September, 1864.

It was a glorious day. Despite the time of year, a cool front had created snappish air that was alive with smells: wild flowers, moist, loamy dirt, colorful leaves blown in random piles by niggardly winds, the pungent smell of animal and human leavings. The line of men, most heel-dragging after a long, forced march, stretched from horizon to horizon; thousands of feet heeled up dust puffs.

As the sun stretched higher in the sky, Charles momentarily took his eyes off his feet and looked at the countryside through the dusty gold haze. The green slopes of the Bull Run Mountains were off to the right; through a gap in a sparse stand of hardwoods, Charles caught a glimpse of a slight section of railroad track, slicing into the mountain like a double spider web strand. From campfire talk, he knew the Shenandoah Valley had seen more fighting than any other section of the entire country: Manassas, Chancellorsville and Spottsylvania to the south, Kernstown, Harper's Ferry and Sharpsburg to the west and south. Charlottesville out there to the west. It seemed every bit of ground in the valley had seen battles from one end to the other.

The second and third-hand stories by the Ninth veterans of earlier battles around the mountains, rolling farmland, and deep valleys created an apprehension that bordered on hidden hysteria in Charles . . . and, he thought, in countless other soldiers in the regiment. Thought? More like he hoped he was not the only soldier to feel the chicken-skin lickings of fear. "Surely I'm not the only one scared" he thought.

Thus far, the Irish Regiment had been battle-lucky – or unlucky, to hear a couple of ambitious officers tell it – in either avoiding an all-out charge, seemingly always being selected for reserve duty in conflicts, or placed to the far flank of the battle lines. Word was that the Rebs were sitting, waiting, and ready. "Ready, hell!" Sergeant Thomas Johnson of H Company bellowed at the notion, "Them bastids is always ready. In every fight they been in, they more than ready."

Not counting the Confederate units already in place, those in sections already scouted and mapped out, word was there was a bunch more. The buzz in the ranks was that there were tens of thousands of veteran Rebel soldiers, dead set on pushing the Union regiments out of the valley and driving them all the way to the Potomac, if the fighting went that way, or out the north fore-funnel end of the valley, over roads on which they were now marching.

"Words are easily spoken, boys," Sergeant Johnson had said one night after supper as the men sat around the campfire, smoking, chewing and jawing. "I heard a visiting officer (he never mentioned one of the Ninth's own in making a point) say jist the other day: 'We'll whip Johnny Reb this time and they'll never be back in the Shenandoah.' Words is cheap chattel. Backing them up by bringin' them to our lick-log will take some doin'. But we'll by gawd do it.' "

One of the older soldiers in the regiment, a grizzled white beard named Dolan, opined: "This valley has been lucky for the Rebs, that's for sure."
The sergeant eyed him, one eye closed as smoke from his pipe roiled around his head. "Lucky? Or good? So far, the Rebs have wanted this valley more than our boys have. And that's a fact. But then our boys didn't have General Philip 'Little Phil' Sheridan to lead 'em. Now, by gawd, we do, and by gawd, we're going to make a full accounting of our being here. That you can count on."  The words "full accounting" hung in the air like an ax, as each man within sound of the sergeant's voice assigned to it an individual meaning.

Charles heard a disturbing rumor a few nights later and went looking for Sergeant Johnson. He found him sitting against an oak stump, smoking his pipe. The stump  was not axe-whipped or saw-worn. It clearly showed the effects of a direct cannon ball hit; four feet from the ground, the trunk ended in an uprising of massive, spiny splinters. Charles started at the tree for a long time.  A giant, past-its-prime broom.

As was his style, the drummer walked up to within a few feet and stood there, waiting acknowledgement. "What kin I do for you, boy?"

"I heard something and it's worrying me more than some."

"Campfire rumor, was it?" Sergeant Johnson said, blowing an ethereal cloud of smoke that rose slightly and settled easily in a gauzy layer a foot over his head.

"It came from one of the men who talked to a courier, Sergeant," Charles said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"Like I said, campfire rumor."

Quiet settled over the pair for a couple of heartbeats. "Well, what it is?" Johnson said.

"The Rebs are bringing up fresh troops from all over and are planning to keep this valley at all costs."

"That's what I'd do if'n I was them. That all?"

"No sir, not by half. I heard the First Louisiana Volunteers are headed this way, maybe already up ahead."

"Gawddammit, boy, get to the point!"

"Well, Sergeant, my best friend, Ian – we was in St. Mary's Orphanage together down in New Orleans – joined the First Louisiana just afore I hitched onto the Ninth."

The sergeant was statue-still; he didn't even blink, just sat there with the pipe clinched tightly in his teeth, staring. Charles stammered as he fought his way into the next question: "Wha-what do I do if we run into Ian in the fightin'?"
Sergeant Johnson took a long draw on the hand-made pipe before spitting in the bowl and knocking the ashes out on top of a nearby rock. He studied Charles a bit, then got up and came over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Boy, if we worried about what might happen but probably won't then we wouldn't have no time to worry about what's gonna happen for damn sure." He half-turned and stared at the distant mountains. "Do you know what 'fate' is?" Charles bobbed his chin. "Well, if'n you and Ian are supposed to meet up here in this valley, after the war in some saloon, or sitting next to each other on an accident in a church pew, then it was meant to be."

Seeing that Charles was still troubled, the sergeant said: " The fightin's a-comin', and there's no two ways about it. But the chances of you runnin' into your pal in a battle is about as likely to happen as it is for a nekkid gypsy queen to come waltzin' in here right now and give us both a show!" Grins were traded at the image.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Charles said, as he turned to leave.

"No problem, Andre. Just remember, when the time comes to fight – and it will come – jist do what you have been taught to do and do what you think is right. If'n you do that, everythin' will turn out just fine." Charles walked away and was quickly swallowed up by the dark.

"But, if I do run into Ian, what do I do?"