Happy New Year 2015, everyone! Or, I guess I should say 1863 :) Here is Part two (of three, I think), and the Battle of Galveston! This is dedicated to my wonderful husband, who is enjoying these Civil War outtakes, and who says things like "I'll take the kids out for a while. Why don't you lie down and do some writing?" :)

Here's a refresher of the battle plans:

IN THE HARBOR:

The two cottonclad ships, the Bayou City and the Neptune, are carrying the "horse marines", the Fifth and Seventh Texas Mounted Rifle regiments. Jasper is in the Fifth, which is on the Bayou City. The Union flotilla has six gunboats, the fiercest ones being the Harriet Lane and the Westfield.

ON LAND:

General John Magruder is bringing the Fourth Texas Cavalry (dismounted) across the bridge with lots of heavy artillery (cannons). Their main job is to first attack the Union ships, then seize the town itself back from the Yankees. Meanwhile, a regiment of Texas Infantry is wading around to storm the wharf, where the Union garrison is holed up.

Jasper's invented "campfire buddies" from the first outtake are Captain Miles Lang (Jasper's right-hand man), Sergeants Moore and Lockewood, and Privates Lee and Morris. His commanding officer is Colonel Tom Green. Their two-ship fleet will be under the command of Commodore Leon Smith. The Union flotilla is under the command of William Renshaw.

And here's a quick summary of how to load an 1853 Enfield rifle musket (Jasper's favorite):

You'd have your haversacks (pouches) at your side, containing fresh canisters (cartidges) of powder, musketballs, and percussion caps. You rip the powder canister open with your teeth and pour it down into the barrel of the rifle, then drop the musketball down on top. You take the ramrod off the gun and ram everything down, then replace the ramrod. You then pull the hammer back to half-cock and remove the old percussion cap from the last time you fired. You put on a fresh percussion cap and then pull the hammer back to full-cock. You can then lift the rifle, aim, and fire.

I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and my boots still on. I blinked several times, watching in confusion as a row of stitches came into focus, cutting a line across a canvas sky. When did I pitch my tent?

I blinked again and realized that sunlight was leaching in through the canvas. I jerked up to sitting, moaning and grabbing my head. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. I crawled out and squinted up against the sun, which was soon replaced by the cheerful face of Miles Lang.

"Morning, Major!"

"Not so loud," I growled, grabbing my throbbing head again. "And why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"I was just coming to do that, sir. The Colonel wants you in ten minutes."

I lumbered to my feet and grunted my thanks as he passed me a steaming mug of black coffee. I guzzled half of it down and then nodded back toward my tent. "Who tucked me in last night?"

"I did, sir."

"You might have taken my boots off."

He grinned again. "Where would you be without me, Major?"

"Up a river, Captain." I shook my head, smiling at our familiar banter, and finished the coffee while he cheerfully informed me that my "horse marines" joke from last night had been a huge success. The phrase was spreading through the camp, giving a sense of levity to the unease that the news of our upcoming maneuver had caused. It was exactly what we all needed.

I spent most of my ten minutes shaving and trying to get a comb through the haystack on top of my head. I really should get it cut, but I never seemed to get around to it. I didn't, as a rule, give much attention to my appearance–I groomed Patch far better than I groomed myself—but I was proud of my hair. I had started growing it out after my first promotion, and it had become something of a joke in Company A.

I checked on Patch briefly, promising him a run as soon as I got the chance. Then I made my way to the officer's mess, where I found Colonel Green nursing his own coffee and scribbling on a scrap of paper. I loaded a plate with bacon and eggs and sat opposite him.

"Morning, sir."

He peered at me over his coffee. "Horse marines, eh?"

I cleared my throat, studying the eggs as I pushed them around on the plate. Tom Green was a good man, but he had absolutely no sense of humor. And he didn't always approve of my less-than-traditional leadership style; he felt I was too familiar with the enlisted men. "The men were a little disturbed by the news. I thought it might be a good idea to lighten the atmosphere."

"I think you were inebriated."

I blushed. "That too, sir."

He swished his coffee, looking thoughtful. "Probably a good idea. Even if our chances of success were better, I think we'd all be a little uncomfortable with the arrangements. Anything to help the lads keep their courage. You've always had a knack for that sort of thing, haven't you?"

I shrugged.

"In fact, I'd like you to be the one to break the news to Company C when they get in later."

I clenched my jaw, nodding my reluctant agreement. He spun around the paper that he had been working on around and pushed it closer. He had already put together a rough plan for the drills that we'd be running while we waited for the steamers to be prepared. I glanced over his ideas, giving him a noncommittal nod. We were both out of our element here, and we knew it.

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The next few days were a blur of drills, mostly focused on hand-to-hand combat. Our swordsmanship and knife-fighting techniques were sadly in need of improvement, especially. On the second day, we practiced shooting in close quarters with one another, as it would be on the ship: one row firing and then moving away to reload while the next row stepped up and took aim. And to my eternal mortification, we were given swimming lessons. I tried my damnedest, but after several day's effort my only achievement was sinking slowly, instead of quickly.

