*waves* Welcome back! Haha, the story is starting to wind down, and there aren't too many chapters left now. Beginning of the end? I think so. ;) Also, I think I went a bit crazy with the biblical references/imagery. Sorry? I'll do my best to explain at the bottom as usual.
On to reviews:
OMGPandi: Haha, okay. I'll try not to feel bad. :P
Mokuren no Ken: It's pretty awesome getting to teach a civil war class without actually teaching one. xD
HollowTearsofJoy: Ah, no! I can't believed I missed a civil war doc though! I usually scour the TV guide for war documentaries!
Guest Anon: D'aww, thanks!
TG: *sob* All I do is torture him!
Reapergal08: I think you're just fine at reviews, lovely! :) And thank you! Like I;ve said, I think it's the coolest thing to be teaching folks with my writing.
yoink: Lol, well, at least you can connect the dots at the end of the chapter, right?
SirenShadow! :*hugs* I have missed your lovely, beautifully written, super thoughtful reviews! Ahh, I understand busy, so don't apologize! Yes, Alfred is in desperate need of someone to understand him. Sadly, Lincoln has a riotous nation to run, and can't always be there for Alfred. Aww, new level? You flatter me, sweetheart, so thank you. :) Oh and yes, I love writing in a little Francis. He's a joy to write~! Oh, and you'll never have to worry about me making Canada a wimp. I firmly believe Mattie has got plenty of spine and sass and he'll dish it out if he needs to! Otherwise, he generally just prefers to keep things civil. I mean, seriously, with a bro like Alfred, you gotta know how to hit back! Yes, Arthur is a very proud person as the once massive British Empire. Getting beaten by a punk like Alfred twice would probably leave a lot of resentment and embarrassment. It's not something he tends to forget either. Communication between these two is counter-productive, which only amplifies what might have been a tolerable insult into a vicious personal attack. Haha, and wow, I'm impressed you pulled off the three reviews in one night! So, yes, I had a wonderful fourth of July watching the fireworks from my friend's pool. And I'm glad you had a good Canada Day! ^^ Welcome back, darling!
Onward!
September 16, 1862.
"There," Alfred pointed past the woods towards a large plateau that sat high on a hill to the north. "Our objective is that church up there." The blue-eyed nation repeated the orders General McClellan had given him the night before.
"You expect my Corps to make it all the way to that hill with less than 9,000 bodies?" The General asked rhetorically. His dark eyes were narrowed in spite at the ridiculous order.
Alfred stayed quiet, and folded up the piece of parchment containing the orders.
"Well, Mr. America, do you?"
"Do I expect you to take Dunker's Church? No. Do I expect you and your men to follow orders? Yes, General Hooker, I do," Alfred said, letting a drop of authority slip into his voice. He hated the scattered plans McClellan had laid out more than anyone, but he was bound to obey like the perfect soldier he was supposed to be.
Hooker flopped ungracefully into one of the chairs set out before his tent. His saber clacked against the wood loudly, grating on Alfred's raw nerves and adding to his already acute affliction.
"This isn't going to work, Mr. America. I can't take 8,000 dug in rebels with one Corps. Don't care if we even got you on our field. You're one man, Mr. America. I couldn't ever see asking you to fight the battle it would take 15,000 good men to win on the best of days."
Alfred didn't disagree. He had his limits, and Lee's army was heavily entrenched into the hills. There was no possible way he could win the fight for Hooker's doomed troops.
"There are two more Corps awaiting McClellan's orders."
"Where, Mr. America?" Hooker looked around mockingly. He lowered the brim of his service cap with an annoyed grimace as he leaned back in his chair. "I sure don't see them."
Alfred sneered. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Hooker's attitude. The young nation squared his shoulders and tipped his service cap in a stiff, formal dismissal. He turned away, heading for his own tent to prepare for the battle ahead. Glancing back, he gave General Hooker one last authoritative glare, as if daring the man to defy orders.
"Just be ready, General. We march for the Dunker Church at dawn."
