Gettysburg

Chapter Fourteen

1:50 PM, JULY 3,1863

BALTIMORE

Herman Haupt set the brake on the engine and wearily leaned over a moment, head resting on the side of the cab. He looked back at Major Beveridge, who was slumped over in the wood tender, cradling his wounded arm.

"Major, could you please see to the wounded aboard? Roust someone out at the station to get ambulances."

Beveridge nodded.

"And take care of my friend there," Haupt added, nodding toward the body of die engineer. The man had died only minutes before, his last moments unnerving as he lapsed into delirium and kept calling for his wife.

His legs shaky, Haupt stepped down from the cab and started across the rail yard toward the signal station. All around him was chaos. The engines he had sent back down from Westminster were parked in a row, some with wounded still on board, a sight that angered him since they had most likely been here for at least a half hour. A dozen more engines were lined up, loaded down with supplies, barrels of rations, crates of ammunition, half a dozen guns on flatcars, and now with no place to go. Men of his command, spotting their leader, came running up, shouting questions, asking for orders, and he waved them aside, the men falling in behind him, trailing along as he stepped into the signal office, the lone telegrapher hunched over, writing down a message as it came in. Herman waited patiently. There was nothing ruder than to start talking to a telegrapher at work; it was a protocol that anyone in the railroad business learned rather quickly. You might be the president of the company, or a general; but when a message was coming in, you were silent

The key stopped clattering, and the operator looked- up. "Thank God you are here, sir," the boy gasped. "I've been getting queries from the War Office every fifteen minutes demanding to know where you are."

"Clear the line for a priority " Haupt said.

The telegrapher rested his fingers on the keys and started to tap out the signal ordering all other operators to stay off the line.

A moment later he looked up at Haupt and nodded. Haupt was already writing the message down, and he handed the sheet over.

To General Halleck

War Department, Washington

Sir. At seven this morning Westminster fell to Confederate forces of at least division strength. Supplies set afire, but must assume significant amount will be captured, enough for the enemy to sustain operations for at least a week or more. Hundreds, perhaps thousand or more wagons, fully loaded, captured as well Believe attack is supported by Longstreet's entire corps.

Last communication with Army of Potomac received shortly after dawn, from Hancock, reporting army was moving from Gettysburg to Westminster.

I am proceeding to Washington and will report on arrival.

Haupt

The message went out, and Haupt turned to the men gathered round him.

"Sir, it's a mad panic in town," a captain announced. "Damn mule drivers came storming in here at dawn, screaming the Rebs were right behind them. Pro-Union civilians are already clamoring to get on trains to get out, while others are supposedly hanging out rebel flags. Hundreds of drunks and copperheads are tearing up downtown. Several have been shot Sir, is Lee coming here like they say?"

Haupt shook his head. '1 saw no cavalry up at Westminster. I think Lee will hold there."

"Why, sir? He could have all this, if he wanted it There ain't an organized regiment in the entire city at the moment"

"First the Army of the Potomac. That's what Lee will go for. He will want to destroy it before he turns toward us, and that's what we have to get ready for next"

Haupt turned and looked at the rail-line map pinned to the wall of the station. It was most likely overstepping his bounds, but he sensed he had better act and do it now. To simply leave these trains here in Baltimore was a waste.

He looked back at his men.

"I want the line cleared up to Philadelphia. Get ready to move everything we have up there." "Philadelphia, sir?"

"From there to Harrisburg. I think that is where we'll be needed most"

The men saluted and started to scramble. He saw a pot of coffee sitting on a small wood stove. The fire was out, the day far too hot to have the brew warming. He took a tin cup from the windowsill, poured it full, and drank the black syrup down cold, the drink jolting him awake.

"Get me an express down to Washington," Haupt snapped.

2:00 PM, JULY 3, 1863

TANEYTOWN

"We're going in!"

