Gettysburg

Chapter Thirteen

8:00 AM, JULY 3,1863

IN FRONT OF TANEYTOWN

Ignoring the hum of minie balls clipping through the trees, Col. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain carefully scanned the enemy position half a mile to the south.

"Over there, to the right, about two miles away, is where" Buford was killed yesterday," Strong Vincent, Joshua's brigade commander, pointed out

Joshua and the other regimental commanders around him said nothing. Several cavalry troopers from that fight who had fallen back into the advancing regiments of First Division, Fifth Corps, and were now acting as guides, nodded.

"Goddamn bastards!" one of them growled and spit a stream of tobacco juice near Joshua's feet

"So we're back in Maryland, gentlemen," Strong said.

Joshua looked over at him. He liked Strong, newly promoted to brigade command. Strange, he remembered a comment by Strong a couple of days earlier, about dying under the colors in Pennsylvania. He half suspected it was a prophecy, for men were indeed allowed, at times, a glimpse of the fate ahead.

He was tired, feeling a bit shaky, the regiments having been rousted out at two in the morning and sent back down the very same road they had come up only the day before. A countermarch always sapped morale, especially when done at night. Rumors were flying that the army had been flanked yet again.

The distant pillar of smoke, off to the southeast, was troubling as well. It looked like a great conflagration, and rumors were spreading it was the main supply depot at Westminster.

"Gentlemen, we're the right wing of this attack," Strong announced. "Crawford's division, which positioned itself here last night, attempted a drive on Taneytown at dawn and was repulsed. General Sykes has decided that in this next attack the entire corps will go in at once."

Joshua listened, raising his field glasses to scan the ground. A couple of hundred yards to die right, it sloped down sharply to Monocacy Creek. Directly ahead was a small tributary, locals called it Piney Creek, again the land dropping down, marshy terrain, then up a slope to the other side… where he could see Reb skirmishers waiting.

"The First and Second Brigades of this division will open the assault," Strong continued. "Our brigade will be in echelon on the right as the reserve: The objective of the attack is to cut straight into Taneytown. Once over the creek, we move across the open plateau and envelop the town. Our brigade will advance covering the flank."

Joshua lowered his glasses and looked at the sketch map Strong was holding up against the trunk of a tree.

"Confederate forces on our right?" Joshua asked.

"Supposedly nothing."

Joshua said nothing for a moment "Are we certain of that sir?"

Strong sighed and looked over at one of the cavalry troopers, a lieutenant who simply shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"We're not certain, Colonel Chamberlain, but General Sykes believes that the bulk of the rebel army has passed and is now deployed between Taneytown and Westminster."

"Whether they are or not sir, why not move on the bridge, the one Buford tried to hold yesterday? That would be the natural barrier for the right to secure our flank as we advance. If we go charging straight into Taneytown and our right is totally exposed, we could be shattered just like Jackson rolling up the Eleventh Corps at Chancellorsville. It makes me uneasy." Strong nodded.

"General Sykes says there's only this one corps, Colonel Chamberlain, and if we try to advance on a front from the bridge to the town, we'll be spread out across four miles or more. He wants a concentrated attack. Besides, the town is most likely where they are basing supplies."

Joshua did not reply. If Sykes had given that order, there was no sense in troubling Strong about it now. Colonels don't countermand corps commanders.

Vincent pulled his watch out, opened it, and then muttered a curse as he started to wind the stem.

"We're already late. We were supposed to go in at approximately ten o'clock. Get your men in formation as I've outlined. The signal will be the massed firing of the batteries now going into position at the center of our line."

The other regimental commanders saluted and started back to their troops, who were resting in columns on the far side of the village of Harney. Joshua lingered for a moment, and Strong looked over at him.

There was a close bond between the two. Only a short while ago Strong was a regimental commander like Joshua, more experienced and gladly willing to share what he knew with Joshua. "What are you thinking?" Strong asked.

"Don't like it. We're just asking to get hit from the flank. Being vulnerable against Bobbie Lee just makes my stomach ache."

Strong chuckled softly. "That's what this war is like." "I have no idea what is going on with this army, how we got flanked, if we're being supported, or not. Do you?" Vincent said nothing. "So we are alone out here?"

"Looks that way. I heard most of the army is moving toward Westminster. We're the right flank."

"Strong, if they have not completed their march, which seems likely when you consider the amount of men and the time involved, we'll be flanked in turn."

"I know that," Strong replied.

Joshua smiled.

"You figure, then, that we will wind up holding the flank. Is that it?"

"Something like that." "Can't we send out a recon." Strong shook his head.

"Sykes tried after his first probe was turned back. They have a heavy screen of skirmishers out from here clear back to Emmitsburg that can't be penetrated. Also, with Sykes I talked to a couple of staff. They said that around three this morning, headquarters was in a damn panic. Joshua, they're between us and Washington now. You know what that means."

