I'm finished the first draft of my novel about Antietam and intend to get it out somehow before the 150th. I posted Chapter 1 earlier - here's part of Chapter 7 - enjoy:
Colonel Stephen D. Lee's artillery had been hot since there was any light at all, firing from a small plateau across the Hagerstown Pike from the Dunker Church, mainly toward the Cornfield and Hooker's seemingly never-ending flow of men. He'd lost guns and men and horses and firmly believed he had been killed and gone to hell and all eternity was going to be like this. He kept the fire up as long as he could, but he was running out of useful guns and ammunition, and down in the smoke he could see that the infantry was being shredded and driven back toward him and his guns, slowly but clearly.
And it wasn't yet eight o'clock.
He spotted Brig. General John Bell Hood, tall and young and covered with sweat and dirt, riding toward him. It was his division down there being slaughtered, and the man's eyes were black with rage. "Find Longstreet!" he screamed directly at Lee. "I need reinforcement right now, or we're gonna lose this fight!"
Lee started to protest, he was needed with his guns, but Hood pre-empted him.
"That is a direct order, Colonel! You go now!" he yelled and rode off.
Lee looked desperately around at his own men trying to hold on, trying to get broken guns to the rear to be refitted, trying to get more ammunition up to the guns.
"Go!" his next in command yelled. "We're all right!"
Lee smiled his thanks, got his horse, and headed for where he last knew Longstreet to be. The fight, thankfully, was still on their left flank, although Yankee artillery was still raining down as far as Sharpsburg. Before he got very far, Lee ran into General Lee, heading his way with an aide leading his horse. Stephen Lee reined up, saluting.
"General, General Hood is calling for immediate reinforcement," Stephen Lee said breathlessly. "The situation is desperate on the left. He says all will be lost if he does not get help right away."
Robert E. Lee saluted and held up the splinted hand, calmly. "Reinforcements are coming now, Colonel. Tell General Hood to hold his ground, I am coming to his support."
Stephen Lee saluted and took off fast.
Robert E. Lee already had ordered McLaws's men forward, as well as brigades from other of Longstreet's divisions. He didn't feel nearly as calm as he tried to appear. He worried the line was becoming horribly thin on the right flank, but so far, no action at all was reported down there, and the center was quiet as well. But the last thing his men needed to see was that he was as nervous as he really was.
He knew all could be lost today, but he stopped himself from believing it would really happen.
Things were beginning to happen faster and faster as nine o'clock came on. Information had come in that the First and the Twelfth were nearly fought out, so McClellan ordered the Second Corps to cross the Antietam and continue the attack on the Confederate left. Keep the pressure up, he told himself, and Lee will collapse.
But those hundred thousand rebels – where were they all? Lee had to be holding them for a counterattack, but where?
A new message came in from the signalmen. "Sir, General Mansfield is dangerously wounded and General Hooker wounded in the foot and taken from the field."
Alarmed, McClellan blurted out, "Where is Sumner?"
Nearby, Porter heard him and came closer.
"The Second Corps is approaching the field. We hold it, but Hooker is asking for all the aid you can send," the signalman said.
"George," Porter said, "Burnside still isn't in action."
McClellan understood. Help meant not only putting more men on the Confederate left, but also starting to move on the Confederate right, to get those masses of rebels away from the Cornfield and woods north of Sharpsburg.
"Send to Sumner to get into action as quickly as possible," McClellan told the signalman. "Continue to drive those people in on their left flank."
Then McClellan summoned an aide. "I want you to carry these orders directly to General Burnside and the Ninth Corps…."
Taylor was beginning to think leaving the 128th to look for another regiment going into the fight had been a bad idea. He and Smith had found their way to a road, but the road led back into the melee, and they did not want to just stumble into that. They wanted to find ranks to join, something organized happening. They cut back away from the action and across a field, but it was still some time before they spotted organized Federal troops, coming up from the creek area. They did not know it was Sedgwick's Division of Sumner's Second Corps, but at this point they did not care. They were in order, and they were heading toward the fight.
