The sun was setting by the time Dollinger opened his eyes and groaned. The blow to his head had left him groggy and slightly ill to his stomach, even hours after he'd be struck from behind. In the twilight of duck, he tried to rise to elbows to look about and take his bearings, only the effort of it left his belly heaving. He settled back down against the tree and closed his eyes against the ache. It would pass, he knew. Brawling was near a second trade to canallers, so today's loss was not the first time his brain pot had taken a knocking. Dollinger took comfort in that at least he was not also hung over. A large man, it took him a great deal to get drunk. When spirits would take their final toll upon his wits and body, it was as a great tree finally falling hard against the forest floor after being whittled away by beavers. No, he thought through his pain, it was more like one of those canal side whores over on Erie St in Buffalo: expensive, exhausting, only marginally satisfying and leaving him overall regretful for the experience.

Wait. Women. Woman. There was a woman.

Dollinger opened his eyes again, looking about. Yes, there she was. Pretty girl, country dress, strange expression on her face. With great effort, he looked to either side of them. No soldiers on either side, no sign of the earthworks where his unit had been entrenched and no sign of even the road. There were in some wooded area that he didn't recognize. Of course, he was in Virginia and as the Erie Canal scarcely traversed that far south there were probably great swaths of land he wouldn't recognize!

Wood. That word stuck in his head for some reason. Looking down he saw that his left hand still clenched the remains of his Springfield, the butt of it smashed away by some Rebel's head, leaving the under-stock and barrel in his grasp. The lock plate with its furnishing must have spun away at the impact as well, for all he had was the length of the barrel. He decided he'd keep it for now. If he got back to Union lines without getting shot or captured, he'd be able to show that he hadn't thrown away his weapon, for such an act would have instantly branded him a coward and granted him the coward's reward for desertion.

Dollinger looked back towards the girl. Young woman. He had to remind himself that this wasn't some barge cook or dock-side doxy, just a farm girl with far tender sensibilities than he might be used to providing.

"Pardon, miss?" he finally rumbled. Dollinger rubbed the back of his head with his freehand, grimacing when it came away stained red. "I know this'll sound like a damn fool question, but where are we?"