Hey all, Just a a forewarning-this isn't based on the 1989 Civil war film Glory, this is based on the real events that occurred at Antietam to Robert Gould Shaw that day in 1862. So that means no Cabot Forbes-a shame, I know-as well as some historical figures you might not recognize will be here.
I hope you enjoy!
The faded sun sank lower and lower in the sky-a dense fog hung over the grey field, rifle and cannon fire puncturing the dense silence in its needle-like grip. The tattered edges of cornfields and broken stalks eviscerated the fringes of the landscape, a protective border between order and chaos. The mutilated corpses provided a macabre decor for the weary soldier, with the suppressed agony of man weaving its way deftly through the chilled earth. The shouts of masculine voices were muted and fuzzy, mutating into an absolute cacophony of sound. Color had long ago bled away, puddles of rusty red the only shape that drew the eye towards it.
The chill of September settled into its bone-crushing embrace, early sunsets and elongated shadows a warning of the winter to come.
Empty blue eyes forced their way open, blinking away the fog that had settled into them. The young captain struggled upright, pushing himself into a seated position-the ringing in his dirt-encrusted ears gripped his brain and refused to yield. Captain Robert Gould Shaw scrubbed a shaking hand across his face, rubbing his bleary eyes in an attempt to regain his bearings. An ache settled into this bones, and every hair was on its end. He groaned as he felt his neck-which was tender to the touch-before he sighed. The bullet hadn't pierced the skin. He had been lucky this time.
After the skirmish at Winchester and now at Antietam, he doubted he'd be so lucky again.
Struggling to his feet, he stumbled forward. Uncoordinated limbs picked their way through the field of corpses, stumbling now and again on knots of long grass and torn-up bodies that had not yet gone cold. Some of the gaunt faces that screamed up at him looked familiar. Good men, who were strong and honorable. The papers said that the war would end in a matter of weeks. Seventeen months have passed now, and the Union has been losing.
Shaw set his mind on making his way back to camp. The fight seemed over for the most part. He could only pray for the Union the emerge victorious. He was sure that Charley and the others had already returned to their tent by now, and were surely looking for him.
If they were still alive.
It was surprisingly easy to bury those thoughts into the depths of the subconscious, like a dragon settling down into a fitful slumber. One day it would rear its ugly head and spew its acidious flame, but today was not that day. Robert pushed on, the ringing in his ears growing louder-he certainly hoped it wouldn't give his mother something to fret over. He could hardly register the heavy footsteps of gravediggers and the murmur of voices. The harsh light of the sun dipped beneath the treeline, whatever warmth it had provided fading away.
The scent of gunpowder and death was pervasive. An artilleryman's lifeless body had been flung haphazardly over a rebel cannon; enemy fire had dug a chunk of fat from his cheek and left nothing but hollow blackness beneath the shattered cheekbone. His arm was splintered beneath the elbow joint, jagged edges of bone piercing through mottled gray skin. Another Confederate dragged his headless comrade through the muck towards safety. The rebels were retreating. The Union had won.
The small captain didn't feel triumphant or proud. He didn't even feel manly or honorable at all, now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. Shaw scrunched his face in concentration, desperate to feel something other than the nausea that made his stomach churn and his breaths shallow.
Robert's throat suddenly constricted violently, tongue swelling and mouth filling with saliva. His stomach revolted against him as he doubled over, yellow bile spewing from his mouth. The sticky vomit splashed onto his feet, staining the hem of his pant legs. He stumbled backwards, legs buckling beneath him. His kneecap smashed against the edge of an upturned rock, pain racing up his thigh. Shaw bit off a yelp as he landed hard on his tailbone. The edges of his vision blurred together.
The next few minutes seemed to fly by in a blur. Robert was on his feet. His sword was in his hand. Voices. Woods. Camp. Exhaustion.
Death.
Aside from the idleness and the inevitable boredom camp life brings, the 2nd Massachusetts Infantry Regiment had become akin to a home away from home for Shaw. No matter how many miles they had marched or places they had settled since its inception, a feeling of unity had always rested upon its soldiers. Now the field they had settled in had erupted into absolute chaos. Soldiers escorted surgeons fervently from tent to tent, desperate to save the lives of the sick and dying. Union soldiers had begun to make their way back to camp in order to lick their wounds and bide their time. A pale figure sat deflated by a tree nearby. Richard Cary, Robert's tentmate and twenty years his senior. He stumbled over to Cary, desperate for news on their missing friends.
The man's face was a ghostly white, splotches if red coloring his cheeks. His auburn beard was full and scraggly, a rough yet handsome complexion. The thin lines of age gave Cary an air of wisdom and veneration. The man's eyes were wide and glassy, most likely because of influenza-which the man had been struggling with for quite some time. Robert bit his lip. Richard had insisted that he would fight, regardless of his ailment. He tried to shake the man from his stupor. Nothing. Shook him again. Shaw jerked his hand back suddenly.
Richard Cary was dead.
It felt as if a lead weight had dropped into his stomach. The tips of his fingers tingled, where he had shaken the man. Whatever hope he had left withered away, leaving nothing more than a dry husk. All his other friends could be dead as well, for all he knew. They might as well be.
Robert swallowed dryly.
The sun sunk deeper into the sky, casting a vermilion hue over the landscape. More men had begun to filter in, Shaw breathed a sight of relief as he spotted a disheveled Charles Morse make his way over to him.
"Any news on Harry's location? I haven't seen him since the fighting had begun," Robert scanned the horizon for his cousin. Charles shook his head and fumbled with his kepi.
"I had heard that he had been taken prisoner by the rebels, uninjured. You shouldn't fret your little head, Bob. I heard the prisoners up here are treated well and the rations are good," His face twisted into an empty smile. "I'm sure he'll be fed more than salt-beef and hardbread all of the time."
Shaking his head in worry, Robert made his way to the camp's entrance, desperate on news of his lost family. Charles slumped over a rotten stump and glared at the navy blue sky, his sore joints popping as he stretched out his lanky frame. Bob worried far too much for his own good. He grappled with his stiff blankets before laying them out on the hard earth. He wasn't entirely certain of what time it was, nor did he really care. He knew that Shaw would wander his way back to camp eventually.
Robert arrived some time after midnight to find Charles sprawled out on a pile of blankets, snoring ever so softly. He couldn't help the small smile that crawled its way into his face. He meandered his way over to his supplies and pulled out his own stack of blankets, arranging them carefully beside his friend.
Shaw welcomed the warm arms of slumber as they embraced him.
Neither of the two had noticed the pile of corpses just a few feet away.
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