Things were looking up a bit by the time the steamers were ready. General Magruder grew angrier with each day's delay, but despite our fears, the Federals hadn't added to the garrison on the island yet. Magruder had ordered reinforcements, in case of such a delay, and so our odds went up. A smattering of infantry made it in, to add to the ranks of the Fourth for their land assault, and we were especially overjoyed to see the Seventh Texas Cavalry riding into camp on the 28th. Their addition to the maneuver meant that our regiment could now be all together on the Bayou City, while they, being the smaller of the two regiments, would be shooting from the Neptune. But their arrival meant more than just a boost to our odds: Sibley's Brigade was reunited for the first time in months. The Fourth, the Fifth, and the Seventh, all in one camp! None of us slept a wink that first night, all catching up with each other and rehashing old jokes, pranks, and songs. General Sibley's absence was keenly felt by all, but we were too excited over our reunion to do any moping. The odds were still against us, but now we'd be facing them together.

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I went to give Patch my goodbye just before dawn on the 30th. It was the first time we had parted like this; I had expected to die other times, but we had always gone into battle together. I had always kept the same ragged note in the inside breast pocket of my uniform jacket, but now I took it out.

If I should not survive, my only request is that my horse be kept within the service of the Fifth Texas Mounted Rifles. Any other of my earthly goods may be redeemed or distributed as my commanding officer decides, for the advancement of the Cause. Private Jasper Whitlock

The paper was torn and hardly legible, but I didn't have any paper with which to replace it. I did, however, take a pencil stub out of another pocket and strike out "Private," replacing it with "Major"; perhaps the extra clout would ensure that my wishes would be respected. I slipped the note under the kit I was leaving in the stable with Patch.

I brushed him for a while, fussed over his hooves like a doting mother, and gave him the last of my sugar-cube stash. Even if I did make it back, the sugar would probably get wet and ruined on the ship.

"That's all there is, pal," I said, my whisper choked with emotion. "That's all there is."

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We and the Seventh left for Harrisburg after breakfast. It was an unpleasant couple of days, and I was hard-pressed not to join in the grumbling at being marched off like infantry, carrying all our own kit. It was oppressive to be loaded down with a knapsack and full haversacks; I missed Patch already. I was also weighed down with the usual full canteen, rations, blanket—at least leaving the horses behind meant we didn't need to carry all our usual grooming and shoe repair tools. We were also bristling with weapons on the march; besides the saber, the Enfield and the carbine, we had all been issued a third pistol, a fifteen-inch bowie knife, and a smaller side knife. At least we didn't have to carry the extra ammunition; that was waiting for us on the ships.

We reached the docks in Harrisburg the next afternoon. It was immediately obvious that our "fleet" was comprised of two ships that had no business being used for warfare. The Neptune was no more than a tugboat, originally commissioned for mail-carrying. The Bayou City was larger but hardly more impressive. Both ships and the docks were covered in sawdust and loose cotton, evidence of the ramshackle alterations made this week to accommodate General Magruder's haste. Both ships had been equipped with a single cannon, and the sides were an ugly mess of wooden planks and cotton bales. Our ammunition was just being loaded on, so we all sat down where we found ourselves, making a quick lunch of whatever we could eat cold out of our rations. Another twenty minutes, a round of handshakes with our pals in the Seventh, and we were steaming down Buffalo Bayou.

Commodore Leon Smith was in command of the "fleet," so he stood on the Bayou City with us. We had a couple of other tiny boats come along, but they were just helpers—"tender", the sailors called them. If we had spit at them, they would have sunk.

We quickly came to regret our hasty lunch. Most of us had never been on any kind of boat before, and the ship's crew had a good laugh at our seasickness. Once most of us were feeling human again, Colonel Green showed us around the ammunition stash. Then he introduced us to the small pile of shotguns we had been given. I had never used one before; they looked like someone had taken a decent rifle and bit off the front half.

"I've had them loaded with buckshot," he said grimly. "We'll save them until we're ready to board the enemy. Which of you boys have used these for hunting before?" Several hands went up, mostly in Company C. Fifteen of them were chosen to use the shotguns when the time came, and they were set aside. Then Commodore Smith gave us a crash course in the naval gibberish that we'd need to know for the battle.

We swung out into a larger bay around sunset, where we were met with a courier in a rowboat, carrying General Magruder's final orders:

I will attack from within the City with my ground troops about one o'clock in the morning. Take your boats as near as you can to the enemy vessels, without risk of discovery, and attack when the signal gun is fired from my position. The Rangers of the Prairie send greetings to the Rangers of the Sea.

"Starting the New Year off with a bang," Colonel Green said wryly. "He always was one for theatrics."

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We slowed to drop anchor at nine o'clock. A bright moon was rising; another strike against us. If we had a prayer of surviving this battle, to say nothing of succeeding, we needed the element of surprise. And the ground force had the same need; if they were caught sneaking a train of artillery across a narrow bridge, they would be mown down before they got even halfway across.

After a cautious dinner of hardtack, we all settled down to wait. It was cold out on the water, and most of us were soon wrapped in our blankets, our backs against the cotton bales. I had already lost four men out of my company to severe seasickness; they would most likely spend the entirety of the battle belowdecks, where they were right now.

I had my new bowie knife out and was tilting it back and forth, watching the moonlight as it flashed across the blade. I stole a glance around, taking stock of everyone's faces. We had pulled out of Harrisburg in relatively high spirits, laughing and singing; despite the odds against us, this was an adventure. But our sour stomachs, and now the cold wait, had quieted our laughter. The men were staring blankly ahead, no doubt letting themselves dwell too much on the coming battle. Lang, who was sitting beside me, had just pulled something out of his coat and was staring down at it.