The cry was like a shock from a galvanic battery. Joshua Chamberlain, half dozing in the midday heat, back against a lone elm tree in the corner of a field, was instantly awake and standing up, as one of Vincent's staff officers galloped through their ranks, waving his hat

The struggle for Taneytown, less than half a mile away, continued to rage, the battle lines that had surged into the edge of town wreathed in smoke, soaring pillars of smoke and fire marking where part of the town, including a church, burned. The air pulsed with the roar of battle; and yet amazingly, here in reserve, only hundreds of yards away, he had actually dozed off, ignorant of the occasional bullets slapping into the tree branches over his head, the men of his command hunkered down behind a low barrier made from a split-rail fence. It wouldn't stop the random shells that winged overhead, but it could at least absorb the stray bullet

The staff officer raced down the line of four regiments, men standing up as he passed.

"Is this it Lawrence?"

Joshua looked over at his brother, Tom, now a company commander. The boy was all eagerness, nervously fumbling to button his uniform up so that he looked "proper" for what was to come.

"We wait for Colonel Vincent" Joshua replied calmly.

The men of his command looked over anxiously at Joshua. He extended one hand in almost a soothing gesture. Several of the men sat back down.

The heat was oppressive, the air thick with humidity made worse by the choking clouds of smoke, which slowly twisted and coiled on the field. The place they were resting had been hotly contested only a couple of hours ago, and the field around them was littered with the dead. In the area where they had halted, at least half a hundred wounded of both sides were piled around the broken-down fence.

Joshua had ordered the dead moved to one side and laid out in a row, the regimental surgeon coming up to help with the wounded, both Union and Confederates from Johnson's division.

That bit of intelligence had been disquieting. They were supposed to be facing Hood. He had talked briefly with a captain from the Twenty-seventh Virginia, the old Stonewall Brigade. The poor man was gut shot, obviously dying, and yet still game, boasting that this time Lee had the ground and then begging for a drink of water, which Joshua gave him before stretcher bearers from his regiment carried the casualties to the hospital area in the rear.

'Here comes Strong!" Tom cried.

Joshua fixed Tom with a chilling gaze. "Officers do not get excited in front of their men, Tom," Joshua said coolly.

"Sorry, Lawrence."

"Just go to your company, Tom. I think we're moving out now."

"Yes, Law… yes, sir." "And, Tom."

His brother looked at him carefully, caught off guard by the suddenly solemn tone in his brother's voice. "Keep back from me today." "Why?"

"A shell. Well, if we both got hit, it'd be a hard day for Mother."

Tom hesitated then extended his hand. "Luck to you, Lawrence." "God be with you, Tom."

Strong rode up to the edge of the fence farther down the line, shouting orders; and within seconds the other regiments started to fall in, forming a column by companies.

Without waiting for Vincent, Joshua shouted the command. His men, coming out from the shelter of the low fence, raced to fall in. Company A, in two lines, led the way with the colors out front, Company B behind them, and so on back through the ten companies of the regiment Three-hundred-odd men forming a column fifteen-men wide and twenty ranks deep. It was a formation that in less than a minute could go from column into line of battle facing any direction.

Joshua, mounting, rode down the length of the column, saying nothing, ignoring the inferno ahead, the tearing thunder of volleys, the steady stream of walking wounded heading to the rear and the lolling heat that made him feel lightheaded.

'Twentieth Maine!"

Joshua turned and saluted as Strong came up to his side.

"Hell of a fight in the center. They're into the town, and it's hand-to-hand in places, but ammunition is running low. We're ordered in on the right Warren came in a few minutes ago. Reports that Confederate troops are deploying on the flank."

"How many?"

"Don't know. He tried to go forward, heard he almost got killed, lost most of his cavalry escort" Joshua nodded.

"We advance by column; Warren will show us where to deploy. You're last in the line, Chamberlain, so you'll be on the right flank."

Joshua nodded again.

"Nothing beyond you. You're the end of the line. Do you understand that?" "Yes, sir." "Let's go then,"

Vincent reined his mount around and galloped off, waving for the brigade to follow. First off was the Sixteenth Michigan, followed a moment later by the Fourty-fourth New York and then the Eighty-third Pennsylvania. Joshua ordered his small column to move out on the double. The men surged over the low wall and started across the open field, the inferno of battle engulfing Taneytown now on their left as they raced on the oblique to the right.

