Where The Ground Trembles

Blood Flows At Antietam - 01

The wind over the Maryland hills was dry that morning, carrying the scent of smoke and mud, but beneath it, something else. It wasn't yet noon, but the clouds had rolled in heavy and gray, casting a dull shadow over the Union camp. A few scattered tents flapped in the breeze, and the dirt paths between them had turned to slop from the rains a few days past.

Corporal Tom Davis had been up since dawn, sitting by the smoldering remains of the fire, running a cloth over the edge of his rifle. He wasn't alone—few slept well in these camps, not with what was looming on the horizon. But Davis kept to himself, as he always did, letting the low murmur of other men fill the air around him.

"How many days now?" someone muttered nearby, the voice sharp but tired.

Davis glanced over at Private James "Jimmy" Whitlock, a young farm boy from Pennsylvania who couldn't have been more than twenty. Whitlock was fiddling with the straps on his pack, fingers moving in a nervous rhythm.

"I stopped counting at three," Davis replied, his voice gruff. "You'd think a fight this big, they'd move faster." He folded the cloth neatly before tucking it away, letting out a slow breath.

"Just makes you think they're planning something," Jimmy said, eyes flicking toward the edge of the camp where the officers gathered. "The generals, I mean."

"Generals always have a plan," Davis said, not looking up. "Doesn't mean it's a good one."

Jimmy chuckled at that, but there wasn't much humor in it. Around them, the camp was coming to life—men pulling themselves up from their bedrolls, stretching stiff limbs, muttering greetings to each other. Someone was passing around coffee from a dented pot, the smell briefly cutting through the heavier scent of earth and sweat.

Not far off, Sergeant Eli Richardson, an older man with a scar running down the side of his jaw, was giving the greenhorns a lesson on how to fix bayonets properly. Davis could hear the man's voice rising over the noise, explaining the necessity of being quick and brutal, especially when the bullets run dry. Richardson had seen his share of bloodshed at places like Manassas and Harpers Ferry, and the men around him soaked up his words like gospel.

"Better keep close to Richardson tomorrow," Davis said under his breath. "He'll keep us in one piece if it comes to it."

"You think it's gonna be that bad?" Jimmy asked, not meeting Davis's gaze.

Davis didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted over the rows of tents and men preparing themselves for the day ahead. The sun hadn't broken through the clouds yet, and the air had a heaviness that clung to the skin, though it wasn't the same as heat.

"You've seen what we're up against, haven't you?" Davis finally said, his voice quieter now. "What the Rebs did at Bull Run, at Shiloh?" He paused. "This ain't gonna be some quick skirmish. The ground's gonna run red."

Jimmy nodded, his hand tightening on the straps of his pack. He didn't need Davis to tell him what he already knew. The whole camp could feel it—this was different. Antietam wouldn't be just another battle; it was going to be something worse. Something final.

"Hey, Whitlock!" came a voice from a group huddled around the fire. It was Ben Richards, a wiry soldier from Ohio with a perpetual smirk on his face. He beckoned Jimmy over. "Quit talkin' to old man Davis and come get some grub before it's gone!"

Jimmy looked over at Davis, who waved him off with a grunt. As the younger man hurried off, Davis watched the sky again. The clouds, thick and unmoving, hung low like a blanket ready to smother the earth.

"These hills'll be your grave if you don't keep your wits about you," Richardson barked, his voice carrying above the camp. "You see those Rebs, you take your shot and then you move. Don't stand there lookin' to see if they fall."

Davis half-listened as he strapped his rifle to his back, trying to push the unease gnawing at his gut. He wasn't afraid, not exactly. He'd been through enough to know fear wouldn't keep you alive—it was your feet, your gun, and the men beside you that did that. But there was something about today, something he couldn't place, that kept his nerves taut.

"Morning, Corporal." A new voice.

Davis turned to see Lieutenant Dawson walking toward him, his clean blue coat standing out against the worn and dirtied uniforms of the men around them. Dawson was young, too young for his rank, but his jaw was set with a kind of seriousness that made it clear he knew what was coming.

"Mornin', sir," Davis said, straightening up a little.

"How're the men?" Dawson asked, though his eyes scanned the camp as if already searching for the answer.

"They're ready enough, sir. Nervous, but who isn't?"

Dawson nodded, his brow furrowing as he glanced toward the distant hills. "We'll be moving soon," he said. "Word is we'll engage before noon. The boys don't know it yet, but they'll be marching straight into hell."

Davis raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He'd heard the same from others—whispers about the battle to come, about how neither side would come out clean. But hell? No one had said it quite like that before.

"You got any orders for us, Lieutenant?" Davis asked, trying to pull the conversation back to something practical.

"Just be ready," Dawson said, his voice a little quieter now. "When the time comes, you'll know. Trust me."

Davis watched the lieutenant walk away, that gnawing feeling twisting deeper in his gut. Hell, Dawson had said. The way the wind howled in the trees made it seem like it was already creeping up on them.

As Davis turned back to the fire, Richards was laughing about something, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten biscuit in his hand. Jimmy sat nearby, his eyes distant, still chewing on the words Davis had left him with.

"Davis," Jimmy said quietly as Davis sat down beside him again, "what if it's worse than Bull Run?"

The corporal didn't answer immediately. He glanced toward the hills, then to the others gathered around them. He could hear Richardson in the distance, still shouting orders, still preparing the greenhorns. But that nagging sensation, that wrongness in the air—it lingered.

"It'll be worse," Davis finally said, staring into the smoldering fire. "And we'll still be here when it's done."

The hours passed slower than molasses, but by midday, they were moving. The camp, once filled with voices and laughter, had quieted to a steady march. Davis kept his place at the front of their column, the ground beneath them crunching underfoot as they crossed over small hills, their boots kicking up dust.

Ahead, the land stretched out, a wide expanse of grass and rolling fields, broken only by the occasional farm or barn, and beyond that—the Antietam Creek. The distant sound of cannon fire echoed through the hills, barely a whisper, but close enough to remind every man of where they were headed.

As they marched, the talk grew less frequent, and the men fell into an uneasy silence. Davis noticed Whitlock glancing at him every now and then, his face pale beneath the grime. The sky was darkening again, though there wasn't a single drop of rain.

Something was waiting for them. Davis didn't know what, but the ground beneath his boots felt different now. Heavy.