"What's that?" I asked, gesturing with the knife.

He passed it over to me; it was a little framed tintype of a girl, perhaps my own age. "That's her," he said, watching my face hopefully.

"Cynthia?"

"The one and only. She sent it in that parcel—you know, that one with my mother's cherry pies."

I nodded, my stomach twisting at the memory. Those pies had been the highlight of our disgraceful return back to Texas this summer. But right now, the thought of any food made me want to grab the railing again. I studied the picture. So this was the famous Cynthia, who was waiting for her Captain Lang to come home in triumph and marry her. She was pretty, I supposed, in an aristocratic sort of way. She was almost smiling, as if to wish him good luck.

I passed it back. "She's lovely."

"She is," he said reverently. He cradled the picture close in embarrassment, not realizing that at several other men on the ship were holding tiny pictures, as well. I saw a few others clutching battered letters from home.

The sight of them left me feeling cold and alone. I had no sweetheart whose picture could smile up at me, no mother sending me cherry pies, no letters waiting for me after a year away. I had never written my sister to tell her that I had enlisted; I hadn't thought to write her address down before I left home. I didn't even know whether my Pap was dead or alive. And considering the fact that my parting words had taken the form of a fist across his jaw, I didn't suppose he was losing much sleep over my fate, either. It was one of the reasons I could repeatedly face death with something that resembled courage: there wasn't a soul apart from this regiment who cared, or would even know, whether I lived or died. It was usually a comfort.

But we didn't usually have this confounded calm right before a battle; we were always riding toward the engagement, the men no doubt having looked at their sweetheart's picture, or their mother's most recent letter, the night before in the privacy of their tent. I had never actually witnessed this tender moment, when those who shared my sentimental nature had the time to steal a last peek at their inspiration, to utter bashful prayers behind their hands. To remind themselves who they were fighting for. I was fighting for Texas—and while she was worth every drop of blood spent, she wasn't one to care where it fell. In a rare burst of anger, I threw the knife down onto the deck. It sank effortlessly into the wood, humming as it vibrated. I jerked it out again, ignoring Lang's questioning frown.

1863—and my nineteenth birthday—began in silence three hours later. We were nearing Galveston Bay now, under strict orders not to make a sound. We had already loaded our pistols and had them jammed into our belts, and now we quietly loaded the Enfields as our little fleet edged toward its goal. I spent some time poking around the bale of cotton at my back, tying to guess the best way to position myself for the shooting. I didn't quite trust my new sea legs, and so I might prefer to kneel; but then I'd need to crawl, versus walk, out of the way for the man behind me who would take his shot while I reloaded. The carbines wouldn't be much use until we were right on top of them. They were the best for aiming from horseback—and a bucking ship, I hoped—but they had nothing on the Enfield for range.

It was far too light outside. Our ships waited just out of sight of the flotilla, waiting for Magruder's cannon to announce the start of the battle. We waited, back in our blankets, as one o'clock crawled by. The excitement soon came, but not in the form we expected. It was a Union gunboat where there wasn't one a moment ago, already lighting her signal lantern to announce our presence to the other ships.

"Turn and fall back!" the Commodore hissed. "We haven't gotten the signal to engage!" We moved back, and back again—how many miles, I couldn't guess. I had no bearings out here in the water, and we "horse marines" didn't have the faintest idea what the sailors were chattering about. Once we had gotten far enough away, we turned to face our attackers. We waited on our feet, rifles at the ready, for a good twenty minutes. But the attack never came, and most of the men returned to their blankets. I stalked up to Colonel Green, chafing my hands against my coat to keep warm. I had left my gloves back with Patch, thinking that I would have no need for them. I hadn't guessed how much colder it would be out here, and how much time we'd spend waiting.

"Why aren't they attacking?"

He scowled out at the empty water. "I don't know. But I wish they hadn't seen us."

"Isn't it better this way?" I asked. "No matter why they're dismissing us, anything that keeps their eyes off the island has to be a good thing."

He shrugged. "Might be good for now, but bad for later. Now when we do get the signal we'll be steaming in from further back. And it's possible that their guns are all turned our way now. Even if they aren't, you can be sure they'll be looking over their shoulder from now 'til dawn. And where's that damned signal? Something's wrong ashore, I just know it." Our normally stoic commander shivered, and I stole a glance back at the men, who were watching us. Everyone knew by now that the commencement was behind schedule.

I walked back to them and tossed my blanket back over my shoulders. "No sign of pursuit," I told them unnecessarily. "But it's actually a good thing we were spotted. This'll keep the Yankees looking everywhere except the island, while Magruder gets himself into position."

"I thought we was attacking at one o'clock," Private Lee said loudly, and I hissed for him to keep it down.

"We're attacking when we hear the first cannon," I reminded them. "And not a minute before."

Moore buried his face deeper into his coat. "If there ever is a first cannon," he grumbled. His comment was echoed in murmurs throughout those standing or sitting nearby. As if an extra chill had settled on them with the words, everyone suddenly looked colder and more miserable. How long would we be waiting, and how much lower were everyone's spirits going to sink in the meantime?