"We attack no matter what"

Strong said nothing, but the look he gave said it all.

Another bullet zipped through the trees, clipping a branch over their heads. Amusingly a squirrel, which had been sitting on the branch, jumped off, chattering loudly. The. two watched it race up the trunk and disappear into the top of the oak.

They could see the skirmisher who had fired across the creek, just a couple of hundred yards off. One of the cavalry troopers, who had stayed behind, drew a bead with his carbine, fired, and the Reb scurried back up the bank of the creek and into the tangle of brush.

Vincent, without saying a word, stepped back slightly, putting the trunk of the oak between himself and the other side. He caught Joshua's glance and grinned. "Stupid way to die, the two of us standing out here gabbing."

Joshua joined him.

"You hear about Adelbert?" Vincent asked. "General Ames?" and Joshua felt a cold chill. "Killed the first night in front of the cemetery." Joshua lowered his head and looked away. Ames had been the commander of the Twentieth Maine who had greeted Joshua to the regiment with the comment, "Just what the hell am I supposed to do with a book-learning professor?" Word of that one got around and was now something of a joke, one that 'Vincent appreciated.

Ames had taught Joshua nearly everything he knew about soldiering, and he had transformed the Twentieth from a rabble of farmers, loggers, fishermen, and clerks to a fine-edged killing machine. Ames had then moved up to brigade command with Eleventh Corps and Joshua had taken over the Twentieth.

And now Ames was dead.

A couple of more bullets slapped pass, one scoring the bark off of the oak only inches from Joshua's head.

"Ah, sirs, if all you're doing is chatting, maybe you'd better get back," a trooper announced, firing a reply. "Them bastards have seen you. And they sure love killin' officers."

Joshua looked over at the trooper and nodded a thanks. Together, he and Strong walked back through the woods and the line of Union skirmishers, who were lying down on the thick that of leaves and green ferns with orders to not engage until the attack went in.

As they cleared the woods, the open field around the village of Harney was swarming with troops forming into lines of battle.

This was a moment Joshua both loved and hated. The sight of thousands of men falling into the long, double ranks, muskets flashing in the hazy light, blue uniforms almost like a black wall as the line stretched out across hundreds of yards, colors getting unfurled, bronze barrels of Napoleon twelve-pounders flashing in the sunlight, swinging into position; it set his heart racing.

And it always took too damn long. Crawford had been down here the evening before, made a half-hearted attack at dawn, came back across the creek, and now the other two divisions, men who had been up since shortly after midnight, were wearily deploying out.

A lone regiment could be shifted from column of march to battle line in a matter of a few minutes. An entire corps with more than forty regiments filling half a dozen miles of road could take three hours or more.

Three hours of waiting, your stomach knotting, men standing, sweltering in the heat, some so nervous that they'd suddenly turn, stagger back a few feet and vomit, or surfer the embarrassment of a sudden onset of diarrhea, and even the bravest could succumb. "Old soldier's heart" would strike many, palpitations so fierce that it felt as if your chest would explode. It had hit Joshua once, and for a few minutes he actually feared his heart was exploding and he would die.

Every man had his ritual; some prayed, with pocket Bible out, reading their favorite verses, lips moving silently. Some prayed loudly, calling on God to watch over them, their voices pitched to a near hysteria. If allowed to sit, many would pull out a pencil, find a scrap of paper, and try to pen a farewell sentiment Others would try to show a complete indifference, playing cards, telling jokes, or making ribald jests about others who were praying or crying… though even that was an act

It was the waiting that was wearing. Once it started, then came the rush, the exultation, and, yes, the terror, but at last you were in it It was the waiting that exhausted you and made you wonder, as well, just what in God's name were the generals doing?

And that is what Joshua wondered now: What were they doing?

10:00 AM, JULY 3,1863

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC IN THE FIELD NEAR LITTLESTOWN

Henry Hunt slowed, head cocked, listening carefully. Artillery, felt more than actually heard, a distant echoing thumping, almost like the sound when a woman at a neighboring farm was beating carpets for spring cleaning.

The long, swaying column of men, filling the road ahead and behind, most not hearing; the "feel" of gunfire was drowned out by the rhythmic tramping of feet, banging of tin cups on canteens, the myriad of sounds of an army on the march.

He pushed up from the road, riding to a low rise, and reined in. Again the thumping. It rose for a moment, dropped away.

Taneytown? Was Fifth Corps going in?

It was silent again, except for the steady rumble of troops passing on the road below. The pike, which ran from Gettysburg to Westminster and Baltimore beyond, was packed with men, an entire army on the march, dust kicking up and hanging over the road in a low, choking cloud, the morning air heavy, humid.