September 17, 1862.
The graying sky above twinkled with the last light of the stars as the sun began to rise over the broad cornfields set out before Hooker's soldiers. The silvery-green stalks of the corn swayed lightly, nudged by a dry breeze. Alfred thought they would have looked lovely in this light if he weren't mentally preparing himself for the bloody fight ahead.
Alfred sighed wearily, trying to blink away the bleariness obscuring his vision. He had stayed awake the entire night, polishing Wristbreaker and cleaning his rifle. There was no possible way he could have slept anyway. His muscles burned for action and every nerve felt like it was trembling with anxiety. Even the normally calm tempo of his heart hadn't ceased to race throughout the night. A dreadful feeling of nausea rolled over him like a sickly tide, making the blue-eyed blond wonder if this uncoordinated attack was a mistake.
They were supposed to be enjoying the advantage. Their scouts had brought back reports of favorable numbers on the Union side, but Alfred couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't going to be enough. McClellan's scattered, cautious plans just didn't seem like they would effectively work to drive the Confederates out of Maryland. With each passing second, those plans felt more and more like a deathtrap and less and less like a strong offense to break enemy lines.
A sudden, almost deafening blast shattered his concentration, making him startle. Beside him, some of the other soldiers jumped as well, clearly not expecting what Alfred recognized as artillery fire.
"Mr. America!"
Alfred whirled around, blue eyes wide as General Hooker rode up to him on a tall dun horse. He drew the steed to a halt just before him with a worried expression. His deeply set eyes flitted about nervously as he dismounted, coming up to stand beside Alfred.
"McClellan called for artillery first. Apparently, those damn rebels are dug in just across the cornfields in the Sunken Road. Marching through there would be suicide."
"Good, let the artillery dig them out of their holes," Alfred agreed, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. Something just didn't seem right. Hooker was a cocky man, and seeing him almost pale with worry made Alfred's already frayed nerves jitter with apprehension.
"I still don't like this, sir. Is only my Corp supposed to be advancing?" Hooker inquired nervously, glancing over towards the cornfields where bright flashes were blinking over the stalks and the ground was rumbling from the impacts.
Alfred furrowed his brows, reaching into his breast pocket for McClellan's orders.
"No! Of course not! That wouldn't make any sense!" He grumbled, fumbling to unfold the thick parchment. His shaking hands were clearly betraying him, making a frustrated growl bubble up from his throat.
"These are the only plans I received, Mr. America," Hooker reached into his own pocket, producing the official orders from the Major General. Alfred took the paper, juxtaposing the two sheets as panic began to wrap its cold claws around his heart. No. This couldn't be right. The orders were different. Hooker's orders made absolutely no mention of the other four Union Corps that were meant to march on the Confederate lines as well.
Alfred felt his breathing quicken as he nervously scanned the papers again. He had to have missed something. There had to be some kind of mistake he'd imagined. There was no way Hooker's Corps could take out Lee's entire army.
"No…" He breathed, barely believing his own words as he spoke. "These orders have to be wrong. Give me your horse! I have to get to McClellan or-"
Another blast of artillery fire flew right above their heads, streaking across the brightening sky to crash into the cornfields. Terrible screams and shouts rose up, making Alfred jump again as the confused Union troops around him stumbled back, nearly breaking formation. The cannons behind them started firing directly into the cornfields before Hooker's Corp, showering Alfred and the soldiers with upturned soil and tattered foliage.
"What the hell is this?" He shouted above the noise, but Hooker could only stare at him with a resigned look as the sound of the horns trumpeted above the cannon fire. He raised his gloved hand, pointing towards the fields. Alfred looked, and felt his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach.
The rising sun cast long dashes of light across the corn, sending stray shimmers throughout the stalks: glints of sunlight on metal, almost perfectly concealed in the corn.
