The captain froze in place, turning, cocking his head. Another thump, then another

and another, until it merged into a steady, continual rumble.

Men who had been sitting on the lawn were up on their feet, looking about A murmur of voices arose, tent flaps opened, men sticking their heads out

The rumble continued, growing, echoing.

He stood silent, hat in hand, shawl draped over his shoulders.

It had begun.

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 4:45 A.M

In the predawn light Sergeant Major Hazner saw them coming back. One or two at first, then dozens, and now hundreds. Most were wounded, cradling shattered arms, dragging a broken leg, or staggering, bent over, clutching a stomach wound, which all knew was inevitably the beginning of the end.

Moving up to the starting position occupied by Petti-grew's division before they went in, the men of the Fourteenth South Carolina, along with the other regiments of Scales's brigade, had deployed into a shallow defile, cut at the bottom by a flooded stream, and there they had waited for more than an hour. All was confusion, the last mile of the advance through brush, an orchard, a farmer's woodlot. At least a third of the men in the regiment had disappeared in the advance, to be replaced by men from several other regiments. He had simply pushed them into formation with his own companies. They could fight now and sort it out later; he promised them that the colonel would give them affidavits confirming that they had not deserted or dodged the battle. Some of the men were strays from Pettigrew, and as they saw their comrades coming back, more than one expressed outright relief that they had become lost during the advance to the final line before going in.

The roar of battle ahead was continuous. When the first shots had been fired, a wild, hysterical cry went up, the rebel yell, but gradually that had been replaced by the more disciplined, almost mechanical "huzzah" of the Union troops.

Colonel Brown was gone, called forward to an officers' meeting, and, now alone, Hazner paced the line, moving from company to company, offering reassurance to the men, who looked up anxiously, faces pale, as they heard the inferno roaring just ahead.

A panicked lieutenant came staggering back through the lines, blood from a head wound covering the front of his jacket

"Gone, all gone. My God, my men! My men!"

He staggered through the ranks, spreading dismay, no one touching him or offering help, for they were forbidden to do so.

Hazner watched him disappear into the mist and smoke. Young Lieutenant Hurt came up to join him, obviously nervous.

"It looks bad."

"It always does, Lieutenant. Watch a battle from the rear, it always looks like defeat."

"Pettigrew should have broken through by now." "Most likely he has."

Hazner knew it was a lie. Someone would have come back down the road by now, proclaiming victory, the rebel yell echoing through the fog from the battle line. All that could be heard was the continual staccato of musketry, cannon fire, and the whirl of spent canister cracking through the trees overhead, clipped branches raining down.

Mortar shells were coming down at random, detonating in the treetops, some crashing down into the assembled ranks of the division, screams following each explosion. It was obvious that their gunners knew of this defile, assumed it was packed with troops, and knew the range to hit it. Though sporadic, the shelling was unnerving.

"Fourteenth South Carolina!"

He looked back to the front rania and saw the color company standing up, the regimental flag bearer shaking out his colors, holding them aloft Without comment to Hurt, Hazner pushed his way back through the ranks of men still lying on the ground.

Colonel Brown was back, sword drawn. Hazner came up and saluted.

"We're going in, Hazner." "What's the news, sir?"

Brown looked at him appraisingly and then wiped his face. In spite of the morning chill, he was sweating.

"Bad. Pettigrew was repulsed all along the line. Some of the men broke through into the fort, we were almost sent in to expand it, but they were thrown back. Pettigrew is down, they say he's dead. A bad day for North Carolina."

He hesitated.

"Now it's our turn. We'll set it right."

Brown stepped past Hazner and held his sword aloft

"South Carolina! Men of the Fourteenth! Up men, up!"

The regiment came to its feet, officers and sergeants moving through the packed ranks, which were deployed in a solid square, the men of A Company in two ranks forward, followed by B Company, and so on, back to the last line, three hundred men in a small phalanx, fifteen men wide and twenty deep. To either flank were their comrades of the other regiments of Scales's brigade… men who had taken every field of battle they had ever advanced across.

"Fourteenth South Carolina! Now is our time! We will advance in column and take that damn Yankee fort. Once we are into it, Washington will be ours and on this day this war will be won. Do you wish history to remember that it was South Carolina that won this day?"

A shout went up from the ranks. Hazner looked around and saw that the hours of silence, of watching, of fear, were swept away. The battle lust was upon them again.

"Parson. Say some words!"

A graying captain, unofficial minister of the regiment, stepped through the ranks and took off his hat, the men following, all lowering their heads, even Hazner.

"Hearken to the word of our Lord. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day…"'

As the preacher continued to recite from the Ninety-first Psalm, Hazner looked up. Most of the men stood with heads bowed, eyes squeezed shut. Many had their Bibles out, clutching them fervently. More than one was shaking. A young boy, ashen-faced in the dawning light, suddenly bent double and vomited; a comrade, his older brother, reaching out and gently rubbing his shoulders. A few of the men, those without faith, stood in respectful silence, one meditatively chewing on a wad, waiting to spit, a couple of others silently passing a nearly empty bottle back and forth. A sharp look from Hazner caused the one holding the bottle to shrug, take the last sip, and then without fanfare quietly lay it down on the ground.

"Have faith in our Lord this day and remember that they who do not camp with us this evening will sup instead in Heaven."

"I'll skip that meal if I can," one of the drinkers whispered, and a few of the men around him chuckled, even as they continued to keep their heads lowered.

In the regiment beside the Fourteenth, a group of Catholics, men from Ireland, were on their knees, reciting a prayer "… Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen." They made their sign of the cross and stood up, many of them taking their rosaries and hanging them around their necks.

Hazner found he could not say anything, he could not pray, he could not beg for intervention now. If the preacher said that a thousand shall fall by one's side, then surely someone who prayed here would be among those fallen. How could one beg God now to change that? To save his miserable hide while one of the devout stood praying, Bible in hand. Williamson had spent many an hour contemplating that and what did it get him in the end?… a bullet in the head and now he was gone.

He wanted to have faith, but found that now, standing here, waiting to go in, he did not. He wished with all his heart that he could have the simple faith and the calm assurance of the preacher, who, as he went back through the ranks, took the hands of many a man, smiling, as if what was to come was no longer a concern, for all had already been decided.

A muffled shout went up. It was General Scales, riding across the front of the column, sword out, held aloft, pointing toward the fight He swung down off his mount slapped its rump, and sent it running.