The men were quiet, marching with heads bent, muskets slung over shoulders, the side of the road already littered with blanket rolls and packs shed as the slow, weary miles passed. Stragglers were falling out, collapsing in exhaustion, provost guards trailing to the rear of each brigade checking the men, giving out passes when it was obvious the soldier was played out, prodding back into line with a sword tip those who were malingering.

The sky was hazy, promising a day of stifling heat The village of Littlestown was directly ahead, the column of troops pressing through it and continuing on toward Westminster.

The smoke from the fire ahead was spreading out on the horizon, a dull, dark cloud staining the gray sky. All the men could see it and they figured it out soon enough; the army's main supply depot was burning. More than one of the veterans in the dark, swaying columns were saying it was Second Bull Run all over again.

No, it's worse, Henry thought Far worse. At Second Bull Run only part of the army had been cut off, and if need be the depot at Manassas could indeed be bypassed, with a single day's march bringing the troops back into Washington and its fortifications. Now they were seventy miles out from Washington. Now the enemy was holding ground that he and

Warren had surveyed only two days ago, and he more than anyone else knew how good a spot that was for the defending side.

Henry nudged his mount, weaving around torn-down fences, trampled crops, and empty pastureland. Stuart's men had passed up this road on June 30th, followed then by the Union's Sixth Corps only yesterday, and now four more corps of the Union army were passing down it yet again in the opposite direction. The macadamized paving was disintegrating under the stress; farm wells had been drunk dry. Fences were used as firewood, chickens, pigs, cows, and horses disappearing. The campaign was exhausting the land, "just as the ceaseless marching and countermarching were exhausting the men.

Hunt entered the town, the long column of troops standing still while a mule that had collapsed was cut away from the traces of aa ammunition wagon and dragged to the side of the road. Muskets grounded, the men leaned against their weapons for support. Some looked up as he passed; others stood with heads hung low, leaning against their muskets, too exhausted to note his passing. Nothing was said. He could sense that sullenness, their anger and confusion over this turn of events.

The flag of the army commander hung limp over the entryway of a church just beyond the center of town. Headquarters was always easy enough to spot even without a flag. Staff, couriers, and reporters were always clustered about.

Hunt dismounted and slowly walked up the steps into the cool darkness of the church, ignoring the shouted questions of several reporters who tried to intercept him. They knew a major story was developing and were begging for a comment that they could then chop up as they saw fit. He avoided them as he always did.

Meade was in the cool darkness of the church, leaning against a pew, surrounded by staff, bent over a map spread out on a table dragged into the main aisle of the church. Butterfield, chief of staff, was leaning over the map, drawing a line with a pencil.

General Slocum, commander of Twelfth Corps, which was now passing through the town, stood by Meade's side; Sickles was sitting in a pew with arms folded, gazing off, his body tense with controlled fury and frustration, surrounded by his staff.

Meade looked up at Henry's approach and motioned him to approach.

"What's the situation?" Butterfield asked.

"As. ordered, I stayed behind to ensure the proper withdrawal of artillery," Henry said. "The Artillery Reserve should be getting on the road by now. When I left Gettysburg," he paused, trying to remember the time exactly, "at seven-thirty this morning, Sixth Corps was just starting to file out

'Third Corps," and he looked over at Sickles, "was moving in good order; I passed the head of their column about two miles above the town."

Henry moved to an opening around the table; Meade looked up at him. The map was hand-sketched, and he realized it was based on the survey done by Warren and himself of the Pipe Creek line.

"They're moving into the line," Meade said, "my line, the one I selected."

Henry could detect the hint of weariness and desperation in Meade's voice. Not a good sign.

"Hancock reports Longstreet has taken Union Mills."

"They have Westminster," Butterfield interjected.

"I could see it on the road; that fire could be nothing else but Westminster," Henry replied.

"The situation back in Gettysburg?" Meade asked.

"Still some skirmishing north of town with Stuart. Howard sent a brigade out just after dawn and pushed up to the Lutheran seminary. Ewell is gone."

Henry paused. He had ridden up to take a look before turning about to head south. Union dead carpeted the landscape, many of them the old Iron Brigade, which had made the last-ditch stand around the seminary. The building was a hospital, packed with Union wounded who had been left behind, along with Confederate wounded too critical to move. The air reeked of death and torn flesh.

"I talked with one of our surgeons," Henry continued. "He'd been captured on the first day and then left behind as the Rebs pulled out He said the Confederate army started moving before dawn yesterday, the last of their infantry abandoning the line before midnight. All of them were heading west, and then it looked to be south. He overheard several rebel officers talking about getting around our left"

Henry almost wanted to add that Sickles's assumption had indeed been right, but knew that would only make the situation worse.

"The road to Fairfield, as I said," Sickles interjected, looking back at Henry.

Henry ignored him.

"So the only thing they have left up around Gettysburg is cavalry?" Meade asked. "Yes, sir."

Meade nodded, looking back at Butterfield.