"You there!" I whispered loudly, pointing to a sailor who lingered nearby. "Have you got any coffee on board? Enough for all?"

The sailor blushed, glancing around and guessing at our numbers. "I reckon so, sir, but… but…"

"Well, cook it up," I ordered. "All of it. Numb fingers make for poor shooting."

He began to stammer something about the Captain's orders. "Now!" I snapped, and he hopped to it. There was soon a huge, steaming cauldron being heaved up from the galley. I kicked aside some of the ammunition boxes to make way, and a grateful crowd gathered around. We had to take turns, since the galley didn't have 150 mugs on board. Commodore Smith looked about to protest, but Colonel Green leaned in and told him something in a whisper, while they both looked at me. The Commodore gave me a nod of approval.

Morale seemed better after that… for a while. Commodore Smith was soon pacing the deck and muttering under his breath, pausing only to hiss down instructions to the furnace. He had an enormous stash of wood ready, spilling out onto the deck, which was already overflowing with our regiment, the cotton bales, and the ammunition.

By four o'clock, the coffee was stone cold. The men were huddled two to a blanket now, and our noses were all dripping in the cold. Despite our orders to maintain silence, there was plenty of muttering and guessing going on: Magruder had changed the plan, and we had missed his courier in the dark. The garrison on the island had attacked the Point. The flotilla hadn't attacked us because they already had reinforcements closing in on us. Magruder was already dead.

"Quiet," I ordered yet again. "And nobody's dead. We would have heard—"

It came then, a single thud in the distance; it seemed much too far away. We all stood frozen, turned toward the bay, for a good five seconds. Then a smattering of cannonfire, clear as day: the answering report of the Union gunboats. The Commodore ran down to the furnace shrieking for full steam, and we threw off our blankets with a shout of "Hurrah for the Fourth!"

We surged forward in the water, and we grabbed our stomachs again as we discovered how truly fast a steamer could go. The Neptune was already falling behind, and our tender was already so far back we couldn't sight them. But even with our speed, it seemed to take forever to get back to the harbor. We listened helplessly as Magruder's battle wore on, unable to play our part until we arrived. Would he hold out that long? Would the Fourth survive?

When we were almost there, Commodore Smith called for attention. He stood up in the stern like a General, holding aloft a fresh flag, the creases still in the red cloth. It snapped in the breeze of our approach, and our hearts swelled at the sight.

"This day we break the enemy's blockade forever!" he shouted, and we cheered. "Dawn will find the Stars and Bars flying over the Port of Galveston, never to fall again. But this one's for the Harriet Lane!" We cheered again. "There she is, boys! That one gleaming in the moonlight, for she's sheathed with copper."

We squinted again, and sure enough, there she was. The largest ship, her bow slowly turning to engage, was gleaming in a way that the others weren't. She looked invincible even this far off, though it was impossible to tell in the dark how many cannons she had, or how crowded she was. We all pressed forward to get a better look, but the Commodore called us back.

"You cavalry, listen up! I'll give you as many chances for shooting as I can, before we try and board the Lane. We'll be ramming with this extra speed straight off, and I'm going to try to glance off to starboard after the collision. Tom, I want your best shooters on port side for now, with your very best up front. The best service you can do is to clean their artillerymen right off the guns as we approach. This'll do no good if she's got the full use of her cannons. After that, we'll see what's what. Good luck!"

That was it. He stuffed the flag into his coat and turned to give the final instructions to his crew. Colonel Green began dividing us into our starting positions. Company A was the best for marksmanship, so our best, Lang and me included, were sent up into the front. The Lane was getting larger every second now, and I finally shivered with real fear as I saw her seven cannons. We only had one. Her deck was crawling with men, though in the dark I hadn't a hope of telling whether they were the crew or the infantry that had earned this attack.

As she came into range, the first row of us knelt down, pressing ourselves against our cotton barricade as best we could. I gave the barrel of my Enfield a kiss for good luck and pulled the hammer back to full cock, waiting for my chance. Colonel Green was busy arranging Company B on the other side of the ship, so the men were waiting for my command. Just a little closer…

"FIRE!" I shouted. Five Yankees fell at our first volley, but we hadn't gotten any of the men standing around the cannon. "Take down the artillery first! Second row, fire at will!" I ordered. I rolled out of the way, grabbing a fresh canister of powder and tearing it open with my teeth as the second volley sounded above my head. I dropped my musketball when our whole ship shuddered; we had fired our cannon. I scrambled to my knees just in time to see a tiny explosion of timber, twisted with copper, fly up into the air. I was just ramming down when our third volley sounded, and Lee just about tripped over me as he came back to reload.

"Use your own first!" I scolded, batting his hand away from the boxes on deck. "We don't need to be falling all over each other!" He nodded and dug into his own haversack.

"I got one, Major!" he said excitedly. His words were punctuated by a huge SPLOOSH! sounding just off deck: the Lane had fired at us this time, but had misjudged our speed. A wall of water hit us, and Lee murmured an oath, dropping his now-drenched canister of powder in favor of a new one.

