Free They Met at Shiloh by Phillip Bryant

heads of the skirmish line through the intervening trees. Beyond the skirmishers, he saw moving forms in the distance, and a fence line leaped into view.
    Glancing to his left and right, he made out the weary faces of his pards. Gustavson was on his right, and Hildebrande and Huebner were directly behind him. The firing was still sporadic from both the skirmishers and the invisible enemy cavalry.
    Like the opening of a door releasing one from cramped confines, they stepped out from the forest and stood in front of a fence. Before them, in the dim blue of morning, they could see an open field and the dim outlines of the Fraley farm upon a slight rise three hundred yards from where the men of the 25th and 21st Missouri of Peabody’s brigade broke into view. Darting to and fro between the buildings and the opposing skirmish lines, the heads of the enemy could be seen appearing then disappearing in the field opposite. In the darkness, a small ditch could be made out that cut across the length of the field and separated the two skirmish lines. The skirmish line of the enemy held a position slightly elevated from theirs, and minié balls whizzed uncomfortably near.
    “Halt! Dress your line. Dress on the colors!” shouted Captain Schmitz.
    A sudden shifting of bodies ensued as the men dressed right and each one in turn pressured the man next to him to move to the right. Near the fence line the ground was uneven, and the act of moving to the right in the dark was unnerving. The morning dew made the field slippery, causing more than one man to stumble and draw a string of cursing from the file closers.
    The level of fire had not increased beyond the pop, pop, pop of the cavalry opposing them. Feeling confident that only a few volleys would be needed, the Federals stood confidently stolid. Robert looked down the line of men that seemed to disappear into the blackness. There was a confidence to be felt in numbers. A volley, a move forward, and another volley should scatter the cavalry and put them to flight.
    “Ready!”
    The shifting into the position of ready and the half cock of hammers echoed about the fence line. Robert felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement as the execution of incessant drilling was put to the test. The supreme test of mettle and bravery, honor, and devotion to cause was about to be displayed. Company officers and first sergeants kept a steady stream of chatter from behind.
    “Aim low.”
    “Send them sons of perdition straight to Hell.”
    “Aim for the discharges.”
    “Aim!”
    Four hundred muskets leveled upon the enemy, and four hundred hammers locked into firing position. Robert stood with his rifle to his shoulder. Huebner’s musket bounced unsteadily upon Robert’s cocked right arm, Gustavson’s on his left, forming a solid phalanx of iron that would in seconds be sent down the field into the enemy cavalry.
    “Fire!”
    As if by one action, a solid crack of sound exploded around them and briefly obscured their front in a cloud of smoke. A chorus of hurrahs erupted from the Federal line, celebrating the solidness of the volley. Hours of drill and discipline displayed in singular action swelled Robert and his pards with pride.
    “Load and come to the ready!”
    The smoke began to clear. They could see their enemy out in their front and around the farm buildings. The command to move forward was given, and Robert clambered over the rail fence and grabbed Huebner’s rifle so he could climb over as well. Dressing their lines once more, the command to forward march was shouted amid the increasing fire from the Confederates. Ineffectual skirmishing by both sides caused little damage in the darkness. The line was halted again at a ditch in the field. From here, the farm buildings and beyond could be seen more clearly. The field was wide and long and rimmed by forest. The enemy fire became more focused, and they could hear the uncomfortable zip of lead.
    “Ready!”
    Robert brought his rifle to the