"Our cavalry will have to focus on Stuart," Meade said, "but if their infantry is gone, I think it's safe to pull either First or Eleventh Corps down here."

"It's a nightmare up there," Henry said. "From what I saw, there must be six to seven thousand wounded in the town and surrounding area, a couple of thousand of them rebels. The area has to be secured and help brought in."

'I'd suggest Eleventh Corps stays behind, and we put First Corps on the road down here later in the day," Butterfield replied, and Henry nodded in agreement

The First and Eleventh had sustained over 50 percent casualties, but the old First still had a fighting edge to it The morale of the Eleventh was totally gone after the rout at Chancellorsville and the brutal first day's fight at Gettysburg, the few good units left in that formation having been annihilated in the battle for Cemetery Hill.

"Did you say that this surgeon reported the last rebel infantry left Gettysburg around midnight?" Sickles interjected, now standing up and joining the group around the map. "Yes, sir."

Sickles looked over significantly at Meade. "Then what we talked about before," Sickles said. "I'd like to press that case again."

Meade lowered his head.

"We know Longstreet is at Westminster," Sickles continued. "We're almost certain Hill is down there as well. So where is Ewell? Still on the road, most likely."

Sickles pulled out his pocket watch and opened it.

"It's Shortly after ten in the morning. If his corps left Gettysburg around midnight and then did a night march, they've covered fifteen, twenty miles at most. That would put them between Emmitsburg and Taneytown. You only have Fifth Corps attacking there."

"That's all that will be there," Meade replied stiffly.

"My corps will be coming into this town within the hour," Sickles continued.

From the look on Meade's face, Henry sensed that this argument had been going on for some time.

"All they have to do is turn off on to the road between here and Taneytown. Let me support the attack on the right. Do that and we can cut off the tail of Lee's advance and put ourselves between his army and their line of supplies and communication."

"General Sickles, he doesn't need a line of supply now," Butterfield interjected. "He has ours."

"But…" and before he could get another word out, Meade exploded. "Goddamn it, Sickles, it is our line of supply and communications that's the issue now! They are between us and Washington."

'To hell with Washington," Sickles muttered. "They've got enough men behind the fortifications to hold. We're dancing to Lee's tune; let's make him dance to ours for once."

'To hell with Washington?" Meade gasped. "Good God, man, they are bound to be in a panic down there. If Stanton can find a way, he'll get a message to me and it will be one word, just one word… 'Attack!'"

Meade looked back at the map and shook his head. "They're running around down there like headless chickens. Every newspaper will be screaming panic. Where's the army, Washington surrounded, Meade lost. You're a Goddamn politician, Sickles. You know it even better than I do how they'll react"

"I'm a general now," Sickles said coldly.

"For the moment," Meade snapped.

"Are you threatening my command?" Sickles retorted.

Meade looked up at him a dark fire in his eyes.

"I warned you about this yesterday," Sickles pressed, and Henry turned away. Goddamn, now was not the time to bring that up.

"Do you want me to put it in writing?" Meade shouted. "General Sickles guessed right. Then when you run for president you can claim you could have won the battle at Gettysburg? Is that what you want?"

"I want us to win," Henry said, his voice pitched even, leaning over the table, wondering if his interruption would bring the wrath of both generals down on him. Damn all, now was not the time to argue; it was a time to make decisions and carry them through.

The two looked over at him. There was a flicker of a smile on Butterfield's face.

Meade exhaled noisily and nodded.

Sickles, still fuming, leaned back against the pew across from Meade.

"General Sickles, by the time your corps marched from here down to Taneytown, it will be mid to late afternoon," Henry said. "If your assumption is correct, that Ewell is on the road, it won't matter by then; they'll have moved down to here."

He looked up at Sickles as he spoke, but there was no response. Yet again, the irony of it Henry thought Sickles was right yesterday morning, even yesterday afternoon when he pressed to move straight down on Emmitsburg or support Sykes toward Taneytown. But that was too late now. Meade wanted the concentration on Westminster, a natural instinct, hoping to get the bulk of his troops there before Lee. It was obvious, though, that Meade had just lost the race, maybe by not more than an hour or two, but lost it all the same. That would haunt him. Sickles was positioning himself to be the ghost who did the haunting.

The question now, however, was what to do. By the end of the day, Meade could bring four corps into position across from Union Mills. If First Corps came down from Gettysburg, it'd be up to five corps. Then what?

Meade, as if reading Henry's mind, looked back down at the map. "Hunt, you're the only one here who's seen the entire line along Pipe Creek."

"It's a natural defensive position," Henry said, tracing the position out on the map.

"The area around Union Mills has an open ridge rising up a hundred and fifty feet or more from the flat, open land flanking the stream. Our side is slightly higher, which could give us a small advantage with artillery.