"Good man!" I told him, drying my hands underneath my coat before fitting a new cap into place. I was soon kneeling and taking aim again, this time blowing an artilleryman clean off his feet. The crew of the Lane had finally caught on to our deadly surprise: the Bayou City was filled with sharpshooters. A few of them started shooting back, but they were disorganized and haphazard in their aim; we were simply coming on too fast. We were so close this time that instead of falling back to reload, I whipped my carbine off my shoulder and shot the hand of a man who was just reaching to pull the lanyard of the middle cannon.

"BRACE FOR IMPACT!"

The Commodore's command came a bit too late, and we were all thrown off our feet as we rammed the Lane. There was an odd crunching sound, and the creak of metal as her bow gave way; but we were already glancing away to the right. I rolled away to give Lang his shot, but our part of the company were already staring out at nothing but open water.

"Well done, men!" I cried, clapping two of my nearest soldiers on the back. We were all panting with exhilaration now, and the shock of our success; we had left the deck of the Lane littered with dead or dying men, and not a single scratch to ourselves. We were swinging out in a wide circle now, and for the first time I got a good look at the land battle. Under the full moon I could easily make out the line of heavy artillery now spread across the northern shore, courtesy of Magruder and the Fourth. I saw now why only the Lane had engaged us; the other, smaller ships were more than occupied with the barrage of fire coming from the land. Loud pops and bright flashes along the line of artillery filled the dark air with smoke. Further down the shore another battle was being waged on the wharf itself: infantry on infantry. A bloody business, no doubt. It seemed that the Fourth hadn't gotten the chance yet to make their way down that far to help. If we did our work well, they would soon.

"Whitlock!" Colonel Green called. I stumbled across the deck towards him, almost losing my balance as the ship listed in her turn. "Fine work, fine indeed!" he said with a grin. "Now this time, I want you to divide your men up so that each of the Lane's side cannons has a group covering it. And if you get close enough to spy who the commanding officers are, take your best shot."

"Yes, sir!"

I stumbled back over to my men, reloading both my guns while I thought about how to make the divisions. I gave fifteen men each to Lockewood and Moore, keeping Lang and the rest at my side to handle the foremost gun. He and I were the best marksmen; if we could coordinate our shooting, we had a good chance of hitting some more important targets.

The turn seemed to take forever. Company B began their shooting as the Lane appeared on their side. We were just crossing our own wake when the Neptune finally arrived. I supposed we must have looked as strange as she did; all trussed up with cotton sides, like a big fluffy bee with too many stingers as the barrels of a hundred rifles poked out from behind the cotton.

"Hoy!" the Commodore shouted gleefully, leaning out toward them with one hand on the rigging. "Join us at the Lane!"

"Where'd you put the Westfield?" their Captain shouted back, equally as pleased. "I thought you wanted us to sink her for you!"

Smith pointed out toward the east, and I finally saw her: a grand ship that could only be the Westfield, up by a little islet. But something looked odd about her; she was tilted to one side, but immobile. The waves licked against her hull with no effect. I laughed aloud, digging my elbow into Lang's side.

"Look yonder, boys!" I called down the line. "The Westfield's grounded herself for us! We'll have to let the Seventh in on our fun, I guess!"

Things were certainly looking grand. We were still outnumbered, ship to ship, but General Magruder had the others busy. The second-most dangerous ship had been so kind as to take herself out of the action for us. And the Lane didn't seem to have near as much infantry filling her decks as we had expected. But that was when things started to go wrong.

We were so close to the shore now that we could hear the yells and screams of the men there. "Give us a New Year's Present!" someone shouted at us, pointing to one of the smaller gunboats. Our ship's captain was more than happy to oblige. He swung our cannon toward the gunboat, which was too busy to even spare us a glance.

"Well, here goes your New Year's present!" he cried back, pulling the lanyard. But the explosion sounded all wrong, and for a moment there was nothing but smoke and screaming. When it began to clear, the cotton bale right in front of me was on fire.

"Water!" I shouted to whatever sailors were listening. But they were all running toward the ruined cannon, crying out in horror as they found their Captain dead; it had blown up right in his face. The Commodore's own face was bleeding from some shrapnel that had found him, but he was all right. "Commodore!" I shouted frantically. "I need water over here, now!"

He pulled his eyes away from the dead man and came back to life. By the time we got the flames out, we had lost two cotton bales. And there was no time to replace them; the ship had completed her turn and it was almost our turn to shoot again. And this time, the deck of the Lane was jam-packed with blue uniforms.

"Where'd they all come from?!" Private Lee moaned.

"I don't know!" I hissed. "But they're infantry. These are the bastards who thought they were going to beef up that garrison. Send 'em to hell, boys!"

The first musketballs were already flying over our heads. Without the protection of our cotton wall, we tried laying prostrate to fire, like men in a trench; but after our first volley it was clear that we would never be able to aim properly that way. The ship was rocking harder now, as we twisted in our own wake and that of the Lane. When I crawled back up to make my second shot, a musket ball took my hat right off.

Now that we had lost the momentum from our first approach, we had much more time to shoot and get shot at. I saw a couple more fresh Yankees pop up onto the deck out of nowhere, and I finally understood: they hadn't been on deck the first time around because they weren't being used for the fight against Magruder's cannons. They were probably lounging in their bunks the entire time. Our first round of shooting had taken them by surprise, but now they were all on deck, loaded and ready for us.

