Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  Buffy laid a fingertip on a small square. “And here’s the farmhouse.”

  “So we just need to figure out where along this squiggle we are,” Willow murmured, scanning the shore.

  Few landmarks marked the map. Pittsburg Landing, the spot currently occupied by General Ulysses S. Grant, lay just to the west of the Tennessee River. Shiloh Church stood farther to the west. The farmhouse lay on the eastern side of the river, away from the area of battle. Buffy took the map and walked again to the thick of the trees. Giles followed her.

  “Those fires,” he said, pointing to the flames in the darkness on their side of the river, “are likely Union camps. The Confederates wouldn’t risk starting fires if they wanted to surprise the enemy. That means we are clearly on the wrong side of the bank. We need to ford the river.”

  Buffy nodded. The farmhouse lay south of the road to Savannah, on a small, unnamed road that wound through the countryside. If they crossed the river now, the house could be to the north or south. They needed to start from a landmark. If they could make it to the Savannah road, they should spot the smaller farmhouse road.

  She glanced back at the map, squinting in the darkness. She located where Grant had positioned his men, and where Generals Johnston and Beauregard of the Confederate Army waited. If the fires were Grant’s, they were close to the road, just to the south. A different Union encampment would mean they might have to head north a bit.

  “The map was a good idea, Giles,” Buffy admitted.

  “I thought you’d feel that way once you got here.” He grinned. “History still too dusty for you?”

  “Right now history’s too dark for me,” she said, struggling to make out features on the map. She couldn’t get her bearings. The road could lie in either direction. If they waited until light, on the first day of one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War, they’d all be in danger.

  Her best chance was to do a little scouting now. The road to Savannah met the river almost directly across from Pittsburg Landing. She just needed to find Grant’s encampment at Pittsburg Landing and go from there. Who knew all that orienteering in sixth-grade camp would actually pay off? Maybe one day she’d find a lifesaving reason for making a macrame owl.

  She and Giles returned to the others. “You all need to cross the river, and I need to do a little scouting,” she told them.

  Giles immediately shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

  “None of this is safe, Giles,” she argued. “It’s better I go out there now than have us all traipsing about with no idea which direction to go.” She gripped his arm affectionately. “I’ll be careful. They won’t even know I’m there.”

  “Buffy, I don’t like this,” Willow said, her eyes wide in the dark.

  “I know, Will, but I’ll be okay. It’s the best chance we’ve got.”

  “What about me?” Xander said. “I still need to be stashed.”

  “The others can carry you. Cross the river at this point and wait for me. Stay out of sight if I’m not back before dawn.”

  “You don’t have to tell us that,” Xander said. “I’ll be burying myself in leaves and dirt, thank you very much.”

  Buffy watched as her friends lifted Xander and helped him into a shadowed copse. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered, and crept away from her friends, toward a nation at war.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Stealthily Buffy kept to the trees, slinking closer to the flickering fires. She hoped they were Grant’s, as his men held the most northern position. If more fires glimmered beyond those, then she would keep heading north until she located Pittsburg Landing.

  She scanned the ground for landmarks on the map. She didn’t see any. But once she found Pittsburg Landing, she’d swim the river and walk down the opposite bank until she found the others. That way they wouldn’t have to cross dangerous ground and risk a bullet.

  On the horizon, the glow of dawn grew in intensity. The crack of a rifle sounded to her left, startlingly close. She ducked low beneath the branches, squatting. Peering out, she watched for any hint of movement. Through the trees a hundred yards off emerged two Confederate soldiers, their rifles and pistols gripped tightly in both hands. She sat still, watching them. Fortunately, they hadn’t seen her. Quickly they ran across an open space and found shelter again in a nearby copse of trees. They moved furtively, glancing in every direction. Perhaps they were scouts, getting a bead on the Union position.

  The rifle sounded again, still from her left, and Buffy watched in horror as one of the men went down, screaming in pain. His friend crouched low beside him, peering backward into the trees. While the wounded soldier cried out, thrashing in the grass, the other held him down and cocked his pistol, aiming it into the nearby forest.