"Their right flank is guarded by a millpond and a very steep slope, which turns to the south, offering a natural anchor point"

"What about their left flank at Union Mills?" Butterfield asked. "Maybe we can go around them?" Meade shook his head.

"We shift to the right toward Fifth Corps, that takes us even farther away from Washington. It's Washington, damn it. We must reestablish contact with it"

"Then shifting to the left?" Butterfield offered.

"The roads just don't work for us," Henry replied. "There's a high ridge they can deploy along for half a dozen miles to the east. It'll take another day to even try to reposition to the left. In turn, that will draw the rebel army straight into Baltimore, which will cut Washington off by rail and telegraph from the North."

"It might already be cut" Butterfield said.

Meade shook his head.

"Not yet. Lee is concentrating. He knows he can't turn and move on Washington or Baltimore with us at his back."

The room was silent for a moment

"What about waiting him out?" Butterfield offered.

"We can't" Meade replied bitterly. "They have the supplies now, and we don't. In three to five days, we'll be near starving. The only reserve ammunition we have is what we brought up with us to Gettysburg; Lee now has the rest. We can't disperse with Lee there and with that damn Stuart wandering around behind us. Lee has the line, and he's begging us to attack.

"And Washington, they'll all be screaming bloody murder. I have to attack; I have to! Once we bring the four corps on this road into line we go in. That will be nearly fifty thousand men, supported by all of Hunt's guns, two hundred pieces. One hard assault and I think we can batter our way through. We take Westminster back, re-establish contact with Washington, and Lee will be forced then to either attack us or withdraw."

Henry was silent looking at the map. A momentum was developing, like a train that had lost its breaks and was rolling downhill. The army was moving south; Lee was in the way. There was no way to turn it around yet again, to perhaps fall back on Harrisburg. Do that and every anti-administration paper in the country would be screaming about cowardice and defeat Stanton would hang Meade. Then who would get the army? Sedgwick, who was notorious for being slow, maybe even Sickles as a compromise to his Democratic party cronies?

Meade looked up wearily at Henry. "Go down to Union Mills. You already know the ground. Start picking out your positions. I want the artillery concentrated the way you keep talking about"

Henry nodded and tried to suppress the slight flicker of a smile.

"Knowing Hancock, he's most likely trying to force the position even now. Perhaps we'll get lucky, but if Longstreet is there already, I doubt if one corps can do the job."

"Pick your spot well, Hunt I want every gun you've got on the line. Tomorrow morning we punch a way through. I'll come along shortly."

Henry saluted and left the church, yet again ignoring the reporters shouting questions as he mounted up, motioning for his staff to follow.

The troops in the street were moving again, wearily shuffling along; the morning heat was already trapped in the street by the buildings, everything and everybody coated in a choking cloud of dust.

Off to the right he could hear the thunder building. Fifth Corps was going in.

10:30 AM, JULY 3,1863

THE ANTRIM, TANEYTOWN

Leaning against the railing of the "widow's walk," of the Antrim mansion, four stories above the surrounding countryside, Robert E. Lee trained his field glasses on the roiling clouds of smoke billowing up just to the north of town. The battlefront was spreading out the sound growing wider, the high crackling of musketry punctuated by the deeper thump of massed artillery.

Another courier came galloping down the street from the north, and a minute later he heard the heavy clump of boots racing up the stairs. The young lieutenant stopped beneath the ladder up to the widow's walk and Lee nodded, motioning for him to come up.

The boy saluted and handed the dispatch over.

10 AM. July 3 North of Taneytown

Sir,

I believe that I am now facing the entire Fifth Corps of the Union army. My ability to hold the forward position assigned is rapidly being compromised by flanking forces both to the east and west. Prisoners indicate that the entire Union army is moving in this direction. I request additional support.

J. B.Hood

Lee handed the note to Walter Taylor. As Walter read the note, Lee gazed back to the north and then west, the road to Emmitsburg. Rodes's division was wearily marching past, dust swirling up, the men staggering after a twelve-hour march. Behind them Johnson's division, which had been so badly mauled at Gettysburg, should be coming up, followed at last by Pickett At last report he was approaching Emmitsburg from over the mountains to the west

He balanced the odds. McLaws had two brigades in Westminster, the other two going into position at Union Mills. The three divisions of Hill's corps were moving toward Union Mills and Westminster, all three of them having suffered some loss at Gettysburg, especially Heth's, which was now commanded by Pettigrew.

If I really thought about this risk, Lee thought I'd freeze. Part of one division holding the forward flank of the line, another division here barely securing our main road of advance, and three divisions badly hit two days ago maneuvering to get into line in front of Westminster. Ewell's men were exhausted after an all-night march, all three of his divisions having been engaged the day before. They needed to rest; at best they'll be ready tomorrow for a fight but not today, and the same stood true of Hill's men.