Men from the column ahead started to drop, falling out of the ranks, in most cases hit by random shots that plucked into the field. Joshua spared a quick glance over his shoulder. So far, at least, discipline was holding. The shirkers had been weeded out long ago; all that was left now was the solid core of steel.

A massive explosion thundered across the field. To his left he caught a glimpse of a battery, a caisson going up in flames, gunners scattering.

They dropped down into a shallow valley, the stream simply a dirty rivulet in the summer heat The land was carpeted with the wounded of both sides, seeking shelter from the storm, desperate for a drop of moisture so that the muddy trickle of water was tinged with pink from the blood of men who had crawled into the cooling bottomland and then died

Imploring hands reached out, men crying out for water, accents of New York, Midwestern twang, and deep Louisiana bayou blended together in one hideous howl of pain and anguish.

The column crested up out of the nightmare dell. They were beyond the town, and there ahead and to his left he could see the main pike, the road from Taneytown back to Emmitsburg. The heavy post-and-rail fences bordering the road were still up in most places, festooned with bodies dangling over the rails. A line of Union infantry crouched behind the fence on the south side of the road, ghostlike in the smoke, shooting at unseen targets beyond.

The men running with Joshua were bent over, chins tucked in against throats, the instinctive pose, it seemed, of troops going into a storm, or a battle. The regiment was beginning to take casualties, fire coming in on their flank as they advanced. A bad moment Troops hated to be caught thus, without a chance to strike back.

Joshua moved from his position on the flank of the column straight up to the front swinging in before the colors, trailing a couple of dozen yards behind the column of the Eighty-third Pennsylvania.

The march at double time continued, running across the fields two hundred yards to the north of the road. He saw Vincent again, stopped now, sword out pointing. The head of the column swerved, swinging down to the road, shifting from march into line of battle. Warren suddenly appeared, as if rising up out of the ground. The road ahead, Joshua realized, dropped down into another creek bed.

Joshua spurred forward, passing around the men of the Eighty-third coming up to join the two.

"It's not good!" Warren announced. "A division down by the bridge, just as I feared."

Vincent looked back at Joshua. "On the right, Chamberlain. We're forming a right angle here to the main line!"

Joshua offered a quick salute, turned about, and, waving his sword, he caught the eye of the lead company, motioning for them to follow.

They swung out from behind the Eighty-third.

The ground ahead sloped down gently into marsh and yet another muddy creek, most likely the same one they had crossed minutes before, Joshua realized.

He spurred up to a swift canter and rode along the bank for a couple of hundred yards. The creek bed curved back, turning from a north-south to an east-west direction.

This was the place, he realized. Chance to refuse the right He watched as the Eighty-third fell in on his left. Good. They were occupying enough of the ground so he could concentrate on the bend here.

The men rapidly fell out from column into line, Joshua directing the company commanders to their places, with A Company and the colors in the center.

The men were near to exhaustion, breathing hard, several obviously on the edge of sunstroke.

Looking around, he wasn't impressed. The shallow valley did drop down forty feet or so, the land open, marshy, obviously a place where cattle would loll on hot summer days. The only animals down there now, though, were several dead horses from yesterday's fight swelling up in the heat

He looked to the opposite side. The ground rose up higher, by at least thirty to forty feet more, about four hundred yards away. Not enough for an infantry advantage, but if they got artillery up there it would be hell.

The land below would be hard to traverse, but that was all. He thought of yesterday, where they were camped, the hill he had climbed shortly before dusk, the position held by Sickles. That was good ground. A regiment could hold up an entire brigade atop that hill. This would be different a damn sight different No great advantage to the defense here.

He turned and looked back at his men, who were now in double line, deployed in a shallow curve following the bend of the creek.

"Dig in! Get fence rails; get some men into that woodlot behind us; drag out anything that will stop a bullet Company commanders, get water details together."

He looked down at the creek and grimaced, blocking out the thought of the bodies piled into it a half mile back.

"Just find a clear spot above the dead horses and do it quick!"

The men sprang to work even as Vincent came up and dismounted.

"Hot day, Lawrence." "Damn hot"

The rare use of a profanity caused Vincent to smile. "Wish you were back at Bowdoin!’

Joshua forced a smile and shook his head.