  A cloud of smoke billowed up from the edge of the trees as the rifle fired again, much closer. The second soldier cried out, falling dead, sprawling over his companion. From out of the trees stepped a Union soldier, wearing the green uniform of a sharpshooter. Grime streaked his face, and his uniform was torn in a dozen places. He gripped his rifle in one hand and jogged to the two soldiers, his pistol drawn and aimed. When he reached the men, he stood over them for a long minute, checking to see if they were alive. Then he holstered his pistol and wiped sweat from his brow. They all looked about the same age, early twenties, maybe just teenagers. It hit Buffy hard. They were only a bit older than she was. Fighting each other, killing each other. Some states were even split down the middle, with some families fighting for the North and others for the South. Neighbors fighting neighbors. It would be as if she picked up a rifle and gunned down people from her own state or even town, sneaking around in the forests of the United States, shooting other Americans.

  She waited for him to go. When he had slunk away across another clearing and entered the trees some distance away, she stood up. Glancing in all directions, she chanced a run across the field.

  Up ahead lay another cluster of trees, then a small clearing, then more trees. A gentle hill rose up before her, dotted with oak and hickory trees. Just a few more feet, and she’d be safely undercover.

  With a deafening report, a bullet whizzed by her head. She had been spotted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Stop!” a man shouted.

  Buffy ran.

  From the trees behind her emerged a Confederate scout, his pistol drawn. She fled the small clearing, racing up the little hill. Reaching the small grouping of trees, she flung her body flat against one of the trunks and chanced a look back.

  The scout charged across the field, heading directly for her.

  Her stomach went sour at the thought of being spotted. On top of the shaking fear she felt at being in a war zone, what if this changed the scout’s original path? What if he got killed now, when originally he had survived the Civil War? Then all of his descendents would never be born. She had to ditch him.

  She left the safety of the trunk and ran farther up the hill, toward a denser part of the forest. The faint dawn light was absent in these thick trees. She stumbled over a fallen log, then turned and looked back at it. It was immense, a centuries-old tree that had toppled years before. Partially hollow, its thick trunk sported dozens of ferns and lush green moss.

  “Stop!” the scout yelled again, alarmingly close.

  Buffy ran back to the fallen log and lay down next to it. Quickly she wriggled her body inside the hollow cavity, heaping earth onto herself. The smell of dirt crept into her nostrils. With a thud the scout landed on top of the log. He jumped down on the other side, and for a second that lasted far too long, he paused, scanning the trees for her.

  “Stop, I say!”

  Buffy held her breath. He hadn’t seen her hide.

  Picking a direction, the soldier rushed away, cocking his pistol and carelessly tripping over fallen branches in his haste.

  When she was certain he’d gone, Buffy crawled out of the log, brushing the dirt from her woolen trousers and jacket. She stood up. By now the wor
ld was almost light. She could see farther than she’d been able to before. Through the thick trunks, she could make out another clearing, with objects and people moving silently in it.

  Hurriedly she crept to the edge of the trees. She stood at the top of the rise. The hill sloped away beneath her, opening out into a vast meadow. A sea of gray uniforms, thousands of soldiers strong, filled the clearing. Lines of cannon brought up the rear. For a second she thought she’d grown deaf, for she couldn’t hear them at all. Then one man coughed, and she realized they were poised for an attack, hoping to surprise Grant. She looked out into the distance, hoping to spot the Union camp and therefore Pittsburg Landing.

  But instead she saw something else, completely unexpected. A huge river, wending its way through the countryside, vast and swift.

  They hadn’t landed in the Tennessee River.

  For there it was, clearly, a massive, coursing body of water ten times bigger than what they’d tumbled into. They must have landed in some tributary, or in an unconnected stream, which meant she didn’t know where she was after all.

