Chapter Text
July 3rd, 1863 - Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
It was a drumroll.
That's what Nick thought, as his senses were deafened by the thrum of marching feet, resonating from the earth below and accompanied by cannon-fire on the horizon, at the top of the valley. Adrenaline pulsed in his ears. The drone of the gunfire, unrelenting in its monotony, reverberating through his chest as he lay low on the ground, just one small cog in a line of a hundred waiting Federal soldiers. The sound of bullets flying so familiar to him now that the weight of it had lost all meaning: the sound of death.
The sky was a haze of blue and orange, as the sun rose through the smoke and dust.
A drumroll for what? he wondered. What was coming for them? When would this campaign end, and at what cost? One month of chasing the Rebels along the Shenandoah Valley, and now two long, relentless days of fighting had passed, with no end in sight. His knuckles whitened around the rifle held under his shoulder, waiting. If he gripped tight enough, he could no longer feel the subtle but steady shaking of his hands.
He could see them in the distance, marching across an open field: the space that no one had dared to cross these two days past. It was madness. The Rebels couldn’t make it across, surely?
But they did. Nick watched them progress in silent horror. Though lines and lines of marching men were shot down in their pursuit, behind them, more kept coming. The artillery standing behind him fired shots overhead as the Rebel canons thundered towards them. He was faintly aware of officers behind him calling out orders, their tone growing subtly but ever more panicked as the enemy progressed towards them.
The ground exploded a few feet from him in a sea of dust, sending him up to his knees in a jolt. A thick, brown fog sprouted upwards, choking him. Blinded temporarily, he heard other men, coughing and crying out on the ground around him.
Nick dragged himself to his feet, unhurt, moving with the current of retreating bodies—of soldiers—all carrying him in one direction. He snapped his head round, searching for one person, one single man in an ocean of grey and blue.
“Josh! Josh!” he yelled hoarsely.
Nothing. No response. A prickling, rising feeling of dread numbed his senses. So sudden and so overwhelming that the only thing he could do with it was to try and block it out. He searched the faces around him. All exhausted, all slick with sweat; dirty, caked with mud and dust. Nick’s panic grew as he could not find his brother amongst them, who had been only a few yards from him moments before. He pushed back, moving against the flow, back towards where they’d been hit, calling out his name all the while.
Finally, he heard him:
“M’here,” Josh coughed from below Nick, down near his feet.
His brother’s cap was blown off; his wet, brown hair slick over his face; eyes read and bleary, blinded by dust like Nick had been. He was lying, weighted down under a fallen body. Dazed and confused. There was blood everywhere, but most of it, Nick realised, wasn't his. The man on top of him had a deep wound to his head. Warren Smith. Josh’s best friend. They'd known him since Josh was eight and Nick was six. The light was gone from his eyes. Just blank whites.
“Get up. Josh. Get up!” Nick urged, trying to swallow down the bile in his throat. He could hear the advancing forces coming for them. The line had broken. They had to get back behind the Union defences and reform.
He managed to get Josh to his feet.
“Warren...” Josh breathed out in shock as he locked on to the lifeless form of his friend. Nick felt a weakness fall on his brother. His limbs gave way and his body shrank in on itself, as if all the air had been pressed out of his lungs. Nick held him up with all the strength he had left in his aching limbs. There was no time. No moment for them to say goodbye.
He heard Pryce commanding from behind, on horseback.
“Get back in your line, soldiers!”
The soldiers clad in grey were at them, now. Nick swung around and was suddenly met with a clash of metal, a Rebel gunning for him with a bayonet. He managed to bring the barrel of his gun up to shield himself, and locked it against the enemy soldier’s weapon. The other man's face was older, red and twisted in effort, framed by a greying beard. Their eyes locked as Nick set his jaw and his adrenaline kicked in. A primal survival instinct. Fight or flight. He pushed away any fleeting thought of who the man was. Of his family, his motives, his hopes for the future. Swallow it down, he’d taught himself. None of that will help you here. It’s him or you.
And then, in an instant, the man was dead, struck by a bullet to the head in a cloud of red inches from Nick’s face. His heart leapt and he glanced to the side. It was Josh. Josh had fired the shot, his eyes dark and looking through him, somewhere far away. The suddenly lifeless body sank to its knees and collapsed on the floor in front of him. As it fell out of Nick’s view, a swarm of marching grey bodies was revealed advancing over the low defence wall and coming straight for them, only feet away. Nick braced himself for more, grimaced, and yelled out as he fired on them.
“Why do you want to fight, Nick?”
“For a better world, Mama. All the men are signing up.”
“Don’t do this for us. Please. We can manage. We’ll be alright.”
“I want to fight. It’s the right thing to do.”
That's what he had told her, reassuring her. Had it been a lie, even then? Maybe. But that was years ago, now. He no longer remembered what it was he was fighting for.
He knew the truth now.
War was Hell.
What good could possibly come from so much death?