An atmosphere of patient waiting claimed the camp. Men performed their duties and cleaned weapons while waiting for the next attack.

Standing at the stockade wall, Robert watched to the south, knowing the next attack must come from that direction. At midday, they saw a Union patrol probing the north woods.

As in the Wilderness’s battle of Virginia, the encounter began as sporadic shots that could have been mistaken as a few men hunting. Within a few minutes, the men stationed at the ramparts were firing their rifles into the woods on the far side of the slope at a steady pace while receiving sporadic return fire.

Robert waved men to the stockade wall, making his way to Corporal Anders with no haste. “Call the men back to the stockade.” It was time to let Lieutenant Pace understand he was a novice among professionals. He climbed to the stockade catwalk as the men set to calling the picket line with ribald laughter. It was strange to hear good humor after weeks of soul-crushing events.

The picket men on the ridge were working their way back to the stockade, alternating their moves to present each other with cover fire. It was slow moving as they worked their way from one snow covered bush to the next and took a shot while their partner moved to the next tenuous cover.

Robert watched his men perform with flawless professionalism. “You called the posts?”

“Yes Sir,” was the quick reply.

It had been the right move. Robert leaned against the stockade wall and searched the ridge for movement. Snow lay upon branches undisturbed, noise in the distance suggesting the Union boys were making progress in the brush.

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There was limited ammunition preventing a fight bases on projected power, the rebels had to be accurate. “Hold fire unless you know you can make your shot.”

Picket men reached the log wall of the stockade just as scrub pines on the ridge began to shake and lose their coats of snow.

The Rebels waited. Union men could afford to waste shot and powder, not the rebels. It was the quiet preceding the battle, when each side was observing the other and determining their next course of action. Within this moment, men could see more, smell better, feel the air on their skin or the wood beneath their fingertips, as if they were living life to the full in the knowledge it may rip away in a heartbeat.

Robert noticed the snow on the top of the cut log wall was melting, the weather was warming, ice turning to water and staining the bark of the logs as it ran down the wall. This was the much-needed opportunity for Private Holm, entailing its own risk. That the weather would turn now was almost a sign for Robert that he was following the right path.

The first Union shot from the ridge came with a loud report, a cloud of black powder smoke billowing from the trees betraying the location of the soldier while the lead shot hummed past harmlessly above the rebel’s heads.

The Rebels waited to reply, Robert looking at his men standing on the wall. Only a few of them wore the blue uniform of a guard. It would be hard for the men to fire on their former comrades.

More shots rang out from the ridge, the aim horrible; shot whining overhead or rapping against the wooden wall.

“We’re at the extreme end of their range.”

“They can still put your eye out,” one man observed wryly.

Smiling slightly, Robert looked along the rampart and found Private Holm standing a few yards away. Anger flashed as Robert walked quickly to Holm and pushed the soldier off the wall to land on his back in the snow below the stockade.

Robert pointed at Holm. “You stay down there and out of fire. Someone keep watch on the Private.”

“Sir,” several men responded.