Death hissed across the smoke-laden cornfield, percussion shells thundering against the damp, loamy soil. With shaking hands, Private Tim Adams of the 14th Massachusetts Volunteer Rifle regiment clung to his Springfield rifle as he fumbled to reload it. Minie balls sizzled past his head and thumped against the dirt, the ground quaking beneath him. Parrott guns roared overhead, the Federal battery blasting away at the Rebs who rained molten lead on him and the other soldiers. The farm fields of Sharpsburg, Maryland swarmed with blue and gray and Tim longed for the safety of his bedroll. Anything to escape this hailstorm of musket balls and percussion shells!
Last night's cool rains had swirled thick, early morning fog across the fields. That shroud had concealed him and the others among the cornstalks, but now, the autumn sun burned it away, leaving the air heavy and muggy. Ahead, in the roiling battle smoke, butternut and gray uniforms flashed among the tall, dry cornstalks.
The regiment of fifty had never been in combat before--they'd never "seen the elephant" as the seasoned soldiers called it. It meant living through some of the worst moments life had to throw at you. Captain Benjamin Adams, Tim's Pa, had seen the elephant in the Mexican war--so had his oldest brother, Chris. And it killed him, too. Soon after, Captain Adams dismissed Tim from the regiment, on account of him being the only surviving son, but Tim had come to Sharpsburg anyway. He'd prove to his Pa that he could survive the elephant. And he'd make sure that his Pa came home.
The 14th Massachusetts had orders to route the Rebs in Mumma's swale, a low, swampy tract of land below, but the Rebs weren't ready to give up this cornfield yet or anything beyond it.
A minie ball snicked past Tim's face. He fell to his stomach, the dirt slick and smelling of blood, and steadied his rifle on a shattered cornstalk. Rod McIntyre and Avery Simms lay beside him, loading their Springfields. His father crouched several feet ahead at the front of the regiment, unaware that Tim had slipped into the line just east of Antietam creek. Some of the other New England regiments crouched beside them. So many men had fallen this day, and night was still a few hours away.
Wave after wave of rifle fire cut through the sprawling cornfield, scattering tall, dried stalks and ears of Indian corn. Like the swing of Death's scythe, the Rebs' intense fire cut down everything in its path. Clouds of hot, sulfury smoke hung over the field, choking Tim with heat and stench. His throat was raw, his canteen empty. Powder clung to his face and chafed his flesh as he huddled against the thin stalks.
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