Prisoner in Time (Time travel) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Christopher David Petersen
let out a loud rebel yell and waved his flag. He felt the euphoria of his success. Suddenly, he felt the side of his jacket tug on his body. Looking down, he saw the unmistakable bullet hole in the cloth.
“Bastards!” he shouted loudly.
He fired again in retaliation.
“Die you blue cowards!” he yelled angrily.
On the run once again, the flag waved as he hurried to reload. Suddenly, he winced as he felt the sting of hot lead from a bullet that grazed his thigh. He stumbled forward, found his balance and stopped. With his free hand, he rubbed his thigh, momentarily soothing the pain. He raised his fingers and noticed blood. Greater anger now raged inside him.
“You sons-a-bitches! You’ll pay for this,” he yelled in near frantic tone.
He fired blindly and quickly reloaded.
Far down the hillside and all alone, Arles made a conspicuous target… even for a retreating army. As the Union soldiers hurried over the breastworks at the bottom of the hill, several men stood and fired uphill, covering their exit. The sight of Arles was irresistible. Through the hale of bullets that streamed from the top of the hilltop, they concentrated their fire at the lone man at the mountain’s center.
Arles heard the whistle of bullets as they passed his ears. Instinctively, he ducked, then continued moving. He reached for his powder flask and felt excruciating pain in his leg. Instantly, he fell to the ground and clutched his throbbing thigh. Writhing in pain, he looked down and saw the gaping wound. Blood and flesh oozed from his wool pants. More bullets embedded the ground around him. He bit his lip, refusing to yell and crawled to a large boulder a few feet away, dragging his rifle beside him. As he lay with his back against the stone, he looked up and smiled. There, racing toward him, were his fellow soldiers. To Arles, the sight was awe inspiring.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. Wrapping it around the wounded limb, he pulled it tight, hoping compression would ease the pain. He let out a cry of agony, realizing only too late, the error in his logic. With his leg roughly bandaged, he turned over on one knee and placed his hands on the rock. Pushing in one effort, he was able to stand. He looked back at his approaching comrades and smiled through his pain.
“Whoop them blue-bellies,” he shouted up the hill.
Turning back, he began to limp down the hill. With his adrenaline pumping wildly through his body, he reloaded his rifle and fired. He hobbled along for a few more steps and reloaded. Moments later, his hat flew off his head. He ducked instinctively once more, causing his wounded leg to flex. He cried out in pain, nearly hyperventilating from the act. Looking down, he noticed his hat lying on the ground. He tried to bend over to pick it up, but the pain in his leg stopped him short.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said under his breath.
Looking down the hill, he reloaded his weapon. As he dragged his painful leg beside him, he fired. A hundred and fifty yards away, another Union soldier fell to the ground and died.
More bullets streamed by his ears. Each time he ducked, then winced and each time, he kept moving forward. Looking back up the hill, his fellow soldiers neared his position. The warmth of camaraderie raced through his body and gave him strength. He smiled as he reloaded, nearly ignoring the pain. He fired quickly and reloaded once more.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the faces of his men now only a few yards away. As he turned back, several rushed past him and let out a rebel yell.
Inspired by their spirit, he yelled, “Come on boys, our time’s at hand.”
He limped forward and waved his flag.
-----*-----*-----*-----
Private Alfred Jones stood with his back to the column of escaping Union soldiers and fired rapidly at the approaching Confederates. Looking over his shoulder, he
“Bastards!” he shouted loudly.
He fired again in retaliation.
“Die you blue cowards!” he yelled angrily.
On the run once again, the flag waved as he hurried to reload. Suddenly, he winced as he felt the sting of hot lead from a bullet that grazed his thigh. He stumbled forward, found his balance and stopped. With his free hand, he rubbed his thigh, momentarily soothing the pain. He raised his fingers and noticed blood. Greater anger now raged inside him.
“You sons-a-bitches! You’ll pay for this,” he yelled in near frantic tone.
He fired blindly and quickly reloaded.
Far down the hillside and all alone, Arles made a conspicuous target… even for a retreating army. As the Union soldiers hurried over the breastworks at the bottom of the hill, several men stood and fired uphill, covering their exit. The sight of Arles was irresistible. Through the hale of bullets that streamed from the top of the hilltop, they concentrated their fire at the lone man at the mountain’s center.
Arles heard the whistle of bullets as they passed his ears. Instinctively, he ducked, then continued moving. He reached for his powder flask and felt excruciating pain in his leg. Instantly, he fell to the ground and clutched his throbbing thigh. Writhing in pain, he looked down and saw the gaping wound. Blood and flesh oozed from his wool pants. More bullets embedded the ground around him. He bit his lip, refusing to yell and crawled to a large boulder a few feet away, dragging his rifle beside him. As he lay with his back against the stone, he looked up and smiled. There, racing toward him, were his fellow soldiers. To Arles, the sight was awe inspiring.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. Wrapping it around the wounded limb, he pulled it tight, hoping compression would ease the pain. He let out a cry of agony, realizing only too late, the error in his logic. With his leg roughly bandaged, he turned over on one knee and placed his hands on the rock. Pushing in one effort, he was able to stand. He looked back at his approaching comrades and smiled through his pain.
“Whoop them blue-bellies,” he shouted up the hill.
Turning back, he began to limp down the hill. With his adrenaline pumping wildly through his body, he reloaded his rifle and fired. He hobbled along for a few more steps and reloaded. Moments later, his hat flew off his head. He ducked instinctively once more, causing his wounded leg to flex. He cried out in pain, nearly hyperventilating from the act. Looking down, he noticed his hat lying on the ground. He tried to bend over to pick it up, but the pain in his leg stopped him short.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said under his breath.
Looking down the hill, he reloaded his weapon. As he dragged his painful leg beside him, he fired. A hundred and fifty yards away, another Union soldier fell to the ground and died.
More bullets streamed by his ears. Each time he ducked, then winced and each time, he kept moving forward. Looking back up the hill, his fellow soldiers neared his position. The warmth of camaraderie raced through his body and gave him strength. He smiled as he reloaded, nearly ignoring the pain. He fired quickly and reloaded once more.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the faces of his men now only a few yards away. As he turned back, several rushed past him and let out a rebel yell.
Inspired by their spirit, he yelled, “Come on boys, our time’s at hand.”
He limped forward and waved his flag.
-----*-----*-----*-----
Private Alfred Jones stood with his back to the column of escaping Union soldiers and fired rapidly at the approaching Confederates. Looking over his shoulder, he
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