If indeed Hood was right and the prisoner reports were true, in two hours the Union army could be through my line of march, cutting off two divisions to the west throwing the whole plan into chaos.

The goal of this campaign is Westminster, but to secure it we must hold Taneytown until the army has passed. Every man cut off, or tied up here, might be the crucial difference. If need be, Johnson can be used to support Hood, though the men of that division were badly fought out from the doomed assault at Gettysburg.

But if I don't reinforce Longstreet, and Meade is driving not here, but to Westminster, I lose that; they slip around my right, slide into the defenses around Washington, and this madness continues.

Washington, just what is Meade getting from Washington right now? That was easy to surmise, remembering the panic of only a year ago when it looked as if McClellan would indeed gain Richmond. Few politicians can see beyond the moment, to the broader strategies that can win a war, tying the hands of those who, in the next breath, they berate for having followed their orders and then lose as a result

Stanton, Lincoln, and every politician in that town will pressure the Army of the Potomac to attack. And the quickest path to attack is Westminster. That is where he'll concentrate and drive for.

Lee looked back to the courier.

'Tell General Hood that I appreciate his concern, but at this moment can spare no reserves; I must push every available man toward Westminster. I know General Hood will do his utmost to hold the line assigned. Tell him I expect that he shall be careful of his own well-being and to keep me appraised."

The courier nodded, obviously disappointed by the orders. He repeated them dutifully then descended the ladder.

Walter looked at Lee, who smiled. "Our nerve, Walter. We must keep our nerve. Hood must hold, and we must shift the army to the right If we get tangled up in a fight here, we could lose everywhere. Hood must hold."

11:45 AM, JULY 3,1863

UNION MILLS

"He's going to do it" Porter Alexander, Longstreet's corps artillery commander, shouted, pointing across the valley to the north side of Pipe Creek.

Longstreet intent on watching as the men of Barksdale's brigade furiously dug in, looked up.

Along the crest of the ridge, twelve hundred yards to the north, a line of skirmishers was in view, followed a moment later by a battle line of Union troops, a quarter of a mile wide.

He raised his glasses, scanning the advancing troops.

"A division at least," he remarked to Alexander.

Some of Barksdale's men stopped in their backbreaking labor and looked up. "Keep at it!" Longstreet shouted. "They won't be here for fifteen minutes. Keep at it!"

The men reluctantly stooped back over. Across the crest of the hill looking down on the mill, Barksdale's boys were digging in. Dirt was flying as men dug away with bayonets, canteens split in half, and the few precious shovels that someone had thrown into an ammunition wagon.

Saplings and low brush down along the slope, which flattened out into the bottomland of the creek, were being cut back to deny cover, and several hundred men were swarming over the mill, tearing off planks, clearing out the stacked-up lumber alongside the mill, and dragging the loot uphill to reinforce the trench.

The artillery batteries were better equipped for this kind of work, the crews laboring to build up lunettes, crescent-shaped earthworks around each gun, which Alexander had personally set in place.

The few scattered trees were going down as well, dropped by men who had an ax or hatchet with them. Sharpened stakes were being cut to drive into the ground, branches dragged into place and then tied to the stakes to act as a barrier to slow down a charge.

But his men, arriving exhausted, had only been at work a couple of hours. A day here, with fresh troops, Longstreet thought wistfully, even twelve hours, and I could turn this into a fortress that could stop ten times their numbers. The earthwork was barely knee-high in places, the ground hard and flinty.

Wofford's brigade had fallen in on the left of Barksdale only an hour ago, their line barely traced out The four batteries assigned to McLaws were up, positioned between the two brigades, but short of ammunition after the action in front of Westminster. The Confederate army might have stumbled onto the biggest bonanza of the war in Westminster, but the town was still burning, reports indicating that it was utter chaos, McLaws's remaining two brigades struggling to round up prisoners, sort out some supplies to send up to Union Mills, and fight the fire sweeping the town.

Barksdale came up to Longstreet, white hair hanging limp, covered in sweat from the heat "Should I get the boys formed?"

"Five more minutes."

The minutes slowly ticked by.

Longstreet finally turned and nodded. "Order your men to arms."

Barksdale let out a whoop and took off at a gallop, shouting for his men to form. Bugles echoed, drummers picking up the long roll, and the men of his command eagerly scrambled out of the dusty trench to where weapons and uniform jackets were stacked twenty yards to the rear.

The Yankee line was less than a thousand yards off, and now a second battle line emerged, this one moving on the oblique to the right

Alexander waited quietly by Longstreet's side. The young artilleryman was calm, not begging for orders, knowing that he had to go with what little ammunition he had.

A Union battery crested the hill, six pieces, moving fast, guns skidding around as they swung into line abreast. A second battery came up and then a third. The infantry advance slowed and then halted, standing roughly eight hundred yards off, left flank into the edge of the small village on the other side.