"Keep them off those cannons!" I ordered. "Lang, you and I are looking for officers." He nodded beside me, and we pulled away from the crush. I took a shot on a man with a gray beard, but missed completely. Lang's musket soon fired beside me, and a voice that had been shouting orders was silenced.

"Good!" I cried.

The Commodore came to kneel behind us as we reloaded. "Try to get that one," he murmured, pointing to a man just walking from the cabins to the middle cannon. "That's Commander Wainwright-he'll be the glue holding them all together. And keep your men focused on the cannons, Major. Musketfire may be a nuisance, but it's a fair sight better than a cannonball in the belly!"

I glanced down my line, embarrassed to see that my men had indeed lost their focus. They were busy exchanging fire with the infantry aboard the Lane, and we already had three men down.

"Get your eyes back on those cannons!" I bellowed, and not a moment too soon. Commander Wainwright was just reaching to pull the lanyard on the middle cannon, when a spray of musket balls sailed toward him, hitting both his head and his hand. A cheer went up from our lines, but I was proud to see that they didn't lose focus again after that. I was ready to fire again now, but Commander Wainwright was nowhere to be seen. I was just taking aim on an artilleryman when I heard a soft thud beside me. I took the shot, then spun around to see Private Lee sinking down onto the deck. I caught his head as he fell, but there was a river of blood spreading out from his neck. He was already dead.

"Watch that fire, boys!" Green shouted from behind us. Another cotton bale was ablaze, this time in the middle of our line. He sent some of the men in the third row to dousing it while we continued to shoot. All at once the Neptune appeared, ramming into the Lane and throwing her men to the deck. We all stood, unafraid of return fire for the moment, and got off a volley that left a good ten Yankee infantry laying still. Two seconds later, and we were too far past her to shoot anymore.

"Happy New Year from the Horse Marines!" Moore shouted from somewhere down the line. A chorus of laughter followed, but was cut short by the boom of the Lane's aft cannon. I glanced fearfully down my company to see if we had been hit, but we hadn't been the target. The bow of the Neptune exploded in a hurricane of timber, and we all ducked as the debris flew over onto our ship. I felt a sharp pain in my neck, but was relieved to pull out only an inch-long splinter. Commodore Smith ran astern, tears running down his face as he shouted orders for the Neptune to find shallow water.

"She's lost," I said dumbly, unable to believe it. Less than two minutes after her arrival, the Neptune was lost.

It was a hard loss. Our fleet had just been cut in half, and we had already lost our only cannon. The Neptune was already taking on water, riding too low as she sped toward shallower depths. My heart froze as I watched all the men on there, our brothers in the Seventh. They were still shooting hard, and their cannon boomed in triumph even as they sank further. Water was flowing over their deck now; I could see my friends running and grabbing up boxes of ammunition to save it. I didn't breathe again until I saw their hull stick fast into the mud, the whole ship tilted askew; they might get blown to smithereens, but at least they wouldn't drown anytime soon. It was up to us to save them from death or capture now. But they were cheerfully reloading anyway, ready to take on all comers.

"Are you crazy?" Lang shouted in my ear. "Get down!" He yanked me down onto my knees just as a flock of musketballs thudded into the cotton above my head. Company B was shooting again from their side now. Not counting Lee, we had ten men dead on our side.

"We need to get them out of the way," I said, my voice shaking. I cleared my throat. "Move the dead. We don't want to be tripping over them when it's our turn again. Moore, find some lads from C to fill in the holes." A crowd of eyes met mine, all humor gone. "Now," I said roughly. "There's no time."

I grabbed Lee's shoulders, gesturing for Lang to get his feet. We looked around, and tears filled my eyes when I realized we didn't have anywhere to put him. The deck was a mess of spilled ammunition, sloshing buckets of water for the cotton fires, and men running back and forth.

Lang bit his lip, nodding out toward the water.

"No!" I growled. We finally laid him down right up against the rail, right where the first cotton fire had left a pile of ash. We'd be using his body as a trench wall, but it was better than throwing him overboard. Another dead man was soon laid on top of him; there wasn't any room to spare, and I had to admit that the extra protection might save a couple of lives the next time around. I tried to tell myself that this was better than leaving our dead behind, as we had done in our mounted retreat in Colorado, but I just couldn't stop looking at Lee's face. I finally tore a square of canvas off the nearest cotton bale and covered him up. I breathed easier after that and finally got to reloading my rifle.

"You're hurt," Lang said accusingly. My hand drifted up to my neck and came away covered with blood. I wiped it on the nearby cotton bale, looking curiously at the holes just made by the Yankee's muskets. How deep did the balls make it inside the cotton?

"Well?" Lang sighed.

"Splinter, from when the Neptune was hit. I'm fine."

"You always say that."

Another boom sounded, and another round of splinters rained down; we had been hit this time, but not badly. The cannonball had just grazed the rail on the port side, losing its momentum as it hit one of the cotton bales.

"I hate splinters," I growled, picking another one out of my face. Yet another reason to keep my feet on dry land. Better yet, in stirrups.

"We're going to ram again," the Commodore announced. "With everything we've got. This one's for the Neptune!" We let out a half-hearted cheer, glancing back toward the ship in question. She was lower in the water now; only her bow was properly stuck and the stern was still sinking. But off in the distance, our tender were finally arriving; if we could keep the Lane busy, she would hopefully be able to start evacuating the Neptune. I imagined there was some conventional rule about not firing on tender, but then these were Yankees. Honor wasn't in their dictionary.

