An old man recalls a spring day when he was a young boy living in a combat zone.

It was the early spring of 1864. That season in the Deep South is a magical time for those of us raised in the country. It is a beautiful assault on the senses with the blooming of buds and the chirping of birds and the mixing of smells more captivating than perfumes made for fancy women.

In that period there was no end to the traffic both of Union and Confederate forces by and through our family farm. Some of the soldiers were polite and gentlemanly; most were not. Most took what they pleased from our dwindling crops and meager herds of cows and horses. I had been raised by kind and ethical parents who were outraged by such excesses but felt that putting up resistance to the lawlessness was at best a waste of time and at worst cast us in harm’s way. I shared their outrage but not their attitudes toward acceptance.

Like many youngsters from rural areas, I had become quite proficient in the use of firearms – especially rifles. I was not big nor strong enough to shoulder a rifle from a standing position, but I was extremely skilled at firing one from the crook of a tree, sometimes fifty or sixty feet above ground level. I was also adept at finding rifles of considerable variety that had been lost or abandoned by passing troops. My favorite was a long-barreled piece referred to as a buffalo rifle. Its rounds were roughly a half inch in diameter and its accuracy was more than good. It was superb. So much so that I had more than once felled a deer with it from a distance of a half mile.

This particular morning I was perched high up in a tree, along with that rifle, where I could see clearly for a mile and a half in all four directions surrounding the farm. It was quite cool and I had begun to shiver as I continued to look all around. After about an hour’s worth of boredom and discomfort, I pondered the idea of getting down out of that tree. Then I spotted something. Two soldiers on horseback – clearly of the Confederacy – were approaching ever so slowly from the north. It was difficult for me to judge their exact distance, perhaps five or six hundred yards. But something in their bearing portended bad intentions. Possibly it was the bottle they kept passing back and forth and swigging. Possibly it was their raucous laughter that any person not stone deaf could have noticed at twice the distance. Or possibly it was that, even at their ambling pace, both looked on the verge of falling off their mounts.

I needed no further evidence of their motives. I positioned the rifle so I could aim at the two would-be marauders. Then I slowly focused the sites on the bottle they were sharing. This was challenging because the bottle did not remain stationary for more than a second or two. But then the fates delivered me an opportunity. One of the soldiers placed the bottle on his head, probably to impress his comrade with his skill at horsemanship. I slowly squeezed the trigger of that great rifle and cleanly shot the bottle off the soldier’s head.

I saw much before I heard anything other than the report of my rifle. I saw the bottle shatter, and I saw the soldiers half dismount and half fall from their horses. I saw them draw large pistols from their belts and look wildly around in every direction. It was clear they were not pleased with what had interrupted their foolishness and their enjoyment of the morning air. Then I heard, “Show yourself you cowardly Yankee scum. Show yourself and allow us to respond in kind. And when we do, your godforsaken soul will be in the devil’s grasp before you hit the ground.”

Reason would have dictated that I be sorely afraid. But somehow I was not. In fact I was hard pressed to keep from guffawing. These fools had mistaken me for a seasoned sniper, not an undernourished ten year old. After several seconds of gathering myself, I turned my head so that my mouth was facing a cliff on our land that produced a confusing echo when shouted at. I yelled, “Gentlemen, be advised that you are trespassers and not welcome on these premises. Take your leave of our property immediately.” My message confused them. They could neither discern the direction from which my shouts had come, nor could they fathom that it was the voice of a child that was menacing them. Well over half a minute passed before one shouted, “We will find you, you little pig turd, and when we do we’ll roast you on a spit for our noon meal.” Then I shot the shouter in his right foot.

Discretion must have prevailed over valor for these scoundrels. After much shouting and profanity (far worse than what I have recounted), the able bodied soldier got his colleague up on his horse and the two rode off at a gallop.

As I have grown and matured over the years, I have often thought back to that incident. Was it a stupid and ill-considered act? Did I put my family and our farm in more danger than they and it were already in? Should I have shot them both dead, as I easily could have? I have no good answers to these questions. I do know that the pair did not return to our farm to burn and pillage. Probably because the demands of war pulled them and hundreds like them far away from our land. But I do know this. I have never regretted my act. Quite the opposite. I have always felt a sense of pride that I could have done what I did at such a young age.