Longstreet nodded to himself. Hancock knew he had to take this place, that he was most likely only facing two brigades. He wasn't going to make the mistake of feeding his men in piecemeal, the way it had been done too often by the Yankees. He would bring up every man and gun he had and then throw it all in at once.

The first gun on the other side fired; six seconds later the shot roared in, plowing up a furrow of earth in front of the First North Carolina Artillery. The gunners from Carolina hooted derisively. Seconds later the other guns of the battery opened, and a minute later another battery joined in.

The Tarheel gunners were soon down on the ground, hugging the earth behind the lunettes, as solid shot plowed in and case shot began to detonate around them.

Barksdale's men, now armed, were back into their shallow trench, some standing to watch the show, others hunkered down to wait out the storm, a few continuing to dig away.

The Yankees soon had five batteries up on the crest, thirty guns banging away, and Longstreet could tell that Alexander was getting edgy, especially when a solid shot hit one of the guns from North Carolina, smashing a wheel, the piece collapsing, a wounded gunner staggering out from behind the lunette, screaming, a jagged splinter the length of his arm transfixing him through the stomach. Several of his comrades came out, ducking low, grabbing the man, who, seconds later, collapsed dead.

The bombardment continued, and off to the left Longstreet saw a third line emerging, this one clearly overlapping Wofford's position.

He reined his mount around and trotted down the line, ignoring the shells winging in. An airburst detonated over the trench to his right, dropping several men. He pushed on, reaching Wofford's line. Looking back over the Union forces, he saw they were preparing to overlap him by at least a quarter mile or more.

There was only one thing to do, and he passed the order for Wofford to extend to the left, doubling the width of front covered by the unit, and sent Alexander galloping back to the North Carolina battery with orders to pull out of then-position and move down to the left flank.

Minutes later the five surviving guns of the battery thundered by at the gallop, dismounted gunners running to keep up.

The Union artillery fire shifted, now dropping down on

Wofford's men, who were spread out along the crest, exposed, lying down in the high grass of the pasture.

Longstreet, ignoring the shot humming in, slowly rode the line, letting the men see him.

"Here they come!"

The cry went up along the line, some of the men standing up to see. Longstreet looked to his right and saw them, the left wing of the Yankee line starting to advance, coming down the sloping hill, the two divisions on their center and left holding their ground.

This was going to get dicey. Hancock wasn't coming straight in; he was trying to stretch the line out, overlap it, pull off Barksdale from the position overlooking the mill, without having to charge straight in. Smart move. Though Hancock had three-to-one odds in his favor, the flat, open ground in the vicinity of the mill would be murder to cross in a direct frontal attack.

Alexander, without waiting for orders, finally unleashed his guns, dropping shell and case shot into the flank of the advancing division. Wofford's men tensed, waiting, as the range closed to six hundred yards, then four hundred, the Yankees hitting the shallow creek, slowing as they stumbled through the marshy ground.

Longstreet watched them, scanning the advancing line with his field glasses. The ground was wet and would soon get churned up. If I get another chance at this, he thought, I should push a line forward, down near the base of the ridge to tear into them when they hit the marshy ground.

The North Carolina battery was in place; and though the range was long, it opened with canister.

The second Yankee division now started forward, a classic attack in echelon, aiming for the center of Wofford's line and the artillery.

Longstreet grabbed a courier, sending him off to Barks-dale, ordering the release of a regiment to extend into Wofford's line and provide close support for the guns.

The range was less than three hundred yards; with the field glasses Longstreet could pick out individual faces. The men were holding formation, sloughing through the marsh grass and damp meadows, the land beginning to slope up under their feet. "Make ready!"

The cry raced down Wofford's line, men standing up, holding rifles high. 'Take aim!"

Longstreet felt a frightful cold chill streak down his spine. It was horrifying to watch and yet beautiful as well, fifteen hundred rifles leveling across a front of four hundred yards, the hot noonday sun sparkling off the barrels.

"Fire!"

The volley roared, tearing across the crest of the ridge. Seconds later fifteen hundred ramrods were withdrawn, men emptying cartridges, pushing down loads, raising their rifles up, cocking, putting on a percussion cap, taking aim, and firing again, a continual roar as fifteen hundred rifles were discharged every twenty seconds.

The smoke eddied and boiled around him. He rode down the line, standing in the stirrups trying to see above the yellow-gray clouds. No one was falling along the line; the Yankees must still be coming on, pushing up the slope.

He reached the battery at the far end of the line, two guns aiming straight ahead, three angled to the left, hitting into a regiment that was beyond their flank and coming up fast. They were less than 150 yards out, charging, bent over low, a regimental flag out front, a mounted officer leading the way.

The small troop of cavalry that had ridden with Longstreet was out on the flank, individuals armed with carbines, a few with revolvers, spreading wider to try and contain the threat

Another blast of canister ripped into the Union charge, dropping the mounted officer and the flag bearer. The men slowed; some came to a stop, raised their rifles, and fired. Longstreet felt something tug at his shoulder, and he turned slightly.