  Quietly she pulled out the map, gently unfolding it to make as little noise as possible. In the dim light, she tried to make out the squiggles and blocks and arrows. She scanned the brief battle description written down by Giles. With this many soldiers present, this gathering must be the main attack force of Johnston, which surprised Grant by attacking at six a.m.

  She wouldn’t be able to stick to the shores of the Tennessee River to find the road like she’d thought. For even though she could see it twinkling in the distance, the Tennessee River still lay miles to the northeast. She had to plunge forward, into the heart of the occupied territory. Behind her amassed more and more soldiers from Johnston’s stronghold in Corinth, Mississippi. And ahead of her waited Grant’s unsuspecting army, thousands strong.

  Right now, instead of standing on the edge of the conflict, she was in the center of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Buffy waited in silence, and light slowly crept into her world. Now about a quarter mile away, she could see a shadowed log building behind a small group of trees. A cross stood on the roof, at the top of a rough-hewn steeple. Shiloh Chapel. She looked at her map. This was the location of one of the most tenacious parts of the attack, where many soldiers lost their lives. It was one of the most dangerous places for her to go. But she couldn’t stay where she was, either. If anyone saw her, as the scout had done, they would likely shoot her on sight for fear she’d give away the surprise attack.

  Her neutral farmer outfit might not mean much on a day like this, with soldiers psyched up for battle and everyone tense and terrified.

  She studied the map closely. Behind her ran the stream they’d landed in. To her right, she heard the trickling of another small river. If she stood south of Shiloh Church, with the rising sun to her right, that put her somewhere along the Shiloh Branch or Rhea Springs. To get to Pittsburg Landing as quickly as possible, she would have to skirt slightly south, going around the Southern army. When she could no longer see their numbers, she’d head north. Unfortunately, there were no creeks she could follow. She’d have to use the sun. Looking at the scale bar, she calculated about two miles to the farmhouse if she followed that course, and she’d have to cross the Tennessee River along the way.

  She scanned the battle description again. For now, the Scoobies were safe where they were. The Confederates would not pass back that way until evening the next day, when they had faced defeat. They’d march along the Corinth Road, which Buffy still had not come across. She had some time.

  She looked ahead at the mass of soldiers, which now began to move forward, marching deliberately and silently through the dense sections of trees and open spaces. The battle was about to begin.

  Her best bet was to scout ahead, figure out exactly where the Union army waited, and figure out a way around them. Then she’d go back for the others, and together they’d make their way toward the farmhouse.

  An eruption of rifle fire ahead of her forced her to clamp her hands over her ears. The deafening shots echoed over the countryside. Birds chattered and flew away, leaving feathers behind. Confederate soldiers whooped and uttered war cries, and another simultaneous boom of a thousand rifles reported and echoed around her.

  Screams rose up. Then an answering cry of rifle fire. The boom of a cannon.

  Buffy turned and ran, heading south, down the small rise.

  She skirted along the side of the battle, choosing her way carefully. Every time she had to run from one thicket of trees to another, her heart pounded heavily in her chest. Soldiers could be anywhere, clustered in any group of trees. But she managed to remain unseen.

  Finally she began to head north again. She crossed two meandering streams and placed herself roughly on the map. The crack and report of rifle fire was unending. How many bullets were used? How many soldiers fallen? She tried not to think about that. Instead, she mentally recorded the path she took, so that she could retrace it later with the others.

  She ran up another small rise, hid in a cluster of trees, and peered out. Ahead lay some kind of small dirt road, rambling through an orchard. At first she thought snow clung to the branches. She crept closer, moving down from the rise. No soldiers in sight. Now closer, she realized the snow was white peach blossoms. To see such beauty in the middle of a violent battle struck her powerfully.

  The fruit trees were thick enough to offer plentiful cover, and she reached them in a few seconds. She studied the road, trying to place it on the map. Over the centuries, so many wagons, horses, soldiers, and carts had passed along this way that the road had actually sunk into the earth. She took in a quick breath. Sunk into the earth. The Sunken Road. She found it on the map.

