The Battle of Cold Harbor

He sat 

This man, a leader, grinning.

This was his town. Everything was in its place. All the power was belong to the mayor. Ernest.

And he took what he wanted.

Ernest, born on a farm, had managed his way into college when the war between the North and the South had ended. Not something he ever expected to be capable of as a boy. He wouldn't have had the money unless he'd been on the winning side of the war, which he was just so lucky to be. It had little to do with his beliefs, his fighting for the Union, but rather the fact that he was pursuing business opportunities in New York, for a Grain coalition in the south. The realization that the rails would be compromised, and thus the Grain trade of his employer would stall- a young Ernest sought new employment with no notice of resignation.  

Ernest had a flare for adventure, for rawness, and nature. He enjoyed exercising his cunning over other men, and emerging victorious. This is what led him to becoming a salesman. He would barter with wit and completely devastate his competitors.  This was his natural talent, and his way. He wasn't a bully, he wasn't always a leader (acting obsessively in vain, committing no fault of remorse) he was a conqueror. And now, with a war at hand, his attention was directed to the rifle, and he signed up.

Lincoln was cracking the whip like a devil and pushing Ernest and his new Union on into Virginia. By 64' He had fired his rifle 60 times, and spent nights in the company of mortars firing , 'drums' he would say- and fall asleep. Gunpowder and ash covering his sleeping self- his eyelashes dusted just so, to have a thin sand or ash bridge between each branch of hair. However small.

He had learned to accept the terrible taste in his mouth, and the sores on his feet. It was all secondary, and finally he was surrounded by maniacs that felt the same. They marched through the woods, led by a wild murderer genius- Ulysses. S. Grant- Slaughtering the enemy. Ernest loved himself for having chosen the correct side of things. It felt great to be pushing through the country taking it, as your own. He always wore a subtle but firm smile, and stared out from right under his brow.

Pull it up to you shoulder- Aim at his---BAM- and almost all 60 hit.55 hits. He knew when to shoot, and when not to. 'Sometimes you have to stay ready' his rifle coach told him, ' You musn't waste ammunition, or take on a hasty point of view. Be calm and place your bullets in the enemy' - and Ernest had no problem. 

This was the longest Ernest had ever been in Virginia, and he was growing uneasy. Everyone was in poor shape and some information had been gathered, warning us of overwhelming forces in the area.

He was shocked awake by the scream of Reginald Detton, An Artileryman, who upon hearing the estimated number of enemy, began shouting and barking. He tried to operate his cannon alone but was dragged down. By the time Ernest had woken up completely he was pushing through the woods with his boys, The group he fought with. A bird flew through the trees and four of the men alongside him  flew to the ground. They all rang their bells. The fight was on.

There was no more bloody day in Ernest's life before or after this day, the 22nd of May, 1864. Three hours in, his wrists were swollen from the nearly constant impart of his rifle on the faces of men, pushing their way over mounds of bodies. His hands were stained so red they would be red forever. His throat was sore from the yelling and crying. His leader, when the time was certain, and the mass of Southerners was as a flash flood, pouring into their line, the retreat. And Ernest escaped into the woods around the slaughter, away from his company, and theirs.

This was the wildest moment of Ernest's life. Dirt and blood soaked his wool, and cotton. The blood on his hands collected dirt and his mouth tasted awful. He pulled himself through the wilderness, sometimes on foot and others, on knee. He ate berries, a vast sum of which were poisonous, causing nearly constant joint pains. To move was excruciating. His back arced  to form a 'C' and his jaw was clamped shut most the days. After 2 weeks had gone by, he had settled on a certain variety of pleasing foods, and managed to kill a skunk and a dog. He was beginning to realize the mechanics of the forests around him. But the fact remained that he was indeed, lost.