"They're in the fields!" Came the shout from a mounted officer on Alfred's left. He glanced over, watching the man gallop his horse back towards his troops only to be shot in the throat. He tumbled from his horse, blood spraying from his wound to paint the corn crimson, but the rest of the Union soldiers finally surged forward.
Squinting, Alfred could just barely make out the sway of the stalks and see the rebels moving through the corn. The fallen officer's words rang in Alfred's head, suddenly making sense to him.
Just as he whirled around to warn General Hooker, the blast of cannons shook the air with a deafening sound that shook the very earth beneath his feet, drowning out his warning. Hooker's horse reared up, baying in pain as rifle fire exploded into the air, and a shot nicking its ear, but Alfred lunged for the reins, ducking away from the pounding hooves.
The General shouted for Alfred to stop, but the blue-eyed man was already astride the horse, kicking its flanks hard to bring it into a gallop. The tall beast shrieked as Alfred pulled hard on the reins to force his steed to turn sharply, heading for McClellan's base of operations. He charged up the hill, past the cannon lines, well behind the front lines to the very back of the camp, and drew the horse to a halt with another sharp tug just before the Marines that guarded the Major General's tent.
"Tell McClellan to get out here right now!" Alfred bellowed, the heavy rumble of his voice leaving no room for compromise or disobedience.
One of the Marines nodded, and Alfred vaguely recognized him as one of the guards that had accompanied him on his run to Washington last year. Alfred noted the man looked as if he'd aged a decade; the smooth plain of his forehead was now marred with deep stress lines.
Alfred waited impatiently, fidgeting in the saddle, and his horse seemed just as antsy. The tall dun snorted, ears pinning back as he stomped his hooves until finally McClellan and two of his tacticians stepped out of the tent.
"Care to explain these?" Alfred produced the two sets of orders from his breast pocket, not bothering to dismount. One of the Marines stepped up to the take the orders, looking up at Alfred with a pensive glimmer in his dark eyes. Alfred wondered what the man made of the situation.
The air was tense, Alfred leering down at McClellan with the Major General starring back at him with reserve. He took the orders the Marine brought to him and glossed over them.
"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. America?"
"Don't give me that tone, Major General. I'm not one of your underlings." Alfred barked back, squaring his shoulders and tipping his head back some to glare down his nose at the stony-faced man.
"Of course not, sir." McClellan tipped his cap. "My apologies." After the quick atonement, he waved the papers. "Now then, what can I do for you, Mr. America?"
"Those orders are wrong. Why didn't you inform Hooker of the reserve Corps?"
McClellan cocked a brow, glancing over at the tactician on his left. The man merely shrugged, not offering any excuse for the mishap in communication. Alfred felt his lips curl back in a sneer at their indifference. How dare they dust such a blunder off their shoulders as it were nothing! His soldiers were dying out there because of their oversights!
"Hooker's troops have already been engaged and you can't even make up a decent excuse as to why you left them in the dark?" He roared, startling even the stoic Marines flanking the tent entrance. His horse flitted nervously beneath him, tossing its head.
"I didn't think Lee would move so boldly, but it only reaffirms my suspicions."
Alfred barely kept himself in the saddle. The raging desire to throttle McClellan was starting to become hard to control. More than hard, it was like fighting back instinct as the man turned his back to Alfred.
"What suspicions?" Alfred gritted out, eyes narrowed.
"That Lee has more troops than our scouts reported. I'm not uncomfortable saying he may have us evenly matched or even outnumbered." The Major General answered before beckoning Alfred over with a hand gesture, then vanishing back into his tent.
It proved to be more difficult than the blond would have anticipated, but Alfred drew in a calming breath, working his boiling rage down to a simmer before he dismounted Hooker's horse. He allowed one of the Marines to lead the tall steed away before following after McClellan and his tacticians with fists balled and jaw clenched tight as he entered the tent.
"Clearly there was some confusion with my orders. But I assure you, Mr. America, the President chose me to lead this army with confidence in my abilities." McClellan explained as he directed Alfred's attention to the large table set up in the center. On it was a map of the surrounding area, marked with the places that all of the Union troops were stationed and the theories about where all of Lee's troops were supposed to be. There were far more marks for the Confederates than Alfred could have ever imagined.
