Mini-balls hissed past Robert; none close enough to make him worry. A few of the Rebels cried out in pain while most of the soldiers watched the lead shot fountain snow yards ahead of their position. The Union volley had fallen hopelessly short.

“On your feet,” Robert looking over his shoulders to left and right to see only a few of his men could not stand. Lieutenant Anders seemed unwounded. He could hear orders coming from the Union side of the field as Pace hurriedly had his men reload.

“Aim,” again Robert checked his men, seeing the rifles come up in unison. “Remember; aim a foot above their heads.”

Union soldiers cringed, some crouching, others turning their side to the coming fire, hoping to present a smaller target, while a few ran away from the fight. Pace was losing control of his men quickly. They were getting close to a route.

The Rebels were ready, rifles aimed and concentration intense. “Fire,” the Rebel volley erupting in unison before he had finished the word. The Confederate attack sounded like one loud shot, producing a dirty blue cloud of smoke that smelled of rotten eggs as it passed Robert.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Bullets the size of a man’s thumb plucked men from the Union lines, slamming them to the ground screaming. Casualties from the front line joined wounded from the rear line as the bullets shattered through the men. Over sixty Union soldiers fell in the first Rebel volley.

“Reload,” the order was automatic as Robert examined the condition of the Union force. Lieutenant Pace was picking himself up from the snow, having fallen from a combination of a misstep and shock. The look on the boy’s face said it all; this was nothing like what he had dreamed.

“Skirmishers, stand and fire at will,” beginning the sequence of battle again; they would repeat the same movements for as long as possible or until the Union men broke and ran from the field. Mechanics became the beat driving the battle; the rhythm of movements required to reload weapons, aim, and then fire repeated as the enemy tried to make the same efforts. This was the place a commander understood. He could do nothing but attempt to reinforce the rhythm until he saw a weakness he could exploit while maintaining a heroic image that the men could look to for courage; during battle, all men needed hope.

Robert saw Union soldiers fall, some dying as they struggled to rise from the snow, others wounded but upright and intent on continuing the fight. It was pain writ large across the field and etched into the very ground of the island.

The scars of Coal Island grew with each passing moment.