[KG_SSpoom]

After struggling over the fence along the road, the men of the 35th Massachusetts wheezed and crawled part way up the hill toward the crest. Climbing over a split-rail fence on the hilltop east of Otto's Farm, the regiment continued to advance to the right, in full view of Sharpsburg.

A shellburst from a Confederate battery in the field beyond plowed into the regiment, killing two. The regiment halted momentarily, then started to withdraw. At the same time, a Rebel battery on the heights along Boonsboro Pike also fired. Hudson, once again on an errand for Ferrero, sauntered across the bridge with an order for Hartranft when a shell exploded and sent fragments whizzing along the steep hill in front of him. Two more shells burst nearby.

The barrage caught Bell about 50 yards from the bridge. He had just slapped Private Hugh Brown on the shoulder as he passed, exclaiming, "We did it this time, my boy!" Barely two steps away, a ball from the second case shot glanced off his left temple. The impact whirled Bell around in a circle and slammed him on his side. Men rushed to his aid as he rolled down the creek bank into the regiment's stacked muskets. Concerned, they asked if he was badly hurt.

Bell, the left side of his face quickly reddening with blood, put his hand to his temple and calmly replied, "I don't think it is dangerous." He paused. "Boys, never say die," he added.

Hudson found the left wing of the 51st Pennsylvania sprawled along the creek bottom. He asked, "Where is your lieutenant colonel?"

"There he is, sir, wounded."

Hudson's gaze fell on a stretcher being borne toward the bridge. The officer being carried stared fixedly in Hudson's direction as he was carried south. His dimming glance hurt Hudson badly. An ugly blue bruise was on Bell's left temple. Bell, a newly made friend, was dying.

Hudson abruptly turned to meet Hartranft, who was coming down the road. Hudson asked why he had not advanced to support the 35th Massachusetts. "I've no ammunition," Hartranft snapped.

The two frustrated officers stood there in the road, at a loss for words. They both had to answer to the moody Ferrero. Eventually, Hudson ventured, "Shall I tell the colonel so?"

"If you please," said Hartranft.

Hudson jogged toward the bridge. He saw three men from his old company struggling with a very heavy man on a blanket. A quick glance at the hat and the way the men tried to tenderly treat the officer told him that the fellow was Lieutenant James Baldwin.

"You must excuse me," Hudson called out. "I've got something to do across the bridge." With that, he hurried to deliver his latest message to Ferrero.

Lieutenant Colonel Joshua K. Sigfried of the 48th Pennsylvania, upon crossing the bridge, immediately detached Captain Wren and his B Company as skirmishers, with orders to cover the quarry and the ridge to the right. The plucky captain and a couple of his people detoured slightly to check on the Confederate that Wren had shot. They found a dead man lying beside the same tree. "Captain," one of the men chimed in, "that is your man."

Wren's men fanned out and began to scramble up the hill. As the ground widened, the captain sent back for more skirmishers. Brigadier General Sturgis personally sent more men to assist.

The skirmishers scrounged the far hillside for souvenirs as they proceeded. They discovered the remains of the 2nd Georgia in a slight entrenchment near the top of the hill. Over 40 Rebels had fallen as a unit in near-perfect formation. Lieutenant Colonel Holmes lay five paces behind his color guard, riddled with bullets.

Union soldiers set upon the colonel's beautiful dress uniform; one stole Holme's expensive gold watch, others cut the gilt buttons off his tunic. Captain Joseph A. Gilmour claimed a shoulder knot. Two men pulled the polished boots off his feet, then callously flipped a coin to see who would have the matched pair.

Corporal Dye Davis of Company B happened upon a dead Confederate whose haversack bulged with johnny cakes. Dye coldly jerked the haversack free from the dead man and poured its contents into his own sack. He started to munch a chunk of the captured cornbread as the company moved out. A friend reprimanded him, commenting that he could not eat anything that came from a corpse.

"Damn 'em, man," Dye retorted through a mouthful of bread. "The Johnny is dead, but the johnny cakes is no dead." He kept eating away.

The Federal regiments down by the creek, on the other hand, acted like vanquished troops. The stubborn Georgians, besides holding the entire corps at bay, inflicting severe casualties and causing the frustrated Yankees to needlessly expend an inordinate amount of ammunition upon inferior numbers, had scored an emotional victory. General Burnside had won his bridge--ever after to bear his name--but the crossing had been so delayed as to render his victory meaningless.