Union men gathered in a last stand in the woods, forming a desperate defense. The fighting died down as men of the last stand tried to gather themselves for what was to come; creating a ring defense bristling with rifles and bayonets.

Anders kept his men a safe distance from the Union men as he walked the remains of the original battle line. So many of the men were dead, very few wounded lay in the snow. It was like this at every battle where anger over previous sins played a part; as if the battle became a means of punishment. He passed a hand across his forehead, wiping away a trace of blood that tickled from his hairline.

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Thirty-five, maybe forty, of the Rebel force remained while twenty of the guards formed the last stand. There was no sign of either Major Kane or Lieutenant Pace.

A rebel made his way to Anders. “The Major chased after Pace with a few men.”

Anders looked at the ground as they talked. “That little bastard needs to die or we will have to fight again.”

“I thought we were done with this shit,” the Mississippi soldier observed in disgust; there was no arguing with the truth.

“Yeah,” Anders nodded; this was hell. “Do you have anything white?”

“Who’s got a white cloth?” the man called to the rest of the Rebels.

Over three hundred men were dead, wounded men to tend without medical supplies or a doctor; this nightmare had to end.