"This is for us," Smith said with a grin.
They fell into the end of the line, behind a very short boy whose rifle seemed bigger than he was and who gave them a curious glance but nothing more. They were marching at route step, but when they cleared the trees, where the artillery shells were flying and the pace should have picked up, it immediately slowed down. At the back, Taylor didn't know why, until suddenly there was a body he had to step over, then three bodies, then a row of bodies with a couple of them still moving, groping, grabbing marchers by the pantlegs but too weak to hang on.
Taylor had to dodge the bloody reaching hands. Looking down, he saw blue uniforms, and grey ones and butternut and homespun, all bloody and muddy, all on top of and under and among fallen weapons, broken cornstalks and shattered ears of corn. It dawned on him that this was where they were before, in that head-high field of corn that wasn't head high anymore, where they had been routed and sent running in a matter of minutes. It dawned on him that some of these men might be his regiment mates.
Smith stumbled over a body, into a groping grey-clad hand and a sick voice yelling, "Please!" over the din of artillery booming in the distance and screeching overhead. The hand held him fast and made him fall out of line. Taylor stopped to stay with him, heard him curse and saw him bash in the face of the groping man with his rifle butt. The man fell silent and still. Smith and Taylor hurried to catch up with the line.
They kept going. The piles and lines of fallen men accumulated even more, and Taylor had to step on bloody pulps just to continue on. He didn't have time to think about what he was doing. The noise, the smoke, the sights, the smells – everything was whirling together in his brain so fast he couldn't sort them out. He could only keep moving.
Smith started laughing. Taylor's brain was too full of sensations to allow him to wonder why.
Suddenly they were through a broken fence and rifle fire ahead was as severe as a storm wind. Lines began to break, men began to shout. In a flash, bullets were coming from every direction – from woods ahead, from stone ledges on the right, from ravines on the left. The line stopped. Officers were yelling, "About face! About face! Fire! Fire!"
Taylor had his first conscious thought in long minutes, and he blurted out loud, "My God! We're surrounded!"
Colonel Stephen D. Lee's artillery had been hot since there was any light at all, firing from a small plateau across the Hagerstown Pike from the Dunker Church, mainly toward the Cornfield and Hooker's seemingly never-ending flow of men. He'd lost guns and men and horses and firmly believed he had been killed and gone to hell and all eternity was going to be like this. He kept the fire up as long as he could, but he was running out of useful guns and ammunition, and down in the smoke he could see that the infantry was being shredded and driven back toward him and his guns, slowly but clearly.
And it wasn't yet eight o'clock.
He spotted Brig. General John Bell Hood, tall and young and covered with sweat and dirt, riding toward him. It was his division down there being slaughtered, and the man's eyes were black with rage. "Find Longstreet!" he screamed directly at Lee. "I need reinforcement right now, or we're gonna lose this fight!"
Lee started to protest, he was needed with his guns, but Hood pre-empted him.
"That is a direct order, Colonel! You go now!" he yelled and rode off.
Lee looked desperately around at his own men trying to hold on, trying to get broken guns to the rear to be refitted, trying to get more ammunition up to the guns.
"Go!" his next in command yelled. "We're all right!"
Lee smiled his thanks, got his horse, and headed for where he last knew Longstreet to be. The fight, thankfully, was still on their left flank, although Yankee artillery was still raining down as far as Sharpsburg. Before he got very far, Lee ran into General Lee, heading his way with an aide leading his horse. Stephen Lee reined up, saluting.
"General, General Hood is calling for immediate reinforcement," Stephen Lee said breathlessly. "The situation is desperate on the left. He says all will be lost if he does not get help right away."
Robert E. Lee saluted and held up the splinted hand, calmly. "Reinforcements are coming now, Colonel. Tell General Hood to hold his ground, I am coming to his support."
Stephen Lee saluted and took off fast.