"Nor I to my law office. Lawrence, you know your position here."

Joshua nodded. "I was at the staff meeting this morning. Sykes said that if need be we would sacrifice this corps, if by so doing we could save the Union."

"Sounds nice as a speech," Joshua offered dryly.

Vincent looked past Joshua and pointed. "You can see them stirring."

Joshua followed his gaze. The low crest ahead blocked the view, but the rising plumes of dust were evidence enough that something was coming.

"They get past you, Chamberlain, the entire corps gets rolled up."

"I know."

Vincent hesitated, and then lowered his head. 'I think this is our place today, Chamberlain. For a while I thought it would be yesterday, back up where we were at Little Round Top. Fate decided differently."

He smiled awkwardly.

"I'll see you at the end of the day, Lawrence." Joshua grasped his hand.

He could feel the nervous tremble, the clammy coolness of Vincent's grip. The man before him outwardly showed no fear, but Joshua could well imagine the turmoil within, for he felt it as well. Not so much the fear for self-he had settled that with God long ago-it was for all the others, the men of the command, the fate of the corps as Vincent now said, not to make a mistake, not to waver, not to doubt That was the thing that was frightening: not death but dishonor was the compelling fear.

"God be with you," Joshua replied. Vincent's hand slipped away. He mounted and was gone.

Joshua turned back, the swirls of dust building on the horizon.

3:00 PM, JULY 3, 1863

TANEYTOWN

'Texans! Are you Hood's Texans?"

General Lee blocked the middle of the road heading south out of Taneytown as a stream of soldiers swarmed toward him. The town was a cauldron of battle, buildings on fire, artillery fired at near point-blank range sending hot blasts of canister down the street, terrified civilians fleeing, the hospital area set up in front of his headquarters at the Antrim, now under direct fire.

The heat, as well, was oppressive, so much so that he felt dizzy, weak, after two hard days with little sleep and the endless stress of this campaign. And now the center of the line was giving way, peeling back, hundreds of exhausted troops staggering from the fight, some without weapons.

The leaderless mob pouring down the road slowed at the sight of Lee advancing toward them. 'Texans? I do not believe this!"

One of the men, a sergeant, a bloody bandage wrapped round his head, stepped in front of Traveler, reaching up to grab the horse's bridle.

"Sir, General Lee! You'll get killed!"

He was near hysteria, voice high-pitched, cracking.

Lee jerked Traveler's reins, his horse shying away from the man.

"Men, my men, you must not run from those people." "Sir, get back!"

As if to add emphasis to the sergeant's words, a corporal by his side doubled over, shot in the back, sprawling into the middle of the road. His death set off a panic, dozens of men breaking into a run.

"I am ashamed of you!" Lee cried.

Many of them slowed, looking back, lowering their heads like schoolboys caught by the local preacher in some sinful act

More troops were pouring out of the town, some in rough formation following a regimental standard, others singly, in pairs and small knots of half a dozen, many of them dragging along wounded comrades.

"Rally to me. Form line here!" Lee cried.

The men directly around him looked up, incredulous.

"We're out of ammo, water," the sergeant replied, his voice shaking.

"You must hold, men. Hold just a few minutes more. Pickett's Virginians are coming up."

"Then, General, you go to the rear," the sergeant exclaimed. "We will hold, but only if you go to the rear."

The cry was picked up.

"Lee to the rear. Lee to the rear!"

He felt his heart swell, a momentary flutter that was almost frightening, wondering if something was giving out inside. If so, not now. Please, O God, not now.

The tightness lingered, and he felt as if he just might lose control, dissolve into tears at the sight of these men, and yet there was a fury of the battle within him as well. They had been pushed far beyond what mere mortals could be expected to endure. Five hours of hell, most without ammunition, most with wounds, some of which would prove mortal or crippling: Yet now they started to gamer round, men and boys pushing in front shouting for him to retire.

He looked up. The center of town was only several hundred yards away. Surely they were noticed by now. He saw flashes in the dim smoky light, sharpshooters up in buildings. Another man nearby went down.

He looked to the west The left flank, what was left of Johnson's division, bowing back out of the town, driven from the road. Beyond them, nothing.

