A Dark and Bloody Ground

It was just after the 2:00 p.m. deadline that Cheatham’s division moved forward to the attack. Battle line after battle line advanced smartly through the fields and woodlots. These lines were perfectly aligned, dressed out as though they were marching in a parade. Arms shouldered, their rifles shot back the high sunshine, sending beams of reflected light dancing through the air. The battle flags whipped and tossed in the intermittent breeze blowing from the west. The drumming could be heard at first, the steady cadences beating quick time for the infantrymen. Soon, however, the music of whistling artillery projectiles drowned out the percussion, replacing it like the beginnings of a macabre symphony. Then it wasn’t long at all before the musketry roared its accompaniment as a sure indication that a gory concerto was being conducted. As the Southern battle lines distanced themselves from the river they blended together, forming a vast entity. This was an army. It thrust itself to the right in some sort of oblique movement before making straight for the battlements aloft on the ridge farther west. A second army was stationed there, deep blue in color and throbbing with purpose as it spit fire and smoke at Cheatham’s colossal beast. Colonel Johnston marveled at the way this huge beast-like army bled consistently; a residue, precisely like a snail’s trail, was left behind the hulking mass. The residue was made up of the casualties Cheatham’s division had thus far sustained. Colonel Johnston resisted the temptation to examine the carnage more closely with his field glasses. He didn’t want to scrutinize such gruesome details. Imagination was bad enough. Shot and shell were regularly screaming overhead. Often a round shot would plow up the ground and then explode, showering all with stinging volleys of Kentucky top soil. Soon Cheatham's symphony was enjoined by General Hardee’s as Southron’s gray behemoth multiplied and grew. The batteries of cannon and the immense battle formations of both combatants were distinctly visible through the patches in the clouds of smoke. All the shot and the shells in the universe, bursting, rent the air. It reminded Stoddard Johnston of the old song; his former National anthem…"the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air…” Farewell to the Star Spangled Banner. He shook himself back to the present amazed that his mind could wander amidst so much chaos.