We took a wide turn out into the harbor then, to get more momentum for the ram. Commodore Smith was twitching with excitement now, fingering the hilt of his sword. My hand drifted to my own saber, and I remembered, with a twist to my stomach, that the second half of this battle was supposed to be fought on the deck of the Lane.

We started shooting again on the approach. The Yankees had their own pile of dead men on the deck, and they looked meaner this time. One of them seemed to be looking right at me when he yelled for his men to fire. I shot him in the gut.

We hit the Lane again, but it felt different this time. The crunch and groan of timber and metal went on for several seconds, and there was a strange thud-thud-thud-CRACK sound after that. And then we weren't moving anymore. The Commodore's sword flashed out of its scabbard. "We board now!" he shouted. And in a much quieter voice, "Colonel, the shotguns!"

Of the fifteen lads who had volunteered, only ten made their way up to take the guns. Green took one himself, and picked a few others to join him. "Hold," he told them quietly. "Wait until we're right on top of them."

"Fix bayonets!" a Yankee voice shouted. I dropped my Enfield to the deck and took aim with my carbine, trying to find who was speaking. There was an ominous clinking sound as the men on the Lane attached their bayonets onto the ends of their rifles. The moonlight glistened on their blades, soon to be stained with our blood.

I hated bayonets.

Unable to find a decorated target, I shot into the crowd of blue, hearing a pained shout in reply. Some of the Yankees were still firing at us, so we crouched down as we ran up toward the bow. They already had a bristling line of bayonets sticking out at us and were shouting their taunts:

"Why don't you come over for breakfast, you filthy rebels!"

"Send them to drown like the gray rats they are!"

"For God and the Union!"

"FIRE!" Green shouted. A spray of buckshot flew into the faces of the Yankee's front line, and the bayonets danced again in the moonlight as they were dropped.

"SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!" Commodore Smith cried, leaping out onto the Lane. He waved his sword in the air once and then sliced it downward to clash with the rifle of the nearest Yankee. Our crowd began to move forward after him, a slow churn of bodies as we pushed onto a ship that was almost as full as our own.

My breath started to come in quick, shallow gasps. This is no different, I told myself sternly. But I still felt sick at the idea of fighting up close and personal with the enemy—because deep down, he was just a man… or a boy. And what was I but a young man leading a group of boys to kill other boys? It was this burden of command that gave me my courage back. I spun around to face my company, a fierce smile on my face. "This is it, lads!" I called down the line. "If we don't stop them, they'll slaughter the Fourth, and the women and children in that town will suffer for it. Fight for their freedom, and for your own! Draw your swords and let them taste the steel of the glorious Fifth! For the Lone Star!"

"For the Lone Star!" they shouted, and our cries shifted into an eerie chorus of the Rebel Yell. I drew my saber with my right hand and one of the pistols with my left. As I shoved my way over onto the Lane, I could see how we were stuck to her; we had rammed right into her starboard wheel, jerking her to a stop and getting ourselves snagged in the process.

I clambered over the bodies of the Yankees who had taken the buckshot, but soon my feet were trampling on gray uniforms as well as blue. I took a deep breath, letting the rage fill me, and then jumped down into the fight. It was a suffocating sensation, and I hadn't a clue what to do first. Patch, I thought frantically. My hands ached to pull on the reins, to draw away from the fight long enough to make sense of what was happening. I shoved a blue shoulder with my own, and discharged my pistol into it as soon as I was free. The man cried out and flashed a knife in my face, catching me on the cheek. I jerked away and shoved him again, losing him in the crowd. I suddenly realized that my height was more of a danger than an advantage, and ducked down to shoot as much blue cloth as I could.

When I had emptied the second pistol, I rushed deeper into the press of men, looking for Commander Wainwright. I found him, all right, but he was already dead of his wounds. And standing over him was a boy.

He couldn't have been more than ten years old. He had tears running down his chubby cheeks, but he had a revolver in each hand, and he was shooting with both at once. I saw one of my men fall beside him. The boy looked down at him with an angry sob, and then held his left hand up again, taking aim right at Moore's back.

I only had one chance. Another Yankee was bearing down on me, knife raised, and so I did the only thing I could stand to do: I shot that kid right in the hand. He cried out and dropped the revolver just as I turned and sliced my saber at my other foe. He pulled away, looking for an easier target. I spun back around to see the boy picking up his dropped revolver with his right hand, firing it into the crowd again. He pulled the trigger a second time, but nothing happened; he was empty. He saw me staring at him in angry disbelief, and burst into fresh tears.

"You rebel monsters killed my father!" he cried. "Do you want to kill me too?"

"Get below!" I shouted back, enraged. He turned and descended down the stairs, but his eyes fell on the dead man at his feet before he left: Commander Wainwright. We really had killed his father, right in front of him. What was a kid doing on a battleship?!

It didn't matter. The next few seconds were a blur of blue and steel, and my saber was knocked out of my hand. I felt something grab my throat, and I fired my last bullet wildly. The Yankee sagged in my arms, but I threw him aside, looking frantically for my saber. But the deck too crowded, and was slick with blood and water now. I was shoved several feet to the left, and then I saw Private Morris on his knees beside a cannon, holding up his arms as a knife came down on top of him. The crowd blurred past me and my bowie knife clashed against the Yankee's with a screech. I twisted and stabbed and moved onto the next man.