Where was Pickett?

A bullet snapped past He felt a cold rush of anger.

"I am with you!" Lee cried. "Now forward. Forward!"

He started to edge up the road, pushing his way toward the town. As if a flood tide had reached its crest and now fell away, so did the rout. By the hundreds men turned, some with a fire in their eyes, many with reluctance, but determined nevertheless. Their throats so parched they could no longer break forth with the eerie shriek of their battle cry, they went back in to the fight

Lee tried to force his way forward, but the sergeant and half a dozen others blocked his path.

"Out of my way."

"No, sir."

"Out of my way. That is an order, Sergeant!" The sergeant held Lee's gaze.

"You can shoot me after this is over, General Lee," the sergeant cried, his voice breaking with emotion. "But I ain't gonna see you killed this day. The boys will hold."

"Out of my way, Sergeant Do it now!"

"Sir, you're the spirit of this army. You die and we lose. I'll die making sure you live to carry on."

The men with the sergeant garnered round, hemming Traveler in, silent looking up at him.

"General Lee!"

He looked back. His staff was coming up, riding hard, obviously frightened that he had slipped from their grasp.

The few hundred who were left of Hood's old Texan Brigade were back into the town as the staff swarmed around Lee, putting themselves between him and the line of fire.

The sergeant who had so defiantly stood against Lee now seemed to shrink as one of the staff angrily shouted for the sergeant to let go of Traveler.

Lee, tears in his eyes, shook his head.

The sergeant let the reins drop and bracing his shoulders looked up at Lee. Their gaze held for a minute, and it shook Lee to the core. The man was true to his word. He expected to be shot for insubordination, an insubordination of trying to save his general from a foolish act. It was one thing to ride along a volley line wreathed in smoke, another to lead a charge into a town. If the sergeant had not intervened, Lee realized, he'd most likely be wounded or dead by now. He looked back up, and the Texans who had turned about were dropping by the dozens as they pushed back into the town.

"Your name, Sergeant?"

"Sgt Lee Robinson, sir, Third Texas "

Lee, in an uncharacteristic gesture, leaned over and extended his hand. The sergeant nervously took it, holding the grasp for just a second before stepping back as if the touch of a god might scorch his hand to the bone.

"I shall pray that you return safely to your family when this is over, Sergeant Robinson. God be with you."

The sergeant saluted, then lowered his head.

Lee looked back to the west Where was Pickett?

3:10 PM, JULY 3,1863

WEST OF TANEYTOWN

"Virginians! This is our moment! Forward for Virginia!’

Standing in the stirrups, George Pickett raced in front of his advancing line, a battlefront three brigades wide, from left to right half a mile, six thousand rifles flashing and gleaming in the hot, murky, afternoon sun. Four batteries of artillery advanced with him, bronze Napoleons glinting, gunners running alongside their pieces. Red battle flags, the square Saint Andrew's cross of the Army of Northern Virginia, held high, marking the advance.

He wept with joy at the sight of it The chance, at last, to lead a charge across a sunlit field of glory, battlefront sweeping forward relentlessly, marching to the sound of the guns. It might have taken an extra half hour to form everyone into line of battle, but by God, it was worth it for this moment We are ready. We are doing it in style, Pickett thought It was good, so good to be alive on this afternoon in July, the dream of all things possible before him.

3:20 PM, JULY 3,1863

WEST OF TANEYTOWN

"They're coming." The cry raced down the line. Joshua, intent on strengthening his front, urging the men to dig in, pile up logs and fence rails, anything that could offer shelter on this bare slope, paused and looked to where many were now pointing.

His heart swelled at the sight of it. The flags were visible, held up high, materializing beyond the shallow crest now rifle tips, and men the men. He gasped at the sight of it A division advancing as if on the parade ground, line of butternut and gray, their right flank overlapping the road, the left arcing far beyond his own right

Skirmishers, who had been visible for several minutes, darted forward, coming into long rifle range. From out of the center of the advance, he saw something that he had often read about but never witnessed on the field, a battalion of their artillery advancing with the attack, as in the days of Napoleon, one battery of guns actually galloping ahead of the line and then swinging into position atop the low crest four hundred yards away.

