Where The Ground Trembles

Blood Flows At Antietam - 03

The gunfire intensified, rapid and unrelenting, the sharp cracks of rifles blending into a constant roar. Davis could feel the vibration of each shot, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder. His eyes burned, but he pressed on, moving with the line, his boots sinking into the soft ground as they pushed through the open field toward the trees.

Jimmy was still beside him, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The boy's face was pale, streaked with dirt and sweat, his eyes wide as he clutched his rifle. Davis stole a quick glance at him—he was holding up, for now.

"Stay close," Davis grunted, barely audible over the din.

The Confederates were dug in well, using the cover of the trees and the uneven ground to their advantage. The Union men had to keep moving, always pushing forward, always under fire. Davis fired his rifle again, quickly reloading without thinking, his movements automatic, honed by repetition.

The sound of bullets whizzing by was constant, each one slicing through the air, some so close they seemed to cut the wind beside him. The man in front of him, Richards, let out a shout as a bullet grazed his shoulder, spinning him around. He stumbled but kept moving, gripping his rifle tighter, his teeth bared in pain.

The line was thinning as men fell—some hit by bullets, others simply dropping from exhaustion or fear. But the Union soldiers kept advancing, step by brutal step. Davis could see the treeline now, the dark figures of Confederate soldiers flitting between the trunks, their gray uniforms blending with the smoke.

"Come on!" Richardson's voice cut through the chaos, somewhere to Davis's left. The sergeant was waving his men forward, his bayonet gleaming in the smoke-filled air. "Keep pushing!"

Davis felt his muscles burning, the weight of his rifle pulling at him, but he kept moving. His mind was narrowed to a single point of focus—forward. Don't stop. Don't think. Just move.

A Confederate soldier burst from the trees ahead, his rifle aimed and ready. Davis saw the flash of the muzzle, felt the snap of the bullet as it passed inches from his head. He raised his own rifle, the bayonet gleaming in the dim light, and charged. The Reb tried to reload, fumbling with his powder, but Davis was on him before he could finish. With a grunt, Davis drove the bayonet into the man's chest, the steel sinking deep. The Confederate gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he collapsed, clutching at the wound.

Davis yanked the rifle free, the blade slick with blood, and kept moving.

The treeline was just ahead now, only a few yards away. The Confederate fire was coming harder, more desperate, as the Union soldiers closed in. Jimmy was still at Davis's side, his rifle raised, his face grim with determination.

"Almost there!" Davis shouted, though he wasn't sure Jimmy could hear him over the gunfire.

As they reached the trees, the world seemed to explode. A cannon fired from somewhere in the distance, its roar shaking the ground beneath their feet. The blast sent dirt and debris flying through the air, and Davis threw himself to the ground instinctively, his arms covering his head.

The explosion ripped through the Union line, tearing men apart, their screams lost in the thunder of the cannon. Davis felt the shockwave roll over him, the ground trembling beneath his body. For a moment, everything went silent, the world reduced to a dull ringing in his ears.

He lifted his head slowly, blinking through the smoke and dirt. The field around him was a mess of broken bodies and scattered rifles, the once-organized line now a chaotic sprawl of men, some still moving, most not.

Jimmy was lying a few feet away, his face pressed into the mud. Davis's heart skipped a beat, and he scrambled toward the boy, his hands grabbing Jimmy by the shoulders.