Robert E. Lee already had ordered McLaws's men forward, as well as brigades from other of Longstreet's divisions. He didn't feel nearly as calm as he tried to appear. He worried the line was becoming horribly thin on the right flank, but so far, no action at all was reported down there, and the center was quiet as well. But the last thing his men needed to see was that he was as nervous as he really was.
He knew all could be lost today, but he stopped himself from believing it would really happen.
Things were beginning to happen faster and faster as nine o'clock came on. Information had come in that the First and the Twelfth were nearly fought out, so McClellan ordered the Second Corps to cross the Antietam and continue the attack on the Confederate left. Keep the pressure up, he told himself, and Lee will collapse.
But those hundred thousand rebels – where were they all? Lee had to be holding them for a counterattack, but where?
A new message came in from the signalmen. "Sir, General Mansfield is dangerously wounded and General Hooker wounded in the foot and taken from the field."
Alarmed, McClellan blurted out, "Where is Sumner?"
Nearby, Porter heard him and came closer.
"The Second Corps is approaching the field. We hold it, but Hooker is asking for all the aid you can send," the signalman said.
"George," Porter said, "Burnside still isn't in action."
McClellan understood. Help meant not only putting more men on the Confederate left, but also starting to move on the Confederate right, to get those masses of rebels away from the Cornfield and woods north of Sharpsburg.
"Send to Sumner to get into action as quickly as possible," McClellan told the signalman. "Continue to drive those people in on their left flank."
Then McClellan summoned an aide. "I want you to carry these orders directly to General Burnside and the Ninth Corps…."
Taylor was beginning to think leaving the 128th to look for another regiment going into the fight had been a bad idea. He and Smith had found their way to a road, but the road led back into the melee, and they did not want to just stumble into that. They wanted to find ranks to join, something organized happening. They cut back away from the action and across a field, but it was still some time before they spotted organized Federal troops, coming up from the creek area. They did not know it was Sedgwick's Division of Sumner's Second Corps, but at this point they did not care. They were in order, and they were heading toward the fight.
"This is for us," Smith said with a grin.
They fell into the end of the line, behind a very short boy whose rifle seemed bigger than he was and who gave them a curious glance but nothing more. They were marching at route step, but when they cleared the trees, where the artillery shells were flying and the pace should have picked up, it immediately slowed down. At the back, Taylor didn't know why, until suddenly there was a body he had to step over, then three bodies, then a row of bodies with a couple of them still moving, groping, grabbing marchers by the pantlegs but too weak to hang on.
Taylor had to dodge the bloody reaching hands. Looking down, he saw blue uniforms, and grey ones and butternut and homespun, all bloody and muddy, all on top of and under and among fallen weapons, broken cornstalks and shattered ears of corn. It dawned on him that this was where they were before, in that head-high field of corn that wasn't head high anymore, where they had been routed and sent running in a matter of minutes. It dawned on him that some of these men might be his regiment mates.
Smith stumbled over a body, into a groping grey-clad hand and a sick voice yelling, "Please!" over the din of artillery booming in the distance and screeching overhead. The hand held him fast and made him fall out of line. Taylor stopped to stay with him, heard him curse and saw him bash in the face of the groping man with his rifle butt. The man fell silent and still. Smith and Taylor hurried to catch up with the line.
They kept going. The piles and lines of fallen men accumulated even more, and Taylor had to step on bloody pulps just to continue on. He didn't have time to think about what he was doing. The noise, the smoke, the sights, the smells – everything was whirling together in his brain so fast he couldn't sort them out. He could only keep moving.
Smith started laughing. Taylor's brain was too full of sensations to allow him to wonder why.
Suddenly they were through a broken fence and rifle fire ahead was as severe as a storm wind. Lines began to break, men began to shout. In a flash, bullets were coming from every direction – from woods ahead, from stone ledges on the right, from ravines on the left. The line stopped. Officers were yelling, "About face! About face! Fire! Fire!"
Taylor had his first conscious thought in long minutes, and he blurted out loud, "My God! We're surrounded!"
Bringing the