Rifleman Dodd

Dodd finds a sheltered spot and begins the laborious process of reloading his weapon, pouring powder down the barrel and a small portion into the priming pan, then using hammer and ramrod to push the round bullet down the barrel; he’s tall, which helps. Thoroughly trained against foolish errors, Dodd performs these actions with precision. He rests and considers his situation. To catch up with his retreating regiment, he must evade the enemy that lies between. This will likely require many days. Dodd takes stock of his supplies—they’re ample—and begins to trek across the hillside, heading southeast in pursuit of the fleeing armies.

The hill ends, and Dodd peers down at a small valley twisting through hills, a creek flowing through it. Near the creek is a stone house, apparently abandoned but possibly patrolled by French. Dodd rejects it as too risky and edges along the hill toward a place well past it. He climbs down into a stand of beech trees and proceeds cautiously, one tree at a time. He forgets to look up into the trees he passes, and something strikes him on the shoulder, making him jump. A voice whispers, “Inglez?” Dodd whispers back, “Yes.