Gettysburg, Pennsylvania July, 1863 "Run, Christopher! They're right behind us. Get that nag moving. We're almost at the camp, but they're closing in on both sides!" Major Theodore Fields spurred his own small horse and drove it through the darkness of the forest path. He could hear the labored breathing of his brother's horse behind him. "Christopher, you're dropping back! Come on! Just follow me!" "I can't!" called his brother. "You go! Your horse is in better shape than mine. This one's too small and just worn out. You go. You have to get back home!" Theodore ground his teeth and cursed their luck. His own horse, Pitch, so dark he was nearly black, was hidden by the night and had enough strength left to get him back to the Union Army camp. But Christopher's horse – "You should have demanded a better mount!" said Theodore. But most of the U.S. Army horses were even poorer than Pitch. Most were like Cracker, the weedy little cream-colored scrub his brother rode now, and hardly worth the hay it took to feed them. Cracker was so pale in color that you could see...