I was a blaze of fury now, all pretense at glory forgotten. Texas was forgotten. I was fighting for my life and for my men, and I was armed only with the one weapon I had hoped never to use. I needed my rage now, or I was going to fall apart. I lost myself completely, slashing and stabbing and kicking and punching wherever I saw blue. But then I noticed the sounds of battle beginning to fade away. I risked a glance out at the others, to find Colonel Green's pistol glued to the forehead of a Yankee Lieutenant. A second glance showed me a dozen other Yankees holding their hands up in surrender. We had the ship! I sobbed with wild relief as I realized the killing was over. I turned back to the man I was fighting, who was also staring at his comrades' defeat. He was an older man, his mustache flecked with gray. I flicked my knife up to his throat.

"Yield," I panted through my tears. Please. He nodded, turning his knife around to hand it to me. I took it, and he spat on my boots. A cheer went up, and I found myself screaming hoarsely with joy and relief. Thank God it's over. Oh, thank God it's over.

We drove the prisoners into a tight bunch in the stern. Those of us who still had rifles, or who had picked up discarded ones, stood guard while the rest of us looked to our wounded. A few Yankees were let loose to do the same. I found a saber that seemed to be mine and grabbed it up. It was slick with blood. I wiped it unceremoniously on a dead Yankee who laid nearby, along with my knife. I looked around at the other bodies on the deck, pleasantly surprised to find they were mostly clothed in blue. I recognized a couple that I had killed, though I also recognized a couple that I thought I had killed, sitting up and moaning or limping over to join their comrades.

A clatter of musketfire made my head snap back over to the Bayou City. One of the smaller Union gunboats had come over to help the Lane, but we had left a good number of our regiment back on board; there simply hadn't been room for them over here. They rained down on the smaller boat, which quickly thought better of its rescue mission. The Commodore fitted a square of white cloth on his sword and waved it aloft, motioning the Union boat over to talk. I turned back to checking for my wounded. I rolled over two lads in gray, finding them dead. Both mine.

I was just walking back to get a look at our prisoners when I saw a man slouched against the aft cannon, gasping for air. I hadn't spotted him right away because his jacket was more red than gray.

It was Miles Lang.

I rushed over and knelt beside him. "Lang! Where are you hurt? Look at me!" I tore at his jacket to find the wound, but his hand shoved weakly against mine.

"Left. Pocket," he rasped. He coughed once, looking up at me, and then he stopped breathing. I jammed my fingers onto his throat, but there was nothing. I turned my head away, waiting for the familiar nausea to subside. Then I forced myself to start going through the left side of his jacket, to see what was so important. I finally found it in the inside breast pocket, right above his heart: a letter. It had been stabbed right through by the same blade that had killed him, and the cut was narrow.

Bayonet.

I drew the letter out carefully; it was fragile, soaked with blood. I unfolded it even more carefully, and one hole became four. Most of the writing was ruined with the blood, but the top line was painfully clear.

My dearest Cynthia.

The nausea hit me again. I couldn't send her this! When we got back to our camp, I would go through his things and see if I could find an older letter; God knew he wrote them often enough. I would take it myself, if they would let me. I crumpled the ruined one in my fist, watching as his blood seeped out between my fingers. I stood and threw it overboard, and then looked down at my friend. I bent to straighten his jacket. Then I stood at attention and gave him as crisp a salute as I could manage, my hand bloodied and shaking as it was.

.

.

.

After sending his demand for the Union fleet to surrender, Commodore Smith tore down the Stars and Stripes and tossed it overboard. A few of my boys cheered to see it flutter down to the waves and shot at it. It sank quickly after that.

"Stop that," I snapped. I didn't know why I said it; it was just a piece of cloth. But I had once sworn allegiance to that piece of cloth in school as a boy. Even though I served under a new banner now, there was no reason to disrespect the old one.

"What'd I tell you?" a voice said behind me. It was the Yankee who had yielded to me and spat on my boots. He was talking to one of his fellow prisoners, but his hate-filled eyes were on me. "No sense of honor whatsoever. Like a bunch of rabid schoolboys who just found their daddy's guns. Slavers and traitors!"

He spat the last words directly at me, but I didn't dignify his lies with a response. I crossed the deck again, watching in helpless anger as a man from Company B died in Colonel Green's arms. I glanced back at our prisoners, wondering which one of those devils had killed Lang. But their faces seemed to have lost the monstrous evil that they had worn a few minutes ago in battle; they were just men again. A good half of them were turned toward one of their officers, who lay propped up in their midst. I vaguely remembered having shot him earlier, right before we rammed the second time. Yes, that was him—the wound was in the belly, bleeding steadily. I felt an odd impulse to go and offer my help, but instead I turned back to my own men.

Commodore Smith had just gotten the Stars and Bars strung up, and my pulse quickened as I watched her dance in the breeze. My lips moved mechanically to form the words as those around me began "God Save the South," but no sound came out. Despite our victory, I hadn't the heart to sing of righteous warfare and glorious death.

I had seen enough of both for one day.