They Met at Shiloh by Phillip Bryant

exhilaration of being part of a grand host, the largest assembled in the west to date, and the feeling that certain victory was assured propelled Stephen and his comrades through the soggy ground. He forgot his earlier trepidation of the surprise encounter at the farm house, longing to finally close with the enemy and display a feat of honor that only a Mississippian could possess.
    Rising, rising, rising was the terrible sound of death and destruction all about them. Their own skirmishers steadily pushed through the muck and reached the tree line, disappearing into it. In front of Stephen, sitting in the water and nursing a shoulder wound, sat a skirmisher. His face was creased with pain and weariness, his clothes were soaked with brackish water, and his rifle was resting upon his good shoulder. A lone Federal forage cap lay a few feet from him, its crown lying upside down, its owner nowhere to be seen. Further on in the wood line, half submerged in the backwater, lay a Federal skirmisher with only his waist and legs visible. Stephen drew nearer and saw that the man’s arms and head were under water. A pool of red spread upon the surface of the water. Stephen had to step lightly so as not to kick the man as he marched past.
    Stephen leaned forward to catch William’s attention. “We’re doin’ it! We’re whoopin’ ‘em!”
    The skirmishers made a ragged chorus of hoots and hollers when they finally entered the tree line and found drier ground and surer footing. Ahead, he caught short glimpses of the enemy skirmishers ascending a long steep hill. At its crest stood an enemy camp. The sight of the enemy’s tent line brought another chorus of yips and yells from the whole of the brigade. The moment of truth was near.
    After what seemed an intolerable pause and reshuffling of the brigade regiments in line of attack, the moment arrived.
    “Forward, march!”
    At the command came the emanation meant to strike fear into any Federals for miles, the queer, high-pitched yipping that was the trademark battle cry of the Confederate fighting man. The trees resounded with the yell. The three regiments tapped for the attack stepped off proudly. They cleared the trees that had hitherto shielded not only them but the enemy, as well. Stepping into the open, they beheld a sight that might have dampened the spirits of lesser individuals. Arrayed before them on the top of the steep hill was a long unbroken line of blue.
    Shouting and yelling, Stephen girded himself once more for what he hoped would be another short succession of volleys followed by their triumphant entrance into the enemy’s camp. With their color guard stolidly marching ten paces in front and leading them ever upward, all sense of danger and foreboding was drowned out in the rush of movement.
    The long blue line erupted in a cloud of rushing smoke. The crack of the report engulfed their yelling and caused Stephen’s heart to skip. The zinging of lead filled the air and stung the ground, sending chips of sod flying into the air and bodies crumbling earthward.
    For an almost imperceptible instant, the Rebel yell was hushed, replaced by the gasps and groans of the inflicted. As if the air had been sucked from their lungs, they ceased their cry. Men gasped at the suddenness of the enemy’s destructive fire. The vacuum was soon filled by the guttural and manly huzzah from the Federal line atop the hill. Without order, the movement forward halted. Stephen scarcely perceived that he and his pards were no longer moving at all. He, himself, was riveted by the sight of the man lying at his feet. Known to him only as Ox, the man was hardly to be recognized without the top of his head.
    “Forward, forward!” rang the voice of Colonel Thornton from astride his horse at the rear of the regimental line. “Forward, march!”
    Reinvigorated, the regiment and cry resumed with a greater intensity. The cry steadied Stephen’s mind, and the fear that had spiked in the instant when