"Lincoln may have picked you, but that doesn't mean I would have, Major General."
"That's unfortunate, Mr. America. I hope that by the end of this battle, and when our victory is assured, that you will reconsider those words."
"Doubtful..." Alfred muttered under his breath as he looked over the map, blue eyes cold as he scanned each front.
"Why are the reserves placed so far back?" Alfred practically accused, tapping the spot on the map where there were two marks placed by their tent's location.
"Until I know how many troops Lee has hidden in the woods and his reinforcements I will not place two Corps in harms way if it means we may have to retreat." The Major General gusted an annoyed sigh. "And because one of my tacticians ever so wisely pointed out that it would be best to make sure my generals will agree with my orders." McClellan glanced back at one of his tacticians, his dark eyes smoldering with accusation.
Alfred couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy for the man. Even if all of this blunder couldn't possibly be his fault, the blue-eyed man was still furious with him. He still needed someone to blame, and McClellan would have to learn to accept that responsibility with each battle that went awry. Not just from him, but from the public and the Union troops as well. Even from Lincoln.
"And why is this tent so far back? I had to ride far too long to get here."
"It's just how things have been laid out, Mr. America." One of the tacticians retorted defensively.
"Coward…" Alfred grumbled.
"Pardon, sir?" The man ever so foolishly prodded, stupidly tempting Alfred's wrath.
Alfred glared death at the man from beneath his furrowed brows, his steel-blue eyes flickering with burning hate.
"You heard me, sir. I said you're a coward." He retorted, voice eerily calm. McClellan cleared his throat, trying to casually draw Alfred's attention back to the map as he started announcing his idea for the battle plan. But Alfred was barely listening. The arrogant man across the table was trying to hold Alfred's intense glare, but quickly faltered. It was easy to see the raw anger, the animalistic fury behind Alfred's narrowed eyes. He wasn't hiding it; let this foolish man know the horrible wrath Alfred felt clawing at his heart, his very soul. Let him know the pain he'd endured, the blood he'd split, and just how far he would go to win; it was all written there in the blaze of cobalt eyes. This wasn't a game, as these men thought it might be. Pushing around pieces on a map like they were gods, dictating the fate of thousands of troops: troops Alfred had bled beside on the battlefield, troops Alfred would die to protect.
"Mr. America," McClellan said forcefully, tapping his index finger to the map. "There's a battle to win."
Alfred finally tore his gaze from the tactician, smirking dangerously when he heard the man exhale with immense relief. He doubted the tactician would dare invoke Alfred's anger again.
"Of course…" Alfred straightened up, lowering the brim of his service cap and setting a stony expression on his visage.
McClellan looked relieved, and seeing the furious nation beside him finally quell his ire seemed to dissipate some of the thick tension in the air. The Major General swallowed hard before redirecting all of their attentions towards the map once again.
"Now then, I think it would be best if we started another advance-" He slid his finger over the map towards a small road flanking the Dunker Church. "Here."
"I can't fucking take this anymore!" Alfred roared as he stormed out of the tent. Failure after failure, brought to him as scattered reports of bloody massacres, for hours on end was driving him mad. The bitter arguing, the subtle, arrogant threats at every mention of a new battle plan, the ridiculous politics haunting every word had worn his nerves raw. Finally, after the report about General Burnside's utter failure at the bridge, Alfred had snapped.
His heavy footfalls threw thick dust into the air as he rushed past the Marine guards and went straight for the horse lines. Hours and hours trapped in that tent with so many pigged-headed, bickering and entirely useless tacticians who probably hadn't lifted a rifle in twenty years was driving him insane. He had to get out, get away, get back to his troops. He had to find his way back to the bloodshed among the brave where it didn't matter who wanted what, or who got the credit for a victory, where all that mattered was instinct and anger. He needed a release. Alfred would have given anything for a rifle so he could rush to the field and blow his anger out the barrel of a gun.