  Here the Union soldiers held back the Confederate advance until the Southern artillery had all but obliterated them and their position. She heard the nearby shot of a rifle. It was already starting—the Union formation of the “Hornet’s Nest,” a location the South fought to overtake during the entire battle. Though heavy casualties resulted, the maneuver had bought enough time for Union reinforcements to arrive, leading to their victory. But that time was in the future. For now, the Union soldiers fought for their lives, cries of pain echoing up as one after another was picked off by Confederate snipers.

  She started to move off the road, then suddenly realized that she was much farther north than she thought. As she ran down one embankment of the road, crossed it, and ran up the opposite, she caught sight of the Union sharpshooters, a hundred feet away. They used the natural sunken contours of the road to their advantage. The riflemen lay on their bellies in the dirt, partially protected from gunfire by the banks of earth on both sides. Scores of uniformed men covered the sunken, deep path meandering through the oak-hickory forest.

  The crack of gunfire and the booming of cannon filled her world. The acrid smell of gunpowder floated low in the air, a layer of smoke visible just above her head. She stood beneath a peach tree, catching her breath, and imagined taking a gun, kissing her mom good-bye, and traveling south to kill Alabamans. Or north to kill Virginians. She shook her head. The idea was crazy.

  But it was exactly what these people were doing.

  Gunned down by the Hornet’s Nest, a Confederate soldier slumped down at the base of an oak, blood blossoming in his chest. She watched, transfixed in horror.

  Then she pivoted south, deafened by the roar of gunfire erupting from the Union soldiers. Confederates answered their fire, inviting more, and another thick cloud of smoke rose up through the forest. The acrid stench of gunfire gagged her and made her eyes stream.

  Silently she made her way south again, away from the conflict. But as she left the road behind, a solitary shot rang out, a little closer than the others. Buffy ran on. Her leg felt strange and wet, but she didn’t stop. She ran farther south but kept getting slower and slower. She didn’t understand it. Her leg wouldn’t do what she asked it to do. It got sluggish, then locked up. She fel
l. Forced herself to stand again. Plummeted back to the ground.

  Then she looked down at her right leg. Blood soaked her trousers. She’d been hit. Shot. Her body trembled. Her teeth chattered. She forced herself up, gripping the trunk of a tree to steady herself.

  Though she needed help, a sudden fear to advance seized her. Breathing in and out, she tried to focus. This was what it had been like. Soldiers scared like this. All the time. They didn’t see their families for years at a time, or never again if they fell on the battlefield.

  Up ahead, on the far side of a group of trees, she heard a sudden moan of pain, then someone sobbing uncontrollably. She blinked sweat out of her eyes. Tried to think. She was bleeding, and bad. She needed to make a tourniquet. Another crying voice floated by on the wind.

  Leaning against the tree, Buffy yanked the belt from around her waist. She wrapped it around her thigh and tightened until it hurt and throbbed. She knew there was a Union field hospital around here, but she had no idea where. And could she go there? She stumbled away from the tree, determined to make it to the farmhouse. She was halfway to it. In either direction, she’d have to walk a mile. Her leg continued to bleed, the tourniquet not yet stanching the flow of blood. Her body began to shake uncontrollably. She wiped her palms, slick with sticky blood, on her pants and staggered forward.

  She was thirsty. So thirsty.

  Ahead, the moans and cries grew louder. She passed through a clump of trees and fell. Lifting her head, she saw a small pond surrounded by ancient oak trees. Dozens of soldiers, Union and Confederate alike, lay littered around it. Some drank, some bathed their wounds. The water ran red. Groans rose pitifully up from the pond’s edges.

  The clouds rumbled overhead. A small drizzle began to rain over them, droplets collecting on the branches, glistening in the fallen leaves.

  In front of the pond stood one particularly tremendous oak tree, branches the size of its trunk, still bare after the winter. The tree was old, she realized, terribly old. A Union soldier dragged himself over its roots, then propped himself beneath its branches. He breathed his last desperate, ragged breaths in its shelter. Then he slumped over, dead.