He looked back. The corps artillery was enmeshed in a fight for the town. There was not a single piece here to reply. He knew where that fire would be focused: It would be a cauldron of hot iron against human flesh, and it would be his men who bore the brunt.

Unsheathing his sword, Joshua stepped to the center of the line. He was not one for dramatics but felt that if there was a time for it, it had to be now.

He climbed atop a small boulder that studded up out of the thick pasture grass. "Men of Maine!" he cried. "We are the right of the line. We must hold."

The men looked at him. They were veterans. They did not need the false theatrics that some officers indulged in, and they knew better than to expect it of him.

"The fate of the Republic might rest on what we do now," he said, with a passionate, heartfelt intensity. "Let us resolve to stand and, if need be, die for the Union."

The men were silent, but he could see the glint in their eyes, the nods coming from a few. He stepped back down and turned to face the approaching attack.

Rifles that had been stacked while the men dug in were snatched up, uniform jackets put on, the regiment hunkering down behind the flimsy barrier thrown up in the few precious minutes given to them prior to the attack. The watering party came running up from the creek, twenty men burdened down with the canteens of the regiment Most were still empty, the others covered with mud and green slime. The men grabbed for them anyway.

A lone wagon came up behind Joshua, a welcome sight as half a dozen boxes were offloaded, six thousand more rounds of ammunition. The driver, seeing the rebel advance, lashed his mules, continuing down the line.

The boxes were torn open, packages of cartridges passed down the line, men stuffing the packets of ten into pockets and haversacks.

The first shell screamed in, air bursting just behind the line, shrapnel lashing into the grass. Another shot then another, and in a couple of minutes it was a virtual storm as four batteries concentrated their shot on the Twentieth.

The rebel battlefront came relentlessly in, the center brigade breaking to the south of the batteries, the other brigade to the north. Once sufficiently downslope and below the muzzles of the artillery, they started to edge back in to form a solid front

Joshua watched, impressed by their cool, steady advance, their relentless professionalism. It was obvious the enemy brigade to his right would outflank him by several hundred yards. He looked down his line. There was not much he could do other than refuse die right He passed the word.

The gunners had found the range. Several times he was washed with clods of dirt and scorched grass from shell bursts; men were collapsing, wounded beginning to stagger back.

It was down to two hundred yards, the Confederates now coming down the slope into the shallow valley of death.

Joshua stood up tall, raising his sword high. "Volley fire present!"

The men stood up, rifles rising up, held high. "Take aim!"

The three hundred rifles of the Twentieth Maine were lowered. The Confederate advance did not falter, a defiant cry bursting from their ranks.

"Fire!"

The explosion of smoke cloaked the view. To his left the other three regiments were already engaged, tearing volleys ripping across the line.

"Independent fire at will!"

He started to pace the line, crouching down low at times, trying to see what was happening. The charge was still advancing, slowed by the marshy ground but coming on hard. The artillery fire slackened, and he caught a glimpse of men, guns, moving up, coming in closer to extreme canister range.

A volley suddenly tore through his line, men to either side pitching down. The sergeant holding the national colors aloft staggered backward, collapsing, a color guard prying the staff loose from dying hands and hoisting it back up.

His men were down now, crouched behind their cover. Shooting, tearing cartridge, kneeling up to pour the powder in and push the bullet down into the muzzle, charge rammed down, then sliding behind their cover again while capping the nipple, taking aim, and firing.

Flash moments stood out, a man endlessly chanting the first line of the Lord's Prayer while loading and firing, a young soldier screaming hysterically while cradling the body of his brother, an older sergeant laughing, cursing as he coolly loaded and took careful aim, all wreathed in smoke, fire, sections of piled-up fence rails disintegrating, the men behind torn apart with splinters as a solid shot smashed in.

The smoke eddied and swirled, parting momentarily to reveal a surge of rebel troops coming up the slope, stopping and firing a single volley, men in gray and butternut dropping, then slowly falling back… and then surging forward again.

He heard wild shouting, looked to his left and saw a red flag right in the midst of the Eighty-third, a mad melee of clubbed muskets, men clawing at each other, the charge falling back.