"Mr. America, wait!" The guards shouted after him, but Alfred refused to stop. When one of the guards made the mistake of trying to halt him by force, grabbing his shoulder, Alfred turned on the man. Teeth bared in a savage snarl, and a furious roar tearing from his throat, Alfred's hand was around the Marine's throat instantly. This was his release. Alfred's rationale was blinded by fury. The guard choked as Alfred's fingers began to crush his windpipe with ease, his unnatural strength deadly.
He ignored the sudden arsenal of sidearms trained on him as he crushed the guard's throat. The rest of the tacticians and guards had apparently followed after him as well.
"Put him down!" One of the Marines shouted, glaring at Alfred with fear well concealed. The blond crushing his fellow Marine's throat didn't even look human with that horrifying expression on his face. His eyes were wide and wild, lips curled back like a rabid wolf's and the thick veins in his hands were standing out under his skin from the sheer force of his grip.
"Mr. America, stop this! Release him!" McClellan had followed after the furious blond when he'd burst from the tent. He stepped forward, one hand raised with a revolver trained at Alfred's head. "Now!"
Alfred glanced sidelong at the Major General, and McClellan faltered, lowering the revolver. The Marine caught in Alfred's vice kept desperately clawing at Alfred's hand, trying to pry the blond's fingers from around his windpipe, but Alfred's grip didn't relent.
A shot rang in the air, and Alfred finally released the Marine when he felt a bullet pierce his shoulder. It penetrated thick muscle to strike against his shoulder blade, making him wince. The adrenaline was pumping too hard in his veins to allow the pain to fully reach Alfred's nerves. He reached around his ribs to touch the tattered hole in his uniform, feeling the hot blood coat his fingertips, bringing him back to reality.
Blinking, he looked back at the man who'd shot him. It was the Marine he'd recognized from earlier. The man's revolver was still trained on him, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the barrel.
"Mr. America…" The man sounded torn, as if he could actually see into Alfred's heart and be witness to the horrible pain and rage rooted there so deeply. "What's happened to you?"
"I don't know…" Alfred whispered. Behind him, he could hear the unfortunate Marine panting, his chest rattling as he coughed and choked on the air suddenly returning to his lungs. Alfred bit his lip, looking down at the ground between his feet before turning away and walking to the horse lines without another word.
From the depths of his mind, a malicious snicker resounded.
The sun had risen high in the sky while he'd been away from the field, but was already starting to streak back down to the horizon, sending shimmering rays of light to shower the battlefield in pale beams. Standing atop the cresting hill before the Sunken Road, Alfred could see across the entire stretch of land that had once been gently rolling hills and cornfields. Far in the distance, he could even see the tall steeple of the Dunker Church, its cross a silhouette against the burning star.
And all around him, the stench of death of nearly palpable.
He dared not look down to see the river of blood that had once been a road leading to the church. He didn't want to see the bodies of soldiers slumped against the fences or their corpses lining the shores of the blood river. Death had taken this place, leaving nothing in his wake as he'd ridden through the battlefield n his pale horse, his scythe uncaring of where it touched. Men, horses and even the once tall cornfields were dead. So much fire and heat from the blaze of cannons and guns had set the fields aflame, leaving only the burnt, black skeletons of the crops to rustles in the faint wind. Ash and smoke choked the air, staining the breeze that blew through Alfred's hair as he stared to the horizon.
He wouldn't look, couldn't bear it, didn't want to fall to his knees and weep for the thousands dead below him. Not even Dante's fifth circle of Hell could compare to the swamp of blood and bodies that seeped into the earth where the remaining soldiers were now calling 'Bloody Lane'.
But he couldn't stop the tears from falling as he watched the sun slowly sink in the sky, the wine-red rays it sent across the sky a perfect match to the river below and the blood that stained the uniform of every solider as they dragged the fallen from road.
