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Two years.
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Two long bloody years since the chaos at Bull Run.
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Private John Blake is uniformed now a faded reflection of its
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former glory crouched behind a crumbling stone wall at Antietam.
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The air vibrated with the relentless roar of musket fire.
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Unlike Bull Run, here the fight felt different.
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No clear lines, just a swirling vortex of death.
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John's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
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He missed the sight of Stonewall Jackson, the man who had become
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a symbol of Confederate defiance.
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Jackson, rumor had it, was delayed, capturing some damned federal outpost.
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John couldn't help but feel a tremor of fear without Jackson's stoic presence.
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Presence, the line felt brittle, easily shattered.
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Suddenly, a ragged cheer erupted from the Confederate right.
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John craned his neck, squinting through the smoke.
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There, amidst the carnage, stood Stonewall Jackson, his weathered face
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etched with a grim determination.
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A sense of relief washed over John.
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It was as if a dam had held and a surge of renewed confidence ran
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through the Confederate ranks.
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John watched, mesmerized, as Jackson surveyed the battlefield.
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He pointed, sparked orders, and within moments, Confederate
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reinforcements were streaming toward a particularly fierce Union assault.
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John could almost hear Jackson's voice, a steady counterpoint
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to the symphony of destruction.
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It was a far cry from the booming rally cry of Bull Run, yet it
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had the same unwavering resolve.
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But Antietam was a different beast.
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The day bled into a horrific stalemate.
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John, his ears ringing, his body screaming in protest, loaded
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and fired until his limbs ached.
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Each time he glimpsed Stonewall Jackson directing troops with the
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same unwavering determination.
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A flicker of hope rekindled as the sun dipped down below the horizon, casting
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long shadows across the battlefield and littered with dead and dying.
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The Union attack finally faltered.
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John slumped against the stone wall, his body spent.
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He saw Stonewall Jackson on a nearby rise, surveying the carnage.
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The man looked older, wearier.
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Yet his eyes still held that same steely glint.
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John knew the battle wasn't a decisive victory, but they had held.
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And that, in this bloody hell, felt like a triumph.
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As John drifted into an uneasy sleep, he thought of Stonewall Jackson as a symbol
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not just of defiance, but of resilience.
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A quality John desperately clung to in the face of an uncertain future.
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What you just heard is a teaser for our upcoming episode about our visit to the
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Lexington gravesite of Stonewall Jackson.
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Make sure you follow us on your podcast player of choice so you don't miss it.
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Jen and I just finished moving from Virginia to Tennessee and all that
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activity is finally catching up with us.
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So I wanted to let our listeners know we will be on a short break,
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no more than a couple weeks.
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As we get settled in, unpack the myriad of boxes around our house
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and figure out the lay of the land in the greater Memphis area.
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And until then, we're going to ask one thing of our regular listeners.
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There's an email link in the show notes that we want you to click.
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So you can write to us, let us know your favorite episode of talk with history.
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And why just pick the very first episode that pops in your mind.
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It doesn't matter what the reason we will collect those inputs and mention
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them when we come back from break.
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This is a great way for us to hear about what is working and why you are
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listeners like a particular episode.
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Don't be afraid to be as honest as possible.
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We really do love hearing from you, and this is a great way for
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us to get your valuable feedback.
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Click that one link in the show notes.
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It should open an email to us.
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Write as short or as long a note as you like.
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It would mean a lot to us.
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Thank you, as always, for your support.
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We'll talk to you soon.
