Chapter Text
1
March 1865, North Carolina Wilderness
The early morning sun shone through the trees and began to take the edge off the chill in the air. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes looked around, crouching for a moment behind a tree trunk to reload his musket with practiced skill. The smell of burnt gunpowder mixed with pine sap flooded the air and thick smoke from the last round of fire hung around like a silent, lingering fog. Somewhere ahead, the Confederates were breaking. Barnes knew it. Sounds of muffled curses and the gasping breath of wounded men reached his ear on the morning air. They had fought like hell to hold the road, but now the enemy were out of time and out of luck. To his left, Barnes saw the leader of their unit, The Howling Commandos, panting with the exertion of the early morning battle. Captain Stephen Rogers was his oldest friend and a born leader of men. Six feet tall, blonde hair and a classically handsome face, Rogers stood tall in the chaos, his revolver smoking from the last round fired. His blonde hair was matted with dirt and his normally sharp uniform was streaked with mud and sweat, shoulder epaulets torn.
“You ready to end this thing Buck?,” Rogers said to his friend solemnly.
James Barnes himself was six feet tall with ice blue eyes full of the weight and worry of years of battle. Having grown up in Brooklyn, James, known to his friends as Bucky, had been eager to join the war effort at only 18. But now, he’d seen so much on the battlefields of Antietam and Cold Harbour that he didn’t know if he’d ever get the sound of gunfire and the smell of dirt and blood out of his mind. Bucky’s handsome face still held a boyish innocence, with his full lips and chin dimple. Looking over at him now though, Steve feared that the war had taken that innocence from his friend. His once outgoing and charismatic manner had been replaced over the last few months by a more introspective demeanour, haunted somehow.
Bucky looked up at him now, his face serious.
“Let’s do it,” he said with a quiet determination.
“Get your men ready then," Rogers called over the roar of gunfire.
“With you to the end of the line,” Barnes responded with a nod.
Barnes barely had time to exhale before a stray bullet tore through the air, snapping a branch just above their heads. From the tree-line ahead, the Confederates were pulling back, the panic was palpable and their ramshackle defensive line of tired grey coats was falling apart.
“On your feet, boys!” Barnes barked to the weary battalion, pulling his sabre free. “Fix bayonets! Let’s end this now!”
The familiar scrape of metal on metal rang out as the Howling Commandos locked their bayonets onto the muzzles of their rifles. Across the way, Rogers raised his revolver high, rallying the rest of the battalion. “Charge!," he bellowed, his voice carrying over the chaos. The Union line surged forward as one, their boots thudding through the mud. The Confederates, wounded, exhausted and out of ammunition, dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Some that could still muster the necessary energy turned and ran. A handful stood their ground, too stubborn or too proud to retreat but Rogers and the other men had them surrounded and held with the point of their bayonets. This battle was over and, hopefully, Barnes thought, soon the whole ungodly war would be too and they could finally go home.
As they began to round up those of their enemy who had not yet fled, a stray shot suddenly rang out causing a young Union private to fall to the ground. Looking for the source of the shot, Bucky saw a lone officer running back towards the trees. He wore a dirt-streaked grey coat and ran like a mad and skittish wild animal.
"Drop your weapon, Reb!" Bucky roared, anger running through his veins like fire. “I’ll get him,” he called over his shoulder to the other men as he began to run. Sprinting in the morning sun, he followed the Officer further into the wilderness, his boots pounding against the damp earth of the forest. The sounds of his unit rounding up the last of the Confederate soldiers was becoming more and more distant as he ran.
The man ahead was older than Bucky, his grey coat was torn, and he still clutched his sabre in his hand. Bucky could hear the man’s breathing becoming more and more shallow and desperate. His footing was becoming less and less sure over the uneven terrain.
"You can't run forever!" Bucky shouted after the Officer.
The man he pursued made no answer. He only ran faster, pushing through low-hanging branches that lashed at both of them. Bucky didn’t know why it was suddenly so important that he catch this man. They’d seen so many Confederate Officers since the war began, and he was sure that many of them would get away and evade capture. He’d been so eager to join the war, but now he was realising that a civil war like this was a national act of self-harm. There was so much blood on both sides and they would have no choice but to forgive many of those who had killed their fellow soldiers if they could ever had a chance to heal. Not today though, today he would catch this man and bring him to justice with the rest of his unit. Too late he realised that he could no longer see the Officer.
As Bucky looked around, he heard the crack of a close-range shot. Before he could move, he felt an unbelievable pain in his left shoulder. The impact caused him to stumble as agony coursed down his arm. Suddenly his jacket felt hot and wet, and he realised looking down that the sleeve of his navy jacket was soaked with hot blood. As he staggered forward, his arm was already starting to lose feeling but he began to run again. His vision was becoming singular on the streak of grey he could see up ahead as he continued his pursuit. Soon the distance between Bucky and his adversary was only a few feet.
Suddenly, the thick trees around them began to break and the pair were faced with an open ridge. Bucky felt a cold and fierce wind hit his face and the sound of a rushing river below. The Confederate Officer’s run skidded to an abrupt halt. His chest was heaving as he looked back at Bucky. His brown eyes looked haunted with madness. Bucky couldn’t help sympathise slightly with this man, fighting for a cause that he’d no doubt been taught was the right one. His friends dead, his youth stolen.
“It’s over Reb,” Bucky called, not unkindly as he walked slowly closer to the man, conscious that they were nearing the edge of the ravine. “Drop your weapon now.”
The Confederate turned slowly, eyes locking onto Bucky’s own. For a long moment, neither man moved. Panting hard, they eyed each other intensely. The weight of their shared experiences hanging in the air. Then suddenly, the Officer lunged. Bucky barely had time to react before the sabre flashed toward him. He twisted, bringing up his rifle to block the strike. Steel scraped against steel, the force of the blow rattling his bones. Pain flared through his wounded arm, nearly making him collapse. His grip on the rifle wavered. The Confederate saw his weakness and pressed harder, forcing Bucky back with slow and unsure steps. Focusing on pushing back at the enemy in front of him, it was too late when Bucky felt the gravel under the heel of his left boot give way. Panic filled him and his stomach dropped as the earth itself seemed to disappear beneath him. Dropping his rifle, his panicked arms flailed, hands trying to grip something around him but finding nothing but air between his fingers.
For a split second, he caught a glimpse of the Confederate’s face. The man’s expression was one of wide-eyed horror. Then, Bucky saw him no longer, and his vision was filled with accelerated pictures of the ravine and the sky as he began to fall.
The wind rushed past his ears. Then, only darkness.