To his right the enemy attack had already overlapped, a couple of regiments across the creek angling up the slope into his rear. Grabbing Tom, he sent him down to the end of the line, ordering him to refuse the right yet again, to turn a thin line back at a right angle. He lost sight of his brother.

How long it had gone on it was hard to tell. The sun shone red, dimly through the smoke. Men were standing up, pouring precious water from their canteens down their barrels, the water hissing, boiling, then running a quick swab through in a vain effort to clean out the bore enough so they could continue to fight. Some were tossing aside their rifles, clogged with burnt powder, picking up the weapons of the fallen.

The Confederate artillery relentlessly pounded away. In several places the dry pasture grass was burning, adding to the smoke.

"Chamberlain!" He looked up. To his amazement it was Sykes in plain view, his mount bleeding from several wounds.

"Are you Chamberlain?"

Joshua instinctively saluted. "Yes, sir."

"I'm retiring the corps!" Sykes shouted, voice drowned out for a moment as a shell exploded directly above them.

For a second he thought Sykes had been hit; the man seemed to reel from the shock and then recovered.

"Chamberlain," and Sykes's voice was low-pitched, the general leaning over, staring straight into Joshua's eyes.

"Sir."

"I need twenty minutes, Colonel. Your regiment is staying behind." "Sir?"

"The corps is flanked here. They're counterattacking in the town. The Fifth is fought out I have to save what is left, Colonel. As this brigade begins to fall back, you are to retire, slowly forming a defensive line. Then, sir, you must hold. You must give me twenty minutes to save what is left"

Joshua nodded. The world seemed to be floating. He felt a strange distant detachment from it all. This man was ordering the annihilation of his regiment and all he could do was nod in agreement

"You understand what I am ordering, Chamberlain. No retreat. You stand until overrun. You must stop this charge."

"Yes, sir."

Sykes sat back up in the saddle, his staff gathered nervously around him, ducking low as a shot screamed past

"Strong is dead, Chamberlain. So are Barnes and Crawford."

The words seemed to float through him. He knew he should feel remorse, anguish over the death of a trusted comrade. But he found himself still trying to fully comprehend Sykes's order.

Sykes extended his hand, and Joshua took it

"God be with you. I hope we meet again someday."

"Thank you, sir."

Sykes spurred his mount and galloped off.

Joshua dwelled for a moment on the absurdity. That man had just ordered him to near certain death, and he had thanked him for it The madness of war.

"Company officers!"

The men came in, only half a dozen; the rest were down, or did not hear the order. One of them, thank God, was Tom.

He squatted down, the men crouching around him. "The Eighty-third is falling back!" one of them cried, half standing and pointing. "I know; that doesn't matter."

They looked at him, focused, some already sensing what their corps commander had just ordered.

"We're staying behind. The corps is pulling back. We're the sacrifice to buy time."

"Goddamn!"

Joshua fixed the swearing captain with a sharp gaze. Embarrassed, the man lowered his head.

"We start to fall back, slowly, spreading out to fill the line and try to draw that entire division in on us. Don't lie to the men. Tell them what we must do. We hold until overrun. I'm not ordering any of you to die. You feel you can't hold anymore, that it is meaningless, then try and get out with what you can."

"Lawrence, you're staying, though?" Tom asked. Joshua nodded.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'll be goddamned if I run," the profane officer announced.

Joshua smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck to you."

He stood back up. "Twentieth Maine. Form skirmish line. Guide on me!"

The company officers raced down the narrowing front, passing the word. Several men looked at Joshua, incredulous; one of them stood up, threw aside his rifle, and ran. A sergeant started after him, but Joshua called him back.

"I want volunteers this day!" Joshua cried. " 'The rest of you who have not the stomach for this fight, let him depart'"

The men looked one to the other, several of the more literate grinning at his theft of a good line from Shakespeare.

The men began to spread out into open skirmish order, extending their front as the other regiments gave way.

To either flank, the enemy division surged forward, wild exuberant shouts marking their advance.

