The tumult at the bridge disturbed a large sow and her litter. Bounding over corpses, the pig made straight for the 9th New Hampshire, charged through a gap in the rails and tried to negotiate the opening between the legs of one of the advancing New Englanders. She was too wide and he was too low–the sow plucked the startled soldier off his feet and carried him, screaming for his life, toward the rear.

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The 35th and 21st Massachusetts hurried onto Lower Bridge Road and formed along the western bank. During the ensuing crossing, a couple of men dropped snipers out of the trees near the bridge. One sharpshooter, in particular, left an indelible impression on them. As he fell from his perch, one arm snagged a branch and he dangled piteously before plummeting into the creek.

Second Lieutenant Farquhar McCrimmon of the 20th Georgia, with 16 survivors from his own regiment and the 2nd Georgia, realized that he could not withstand the onslaught of the two Federal brigades. As the 35th Massachusetts came up the hill, the Confederate remnant raised their hands, waving filthy white rags and pieces of newspaper from their ramrods. They were herded toward the bridge, where Lt. Col. Bell had to calm his angry men, who had surrounded the bested Rebels.

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.”

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