September 22, 1862.
Alfred braced his hands on the rim of the sink basin, leaning his weight on the fixture with an exhausted sigh. He hadn't slept in days. The images of the blood river were burned in his mind, haunting his every waking moment and chasing away sleep. The dead eyes of his soldiers, flung wide as Death's scythe had cut the life from them followed Alfred, watching him with accusation smoldering in their cloudy irises.
The blond shook his head, forcing the morbid thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. Twisting the faucet handle, he dipped his hands into the stream of water and splashed it on his face. He had to focus on getting cleaned up and getting ready for Lincoln's speech. His leader had shared only a few details with him, but from the sound of it, Lincoln was planning something huge, something that might get Europe to back down. Alfred swallowed hard, thinking of Arthur and their awful parting from the last meeting. He reached up, touching the damp spot where Arthur had struck him, and felt his heart ache with misery and longing.
There was no denying he still loved Arthur, even if the emerald-eyed man had decreed that they were nothing to each other, Alfred refused to believe it. He had always loved the older man, and always would. Alfred's shattered heart still clung to the last shreds of hope that maybe it was all just a misunderstanding. Surely Arthur hadn't meant what he'd said. He couldn't have. No, he loved Arthur. There was no way that love couldn't be reciprocated. He could fix this. Once this war was over, Alfred would go to him and tell him how he felt. Arthur had to understand how much Alfred wanted the emerald-eyed man to love him in return.
"Don't bother…. They all hate you…."
Alfred startled, fingers clutching at the lip of the sink as he looked around frantically. His wide blue eyes scanned over every polished surface of the small guest bathroom attached to his room in the White House. But there was nothing there besides the cold gleam of the tiles.
"Especially Arthur. He can't stand you…"
Alfred whirled back to face the mirror hanging on the wall before the sink. His own startled expression met him, making Alfred blink in fear and confusion. The blond could only stare in horror as the face in the mirror started grinning maliciously at him. The fear in those blues eyes was gone, replaced by cold cruelty.
"You know it's true."
Alfred gasped, his body beginning to tremble. Why had he said that? No. That was a mistake. He hadn't meant that!
"No!" he howled out desperately, feeling his eyes begin to moisten and sting.
"You stupid, petulant child. You're so blind. Arthur hates you; he never wants to see you again. Or was that slap not enough to prove my point?"
"No! He didn't mean it! I love him!"
"You think that means anything? Lucifer loved God, yet he was still cast out of heaven. Face it: Arthur loathes the very idea of your existence. You are nothing to him."
Alfred grit his teeth, feeling his burning anger begin to boil under his skin.
"You're wrong!" Alfred roared, white-knuckling the sink.
"Am I? Europe is on my side, including Arthur. You're nothing more than an angry dog I'll put down. And they'll watch with approval as I break you. He'll love watching you crumble to the dirt at my feet."
Something in Alfred snapped. There was nothing but blind rage turning his vision red, shutting down all rational thought, leaving him a vessel of furious agony.
He punched the mirror. He struck with enough force to shatter it, snapping through the wooden backboard and cracking the stone wall behind it. The glass splintered, leaving a web of massive cracks that distorted the dark image of himself.
"You're wrong," He choked out, voice constricted as his throat tightened and the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. "You're fucking wrong!"
"You can't deny it forever." The broken shards laughed, a thick, malicious cackle that madeAlfred's ears hurt. "How long can you last? Just look at you!"
"Shut up!" Alfred drew back his arms and punched the mirror again, sending shards of glass flying and digging into his knuckles.
"You're pathetic."
"I said shut up!" He struck again, not caring if the glass embedded deeper into his flesh, scraping bone.
"You're weak."
"No! Stop it! I'm not weak!"
"You're broken."
Alfred couldn't respond, he couldn't even remember how to speak he was so angry, upset, so destroyed on the inside. He just kept hitting the mirror until the entire thing shattered into a thousand pieces, slicing open his hands, arms and face as the shards flew.
