders. Chamberlain nodded.
"Let's go." The commanders scuttled away, leaving Margaret to watch in awe as Chamberlain removed and raised his saber, before bawling at the top of his lungs, "FIX BAYONETS!"
The cry was echoed by many of the men and commanders, leaving Margaret to watch in awe as the men gathered for one last hurrah. She turned her eyes towards the colonel.
"Do you have something?" he asked.
Margaret nodded, brandishing her Hidden Blade. Chamberlain looked confused.
"Do you think that'll be enough?"
"Has been since I was small." Margaret said as she slid her Blade out. Her eyes went down the ranks of men that lined up. "Besides, it has yet to taste blood."
"Okay…." Chamberlain shook himself as he waved his saber in a circle, the action mirrored by the commanders down the line. "Hold the line!"
There was a silence that permeated the area, as though nature itself was holding its breath. Margaret's blade glinted in the sun, as she tensed.
She was ready.
Colonel Chamberlain took a deep breath, before dropping his saber and shouting in the most guttural roar Margaret heard in all her years, "CCCCCCHHHHHHAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGEEEE!"
All hell broke loose.