Joshua continued to back the line up slowly, men firing, loading as they fell back a dozen paces, firing yet again. The flanks were overlapped, some of the Rebs surging on, particularly along the road that was too far away for him to cover, but in the center, and on the right, the Confederate charge curled in on this last defiant regiment

Several minutes passed, and then a blizzard of shot began to sweep the line as entire regiments fired volleys into this final knot of defiance. He had a moment of grim satisfaction, realizing that in the smoke and confusion shots that were missing his men were slamming into the opposite flank of the enemy.

Joshua, bent low, came up to the flag bearer.

"I don't want our flag captured. Cut it up!" he shouted.

The men nodded, grounding the staff. One pulled out a bowie knife, and tears streaming down his powder-blackened face, he cut the national colors from the staff and with violent slashes began to tear the flag to ribbons. Several of the color guard gathered around protectively, the men tearing off parts of the stripes, cutting away the stars; and then racing down the volley line, they paused by each comrade, slapping a piece of the precious fabric, so proudly borne in battle, into the hands of those who had stood beneath the symbol of all that they fought for.

This action triggered a final, convulsive ringing in, like an animal trapped in a fire, which finally, in its agony, begins to curl up on itself to die. The men came in around the bare staff, fragments of flag passing to outstretched hands, many of which were trembling, covered with blood.

Joshua reached out. The color bearer, weeping unashamedly, handed him a small patch of blue emblazoned with a gold star. Putting the fragment of flag in his breast pocket, then with sword in his left hand, Joshua drew a revolver with his right

He began to dissolve into tears as well. They were down to less than a hundred men, the regiment, now almost in a circle, firing to nearly every point of the compass. Thousands of Confederates swarmed around them, closing in.

He saw an officer coming toward him, sword held high, shouting something, a wall of men behind him, coming on at the double.

Joshua raised his pistol, lowered it to take aim.

The blow staggered him. He slammed the point of his sword into the ground, to act as a crutch. He felt numbed from the waist down, his legs uncontrollable. He dropped the pistol and, reaching out with right hand, grabbed the flag staff. The color bearer stared at him, and a second later the boy silently collapsed, the life gone from his eyes.

That final volley seemed to drop half of those who were left For a moment there was no sound, only the terrible blow against his hip, the fear then of falling, of failing now in front of his men.

"Lawrence!"

It was Tom. Cheek torn open, blood streaming down on to his chest, wrapping an arm around him. "Cease fire! Hold your fire!"

He had not given the order. Incredulous, Joshua looked around.

"Who gave that order!" He tried to speak the words, but they wouldn't come, only a soft groan of terrible anguish from the pain.

An officer was before him, Confederate, with hat jammed strangely down on to the hilt of his sword.

"For God's sake, sir," the Confederate said, "please surrender."

Joshua looked around. They were hemmed in tightly, the few men still standing in a knot around the empty flag staffs. "How much time?" Joshua asked woodenly. "Sir?"

"How much time did I buy?"

"More than enough," the Confederate whispered. "Now let me help you."

The man extended his hand. Joshua tried to reach out, but couldn't The world was growing dim, the rebel officer standing a great and terrible distance away. There was a moment of darkness, and then he was on the ground, looking up.

"Can you help my brother?"

It was Tom, voice that again of a boy.

"My brigade surgeon is one of the best; I'm having an ambulance brought up."

"Thank you," Tom gasped.

Focus returned. He was looking up at someone kneeling by his side. Others were gathered around, his own men and Confederates mixed in.

"You are my prisoner, sir. And, by God, sir, I will see that you survive this." Joshua could only nod. 'Two hundred of you defying a division. My God, I wanted it to stop before you all got killed, but you wouldn't stop!" the Confederate exclaimed. "This damn war! I'm sorry for what we did to you here. You have the soul of a lion, Colonel." Joshua smiled and tried to reach up. The Confederate took his hand. "I don't believe we have been introduced," Joshua whispered. "I am Colonel Chamberlain, Twentieth Maine." "General Lo Armistead at your service, Colonel." "My brother, my men," Joshua whispered, "don't send them to Libby Prison. All that I ask." "You have my word."

Joshua fumbled at his breast pocket, touching the torn fragment of blue and gold.

"Then I can sleep now," Joshua sighed, and he slipped into darkness.