"You're hit!" It was Wofford, on horseback, coming up to Longstreet's side.

He looked down and saw the torn fabric, but there was no pain.

He looked at Wofford and forced a grin, though his heart was now thumping hard, shaking his head.

‘I’ll hold them here, sir," Wofford cried. ‘I’d prefer it if you got back a bit, sir."

Longstreet nodded. There was no telling what was going on at the center or right He was the commander of a corps, not a brigade. Wofford was ambitious as all hell and could control things well enough.

He turned, another bullet clipping the mane of his horse so that it danced for several seconds on the edge of bolting until he reined in hard. He finally eased up and rode at a swift canter down the length of the line. It was hard to see with the smoke, but the line appeared to be holding. Men were dropping, indicating that the charge had come to a stop, the Union forces firing back rather than advancing.

Now it would be a question of volley against volley. Hitting men on a crest was far more difficult than troops deployed in the open and downslope. Once the troops out in the open stopped their charge and began standing and firing, they were sapping the momentum of their attack by the minute. The longer they reloaded and fired, the less likely they were to ever again be able to move forward. The ground might negate the three-to-one odds, but then again a determined charge just might break through. However, with this kind of firing, a new charge was less and less likely.

Reaching Alexander, he slowed for a moment. A fair amount of rifle fire was coming in on the guns, the Union artillery continuing to hit the position as well. Gunners worked their pieces, drenched in sweat each discharge cloaking the field in smoke.

He heard a tearing volley from the right, Barksdale's men. So Hancock was wagering it all, hitting along the entire line.

Riding to the right of center, he saw the mill, blue coats swarming around it Yankees hiding around the building and in the miller's house. A column of troops was storming across the bridge, ignoring the horrific casualties from the canister sweeping down from the heights, coming on at the double.

The charge continued on the road, a couple of regiments, running hard, colors bobbing up and down, men dropping. One of Barksdale's regiments stopped firing, waiting, men loading and holding rifles at the ready. The charge was coming up the slope, and he felt a surge of pride for those men. They had guts.

The range was less than a hundred yards, and still Barks-dale held, another regiment falling silent, loading and waiting.

The range was at seventy-five yards, and the cry went up.

'Take aim!"

Five hundred rifles aimed downslope. The seconds dragged out, the hoarse cries of the Union troops rising up. ‘Fire!"

He watched, features fixed, trying not to feel anything as the charge disintegrated, dozens of men going down, collapsing, their cries clearly heard.

Twenty seconds later another volley tore in and the charge broke apart, the men running back, a taunting yell rising from the Confederate lines, some of the men coming up out of their shallow trench, beginning to charge, officers screaming for them to stand in place.

And then it was over, like the passing of a summer storm that in one minute had been blinding in its intensity and now began to drift away to distant thunder and clearing skies. The smoke slowly lifted, drifting in great dark clouds, stirring and parting as the occasional hot breath of wind wafted across the crest

The land below was littered with hundreds of bodies, some still, others crawling or twisting about in agony, their comrades falling back into the marshy ground, bugles calling for the retreat

He watched it curious, for a moment. They had pulled back without a real fight, not pushing in hard. That wasn't like Second Corps, which had stood defiant for hours, charging again and again at Fredericksburg.

No, that was Hancock. He's doing what I would do. Make a stab at it, hope you can break through in one quick rush; but if you can't, don't bleed yourself out He might very well have been able to take this ridge, but his corps would be a shambles by the time they were atop it Hancock could see that. And as always, there was the element of doubt Hancock did not know what I might have or not have concealed just beyond this ridge. Take the crest with nothing left in reserve and then get torn apart by a counterattack.

Pete smiled.

He'll maneuver now, most likely to our left and come in again on ground he hopes is clear. And he will soon have a lot of friends to help him if the rest of the Union army is now on the way to recapture Westminster and re-establish a line of communication with Washington. This was only the first bloody probe of what could be a long couple of days. The rest of our army had better get here if we are to hold this line against the entire Union army.

Several of the men were up and out of the trench, one of them waving a dirty handkerchief in one hand, a canteen in the other, heading down to help the tangle of bleeding men in the road.

We kill each other and then turn right around and risk our lives to save each other. A strange war, Pete thought

The Yankees in the mill began to fire, not at the good Samaritans, but aiming to the crest, at Longstreet and the men around him.

He raised his glasses and for a moment thought he caught a glimpse of Hancock on the other side of the bridge.

You'll be back, Pete thought, next time on my flank and with more guns. Always you'll have more guns than we do. So we dig in and pray for reinforcements.

He looked to the west. Hill's divisions were still not in view, and beyond, from over by Taneytown, the gunfire echoed.