"And when it's all over…"
"No!" Alfred sobbed, desperately trying to block out the voice. His aching knuckles throbbed from the pain, just enough distraction to force Alfred's manic thoughts down. Shaking, he turned the faucet back on, trying to wash out the bleeding gouges.
Alfred screamed, knocking over the sink basin as he scrambled back from the horrifying scene. Blood was pouring out from faucet, bubbling and frothing as it spattered across the floor. Tiny rivets slithered between the tiles, forming a network of grisly veins around him. They were like rivers, each running with hot blood spilled without just cause. The images of Bloody Lane came back, flashing across his vision. The reek of death assaulted his senses, the phantom sight of the corpses, his soldiers sloshing through the gore. Sinking to his knees, Alfred choked on a sob, his breath hitching miserably as the glass cutting into his legs.
"When you are dead…"
"Stop…" Alfred sobbed into his bleeding hands, hiding his face from the voice, from the world, from Arthur.
"The only thing left…"
Alfred doubled over, crying out as his whole body was racked with trembling and nausea as the tears continued to cascade down his cheeks. His forehead was pressed to the bloodied tiles and the sharp glass, eyes squeezed shut tightly, unable to keep the river of pent up agony back behind the levee he had tried to hide it behind.
"Will be me."
And the voice was gone, leaving Alfred alone in the tiny bathroom, blood and glass pooling around his curled up form as he sobbed miserably.
September 17thwent down and still is considered the bloodiest day in American history. To this date no battle has ever claimed so many American lives. This is the Battle of Antietam, sometimes called the Battle of Sharpsburg. In a span of 10 hours almost 23,000 casualties occurred. This one battle was equivalent to about half the number of casualties in the Revolutionary War, which lasted 8years. In just 10hours.
The Dunker Church belonged to German Christians, and the soldiers called the road nearby Sunken Road, but its original name was Hog Trough Road. It dipped down between two cornfields and a huge skirmish occurred here. By the end, the road was literally filled like a river with corpses and blood. Horses couldn't even cross it, and soldiers had a horribly difficult time pulling the dead from the road. Ever since then it's been called Bloody Lane.
The heat of the guns actually did burn up the cornfields and left them barren all around by the end. The battle was an absolute mess. McClellan's cautious nature made it so Lee's army could move to block every assault and slowly move back to Maryland without being entirely crushed. Soldiers couldn't see through the thick cornfields and had to engage in close combat at many phases, beating each other to death with their rifles or stabbing the enemy with their bayonets.
Poorly executed orders disorientated the Union Generals, making them move their troops about blindly as they fought to try to make sense of McClellan's scattered orders. General Hooker's troops were the first to engage and the only Corps to move forward at the time. McClellan didn't want to move the three full Corps he had stationed to engage all at once, believing Lee had them outnumbered. He never made use of his cavalry scouts to confirm or disprove his suspicions either, relying only on the preliminary scout reports. Even then he hardly felt inclined to trust them. His tacticians proved to be argumentative and it's said that one of them even threatened McClellan when the Major General suggested moving the reserve Corps into battle. He supposedly warned McClellan that he should watch whom he ordered around, as the troops would follow their commanding General, not him.
Lincoln dismissed McClellan after the huge blunder.
A few days later, Lincoln unveiled the first part of his Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862. He had been waiting to announce it until a major Union victory had been attained to dissuade Europe from siding with the Confederacy. Antietam was the best he could get considering all of the major failures the Union had suffered on the battlefield so far.
The biblical stuff:
For those of you who have no idea...
Death is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. He supposedly rides in on pale horse, carrying his scythe and followed by Hades as he reaps 1/4 of the Earth.
In Dante's Inferno, Virgil leads Dante through the nine circle or levels of Hell. The 5th is the swampy river Styx where the bodies and corpses of the wrathful thrash and gurgle in the waters. It's a very interesting read. I highly recommend it, even if you're not religious at all (I'm not. But the imagery is amazing)