Free Mississippi DEAD by Shawn Weaver

enemy lines.
    By now all of them were reported missing and, more than likely, presumed dead by their commanders. But none of them wanted to see that end. They all had families back in Illinois and every one of them wanted nothing more than to break through the Confederate lines and get back to the lives they had left behind before the war began.
    Johnathan's feet hurt like hell from the hole worn though the sole of his left boot, letting in everything from the stream to every thorn on God’s green earth. Fortunately the Lord had blessed him with only that. He hadn’t gotten the runs, and his meager rations were still edible for the most part, though the few pieces of hardtack he had left were just that — hard. Even soaking them did no good.
    Since separating from the rest of their division, the small band had run into nothing but trouble. Skirmishes had sprouted up here and there. Even the local people of Northern Virginia were a dangerous commodity. Families protecting their homes and what little they had left had made it difficult. Johnathan couldn’t blame any of them. They all had their beliefs, and who wouldn’t take a shot at armed strangers who trespassed on their property?
    Not admitting at any time that they were lost, Corporal Talls led the men on. Raised in the woods around Springfield, Corporal Talls thought he knew his directions by the position of the sun and the moss growing on the trees. And even if they were going in the wrong direction, the small band moved at a quick pace.
    “Sir,” Johnathan Burrows said, pulling his boot out of sucking black mud.
    “Yes, Private?”
    “How much longer, sir?”
    Corporal Talls looked up the hills and into the trees. He caught a waft of smoke floating on the air just a few hundred yards away.
    “Not long. I see smoke up ahead.”
    “Do you think it's our camp?” Smitty O’Donnell asked from his place at the back of the line.
    “I doubt it,” Isaiah Williams added, “We're still too far into Confederate territory. It’s either a scouting unit or another homestead.”
    Nodding, Private Burrows agreed. He hoped it was neither, though if he had a choice, it would be for a scouting unit. The homesteaders were fanatical about protecting their homes.
    Looking over his shoulder, Corporal Talls motioned for the men to stay put. Striding to his right, he pushed through the stream and started to climb the bank. Grabbing the jutting roots of the overgrown trees, he pulled himself upward. And, as quietly as he could, he sneaked over the edge of the bank.
    Shivering, Johnathan would have rather done the scouting. It was not so much that he was a better scout than the corporal, but he would have a chance to get the gallon of water and mud out of his boot. Like a good soldier, he obeyed his orders and stayed in place. He was just one of the thousands fighting in this war, not just for the rights and freedom of the Negroes, but for President Lincoln. The man had a vision of a better America, and Johnathan wanted nothing less for his family. His father had come over from Ireland looking for religious freedom, and to be able to raise a family on land that he owned.
    As Corporal Talls disappeared over the rim of the hill, seconds seemed to tick slowly by. Then shots rang out. Ducking, the men heard hot lead cut through the trees and ricochet off of the dirt on the banks.
    Johnathan heard the sickening thud of flesh giving way as Martin Willows, just turned eighteen yesterday, had his life cut short. A bullet entered his head, splattering his brains over the two men behind him. Crumpling lifeless, Martin fell into the stream, blood gushing from his gaping wound, turning the muddy water red.
    Not wanting to be sitting ducks, the other five men ran up the bank. No more than five yards into the overgrowth, they fell to the ground to be as small of targets as possible.
    Looking into the clearing a few yards in front of them, Johnathan saw the body of Corporal Talls lying askew in