July 1 7,1863 10:00 P.M.

Sergeant, the regiment will form over here in column by companies."

Sgt. Maj. George Hazner, of the Fourteenth South Carolina, Scales's brigade, Pender's, now Perrin's division, saw the bobbing circle of lantern light and pushed his way through the confusion, shouting for his men to follow his lead. Colonel Brown pointed the way and Hazner saluted without comment

'Remember, Sergeant, keep the men quiet; I'm going over to get some information and will call you when I'm back. Let the men fall out, in position. No fires and stay in place."

Passing along the colonel's orders, Hazner watched with a critical eye as the small regiment staggered off the road and out into the cornfield.

Decimated at Gettysburg and again at Union Mills, the Fourteenth was a shadow of its former self, barely three hundred men under arms. After Union Mills the colonel had promoted him to sergeant major of the regiment, to fill one of the many gaps, a position he didn't really want since it kept him with the color company in battle, a decidedly unhealthy place to be. As for the increase in pay, it didn't really matter, it was in Confederate money anyhow and that kept buying less and less.

Hazner shifted the wad of tobacco in his mouth, nodded, and watched as Brown disappeared into the mist that was beginning to rise up from the damp ground.

The day.had been hot, humid, fortunately without rain. The march, a nightmare. The road was a mad confusion of troops, all funneling down this one pike, which had been chewed apart by the passage of the army, so that the macadamized surface was all broken up, turning into a gummy, white soup.

Every bridge was down, replaced in some cases with roughshod affairs of beams and planking torn off barns, but in several cases the men simply forded through the torrent At the last fording, just at twilight a drummer boy had been swept away, and then tangled under a log, where he had drowned before his comrades could pull him out

Hell of an irony, to survive Gettysburg and Union Mills, and then die in some no-name creek by pure bad luck.

He had no idea where the hell they were, where they were going, or what was coming, though he did have some strong suspicions.

The regiment was drawing itself up in a trampled-down field of corn, the rest of the brigade falling in around them, deploying out into line of regiments in company front. All around him he could hear murmuring, swearing, the muddy, slippery sound of shoes getting half sucked off in the gluey ground, stalks of chest-high corn getting knocked down.

Some stars were out, and by their dim glow he could barely catch the silhouette of their regimental flag being held aloft, marking the front of the column.

"Where's H Company?"

It was a lieutenant. He recognized the voice, Maury Hurt from H Company, wounded at Gettysburg but still in the ranks,, arm in a sling.

"Back of the column, sir."

"Hazner, that you?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

Hurt drew closer, a match was struck, and Hurt puffed a half-smoked cigar to light, his drawn face briefly illuminated in the glow.

"I think your company is forming up behind us, sir."

"Thanks, Hazner."

He hesitated for a second. "Sergeant, do you know what the hell is going on?"

"Damned if I know, sir, but from the looks of it, I'd say we're forming up for an attack."

"Sure looks mat way."

"But on what?"

Hazner looked around at the confusion, the dim outline of a column continuing forward on the road they had just filed off.

"I think it must be Washington, sir. Heard a cavalry trooper pass by a while ago, claiming he'd seen the dome of the Capitol up ahead."

He didn't need to add that since late in the afternoon everyone had been hearing artillery fire as well, some experts proclaiming that it had a deeper thump to it, meaning heavy guns.

The cigar tip glowed and Hazner looked at it longingly. One thing the Army of Northern Virginia had been well supplied with was tobacco, but they had long ago been disconnected from their supply lines back to Virginia and the coveted weed was now in high demand. The plug he had been chewing on was his last and he had been working it all day.

As if sensing his desire, Hurt took the cigar out of his mouth and offered a puff. The end was chewed, soggy, but Hazner gladly accepted and took a long, deep drag, inhaling the smoke so that his head swam for a moment.

He offered it back.

'Too bad about Major Williamson. I know he was your friend."

"Thanks," was all that Hazner could say.

The memory was still strong, the final moments of the battle before Union Mills, that last look at Williamson and then the ghastly impact of a mini6 ball shattering his skull. He had died wordlessly, not a sound, just slumping backward into the trench.

He didn't even know where John was buried. They had advanced, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Before moving out, he'd gone through John's pockets and found his diary. It was in his haversack now. He had been debating ever since whether to send it home or just simply burn it. The revelations about his comrade's fears, his failing of belief in the cause, even his desire for his fiancee-Hazner just didn't know how to react to it all.

Writing was something special. His friend had the gift for it After all, he was the son of a judge, educated, had even gone to college. Words, written words came easy to him. Writing- for Hazner that was a hard task, to be used simply to tell the folks back home you were all right maybe say how much you love them, but that should be it. To go on for pages about being afraid, confused, somehow it just didn't seem right

Even as he thought about it, his hand drifted to his haversack and the bulk of the diary inside, its cover stained with blood that had spilled onto it from Williamson's gaping wound.

"You write to his folks yet?" Hurt asked and the question startled him, as if the lieutenant were reading his mind. George shook his head. "I ain't got the hand for it."

"I'll help you if you want The judge needs to hear his son died valiantly, facing the enemy." "Yes, something like that." Hurt shifted comfortably, looking about. "Think we go in tonight?"

"Sure looks like it Column by companies usually don't mean we're settling down for the night." The cigar tip glowed again.

"By God, if this is Washington, tomorrow night we'll be eating oysters, drinking wine, smoking some damn good cigars, and the war will be over. Should be back home in time for harvest"-

"If we break through. Word is they've got fortifications all around the city like none we've ever seen."

"They're beat, Hazner. Beat I tell you. You saw them run at Union Mills."

"Yes, sir. I seen them run."

He said the words quietly, not reveling in it the way Hurt did. And for an instant he wondered if the jitters Williamson had were in some way transferred now to him through the diary he was carrying.

"Hazner, company officers' call. Pass the word/'

George turned to see Colonel Brown running back. He offered a hurried salute to the lieutenant and then passed through the ranks, men looking at him as he pushed through the formed lines, some asking what he knew, for Hazner was always one who knew what was going on.

He ignored them, quickly going back through the lines, letting the few company captains know the colonel wanted them. Most of the companies were commanded by young lieutenants, boys filled with ardent dreams of glory. They usually didn't last long.

He followed the officers back up to the front of the column where the colonel stood, holding a lantern but keeping it hooded with his cloak, the regimental color-bearer standing next to him, the flag marking the commander.

The men gathered around. As regimental sergeant major, Hazner knew he was now part of the group, so he edged his way in.