Where The Ground Trembles

Blood Flows At Antietam - 02

The march stretched into the afternoon, the silence between the men growing thicker with every step. The air, once cool and crisp in the early morning, now felt oppressive. The wind had died down, leaving only the sound of boots scuffing against the dirt and the occasional creak of leather straps. Davis's shoulders ached from the weight of his rifle, but he pushed the discomfort aside, eyes fixed ahead.

As they crested another low hill, Davis could make out the faint outline of the Antietam Creek snaking its way through the valley below. Beyond it, in the distance, were the woods where they knew the Confederates were waiting. The hills had shielded them from the full scope of what lay ahead, but now the land stretched out, vast and open. It was a killing field.

Jimmy, a few paces behind Davis, was quieter than usual. The nervous energy that had fueled the boy that morning seemed to have drained away, leaving him pale and grim. He kept his eyes fixed on Davis, as if hoping the older man's steady pace could give him some sense of control. But Davis felt it, too—the pull of what was coming.

Ahead, the officers had called for a halt. The men slowly came to a stop, their packs shifting on their backs, rifles clutched in calloused hands. Lieutenant Dawson, standing near the front, was speaking quietly with another officer, his face drawn tight. Davis could see the tension in the lieutenant's shoulders as he scanned the tree line ahead.

The sound of cannon fire, once distant and sporadic, grew louder now. Each blast felt like a heavy pulse in the air, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

"Something's moving up there," Jimmy whispered, more to himself than to Davis.

Davis followed the boy's gaze. Across the creek, where the grass gave way to a thin line of trees, there was movement—barely visible through the shifting shadows. The Confederate forces were assembling, their gray and butternut uniforms blending into the autumnal landscape. The smoke from their artillery hung in the air like a mist, clinging to the ground.

"They're waiting for us to come to them," Davis muttered.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Richardson moving among the men, speaking to them in low, urgent tones. The sergeant's face was as hard as ever, but there was something different in his movements today—a sharpness, a readiness that made Davis's stomach tighten.

"Fix bayonets," Richardson called out. His voice, though calm, carried over the murmurs of the men.

The sound of metal on metal followed, a chorus of clicks and snaps as men followed the order. The rifles, once mere tools of distance, now transformed into weapons of close, brutal combat. Davis did the same, his hands steady as he slid the cold steel into place. He had done it a thousand times before, but today, each movement felt deliberate, weighted.

Ahead, Dawson was barking orders now, his voice rising over the rumble of cannon fire. They were to move in soon, crossing the creek and advancing toward the treeline. The plan was simple enough: draw the Rebs out, push them back, hold the ground. But Davis knew better than to trust simplicity. Nothing stayed simple once the bullets started flying.

"Stay close to me, Jimmy," Davis said, his voice low but firm. "When it starts, don't look for them. Just look ahead, keep moving."

Jimmy nodded, though Davis could see the fear creeping into the boy's eyes. It was the same look he'd seen in countless other greenhorns before their first real fight. Davis remembered his own first battle, the confusion, the panic, the blood. But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. They were all walking into the same storm, and only some would come out the other side.

A sharp whistle pierced the air—a signal. The time had come.

Lieutenant Dawson raised his sword, and with a single, sweeping motion, he led the charge. The men surged forward, their boots pounding against the soft ground as they made their way down the hill toward the creek. Davis kept his eyes forward, his legs moving in time with the others. The weight of the rifle and pack on his back was forgotten now, replaced by the cold focus of what lay ahead.

The creek, when they reached it, was shallow but wide, its muddy waters swirling around their boots as they splashed through. The men crossed quickly, rifles held high, eyes locked on the trees beyond. Davis felt the water soak into his boots, the cold seeping up through his legs, but he didn't slow down. They were too exposed here, too vulnerable.

As they reached the opposite bank, the first shots rang out—a crack like thunder that split the air. The man next to Davis—a wiry soldier named Harold—let out a gasp and crumpled to the ground, a dark bloom spreading across his chest. Davis barely registered the man's fall; there was no time.

They were in it now.

The Union line advanced, the men firing as they moved, the sharp retort of rifles echoing off the hills. Davis could see the Rebs now, scattered among the trees, their movements quick and elusive. The smoke from the gunfire hung low, turning the world into a haze of gray and red.

Davis fired, the recoil of the rifle kicking against his shoulder. He didn't wait to see if the shot hit its mark. There wasn't time. Another shot came from the treeline, then another, each one closer than the last. Men were falling around him—some with screams, others with nothing but a soft thud as their bodies hit the earth.

"Keep moving!" Richardson's voice boomed over the chaos, and Davis pressed forward, his bayonet gleaming in the fading light.