The Union gunfire slowed to an even pace; a desultory action inspired by the Union realization the Rebel position was too strong to assault without casualties. Doubtless, the Union soldiers were trying to decide on a new tactic.

“Slow down, boys,” Robert smiled. “Wait for a suitable target; we don’t have the ammunition to waste.”

This battle was over, and the Rebels had won simply with the erection of a wall. Many of the battle veterans were smiling. No one hurt and there was minor damage to the stockade. Even Private Holm, despite his wounded pride from his fall to the ground, managed a glimmer of hope.

On the right end of the ridge, Lieutenant Pace stepped from the pine trees and glared malevolently at the stockade and at Robert.

A surge of fear claimed the Rebels as their nightmare appeared in the flesh, but before the men could react, a single shot rang out loud in the silence, louder than a normal rifle report.

A heavy blow hit the Lieutenant’s chest, making the snow on his uniform fly off like dust and billow his clothes. It was a mortal shot that pushed the officer back a few steps with its force as he looked down to see a hole in his clothes.

Union and Confederate man looked to the left of the battlefield. Standing at the edge of the clearing, Sergeant Burns lowered his rifle to reload. He must have added a double charge to the rifle to reach the target far out of the normal range of his rifle. The Irish man stood strong, his cape waving in the wind as he worked his weapon expertly while watching the Lieutenant.

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Robert shifted his gaze back to Pace; the man was still standing; it was impossible.

“What the hell?” a voice spoke loudly, incredulous.

Along the crest of the ridge, Union soldiers were leaning out of the trees to stare at Lieutenant Pace with amazement; no man took a shot to the chest and remained standing or silent.

Pace’s hand climbed slowly to his chest where his fingers explored the rent fabric, his stare shifting to Sergeant Burns.

“Fire,” Robert stumbling over his words in his sudden urgency, “Fire at Pace.” This was the creature from the Tulip; it had somehow survived the sinking and taken refuge on the island. A piece of the puzzle clicked into place even as Robert tried to prevent the death of a man he respected.

Gunfire broke the tableau, mini balls plucking at Pace and hitting the ground around the Lieutenant as the rebels in the stockade fired as rapidly as possible.

The false lieutenant opened its maw and roared at the men of the stockade, then bound across the snow with rage, intent on Sergeant Burns.

Union men stepped from the pines, staring at the transformation of the man they had thought their leader. Some men brought their rifles up, taking aim at the monster that had hid in their midst.

Sergeant Burns finished loading his rifle, then fitted the bayonet in time to kneel and hold the rifle with the butt braced with his foot and long knife tip aimed at the charging creature. He never flinched from the steady gaze he aimed at the beast.

The creature crossed the battlefield at nowhere near the blur of speed in private Holm’s story.