Rebel Hell

We barely get the blankets spread and the punch passed around when it starts. A scramble of whooping gray figures pour into the valley from unseen trenches.

As they descend on the old MacGregor farm below, that 20-pounder Parrott pokes its nose out of the tobacco barn like a shiny black hermit crab. It’s followed by a napoleon, a 12-pounder scuttling out of the smokehouse and a 3-incher from inside the chicken coop. 

As the whispy mass converges on the barnyard there’s a volley from the guns, soft pops muted by time. An unseen goat bleats in horror. Bombarded with invisible ordnance, the mob gives up a final cry and breaks into mist as the sun wanes.

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens — and as of tonight its been 155 times — the Mississippi Volunteers never expect the 19th Ohio to have an artillery unit up at the farm.