Gettysburg

Chapter Sixteen

5:30 AM, JULY 4,1863

UNION MILLS

A steady cool rain fell from the early morning sky, the first light of dawn revealing the dark gray overcast blanketing.

Coiling mists rose up from the bottomland of Pipe Creek, blanketing the earth in a dull, impenetrable gloom Clouds above turned into fog in the valley. Everyone in the valley labored in virtual blindness. Above its fogged-in floor, gunners, who had been up most of the night, continued to labor on the barricades protecting the grand battery of 120 rifled guns. Tarpaulins were spread above caissons to protect the precious ammunition loads from moisture.

Henry paced slowly along the battery front, trailed by his dejected, wet staff. He kept looking to the south but it was still too dark; nothing could be seen of the opposite slope. All was gray and black.

The guns were spaced at fifteen-foot intervals, far too close for field operations, but he wanted a maximum concentration of firepower. Hopefully, multiple damage against his own guns from a single hit would be at a minimum. He had seized on the idea of using one caisson to provide ammunition for each two-gun section, thereby keeping the area directly behind the guns a little less crowded. The sixty caissons in place ten yards behind the guns were loaded almost exclusively with solid shot and case shot, with only a couple of rounds of canister. Once depleted, the caisson would be sent to the rear and a fresh load brought up. His orders were to keep up a sustained, rapid bombardment for two hours, set to begin at six in the morning.

The minutes ticked by as he continued to pace the line. Gunners were beginning to drop their entrenching tools, falling in around their pieces. Men looked expectantly at him. He said nothing, lost in thought, pacing the line, and now silently cursing… the mist and ground fog blanketing the valley and opposite slope. Nothing was visible.

"General Meade," one of his staff hissed.

Henry turned and saw Meade riding up, headquarters' flag hanging limp in the rain, a cavalcade of several dozen staff and hangers-on following.

Henry saluted as Meade approached.

"Goddamn it all, Hunt, what do you think?"

"Sir, I won't fire unless I can see what I'm shooting at"

"I know that but what do" you think?" Meade leaned forward in his saddle, as if by drawing a few inches closer he might penetrate the gloom.

"Sir, you know, maybe we should go in now." It was Butterfield.

Meade turned and for a moment said nothing.

"They won't expect it. With luck we'll have men on the opposite slope before they open up."

Meade half nodded, his gaze shifting to Hunt "What do you think?"

"About going in now sir?"

"Yes, now."

Henry was caught by surprise on that one. Ever since yesterday morning he had been preparing for this moment And now Meade himself was proposing a departure from the plan. But then again, it did have some merit. A surprise assault out of the mists, might turn things. But were the men ready for it? They had been told there would be the bombardment first to suppress the rebel lines.

"I think it might have merit" Henry finally replied.

'This from my artilleryman?" Meade asked.

"Sir, guns against entrenched positions… well, you saw the effect at Fredericksburg. We pounded them for hours with little effect Artillery against prepared positions is a tough job."

"The range was twice as far then."

"I know, sir."

Meade was silent again, and then finally shook his head. "Except for a few officers, none of our men have seen the layout They'll get tangled up, lost in that mist. Besides, the Rebs will hear us anyhow. I don't like the thought of them getting lost out there in the fog with the Rebs pouring it in."

Meade looked back at Hunt. "Don't you have confidence in this, Hunt?"

"I'll do the best I can, sir. Just that the element of surprise might work."

"Surprise?" Meade barked out a gruff laugh. "Goddamn, what surprise? He knows we're coming just as sure as I do. No, I want a clear field. I want every gun pouring in on them to shake them loose. I want every man to see where it is he's going. I did that at Fredericksburg. My division was the only one that got into their lines, and I would have broken them if that damned ass Burnside had supported me."

He fixed Hunt with an angry gaze. "If I could do it at Fredericksburg with a division, I'll do it here today with four corps going in. You open up, Hunt when you can see the bastards. I'll leave that up to you. And you tell me as well when it is time to go in."

"Sir?"

"Do you have any problems with that?"

"Sir, it's not for me to judge when to go in. I can only advise as to the effect of my bombardment. But the order to go in or not, well, sir, that's up to you."

"Just do what I order you to do, Hunt" Meade snapped, and without comment he rode on.

Henry shook his head. There was no sense in arguing about protocol now.

Leaning against the wheel of a ten-pound Parrott gun, he waited for the mist to clear.

6:15 AM, JULY 4,1863

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA FRIZZELBURG

"General Lee?"

It was a courier from Ewell, his inquiry a whisper.

Walter, who had fallen asleep on one of the pews in front of the tent, half opened his eyes and sat up, putting a finger to his lips.

"He's asleep," Walter whispered, pointing to the tent behind him.

"I've got a dispatch from Ewell." "I'll take it."

"I was told to bring a reply."

"He needs his sleep," Walter hissed softly. "Now wait over there."

He pointed toward the blacksmith shop, where many of the staff had sought shelter during the night His own orders had been strict and without compromise. Unless the entire operation was going to hell, Lee was not to be disturbed. Sentries had been posted along the road ordering strict silence for everyone who passed during the night

He then posted himself in front of Lee's tent the cook first helping him to set up a tarpover the pews to at least give him some shelter.

He unfolded the dispatch. Ewell was reporting that the road back from Taneytown had been cut a brigade of Union cavalry from the south taking Emmitsburg.

Walter thought about it for the moment. Their supply trains were parked over the mountain at Greehcastle, protected by two brigades of cavalry, and would now retire back to Falling Waters on the banks of the Potomac River. That should be sufficient; besides, the captured supplies at Westminster made our own reserves look miniscule in comparison. Hie only drawback, communications back down to Virginia were cut Ironic, both armies were now cut off from their capitals.

Walter actually smiled. Would this trigger a panic in Richmond as well? Probably not Davis was not used to the kind of telegraphic leash Lincoln could keep his generals on. And Richmond had far more faith in General Lee's ability to bring a miracle forth than the Union had in all its generals combined. No, Richmond would be anxious and curious but not panicked or desperate. Well, at least there will be no dispatches to trouble Lee. Let him sleep.

Walter stood up. All around was cloaked in fog, rain slashing down. All was silent Good. Let him sleep a few more minutes.

Lee heard the soft exchange outside his tent He'd been awake for nearly an hour, quietly going over the plan, eyes half closed, listening to the drumming of rain on the canvas.

They love me. That thought struck him with a sharp intensity. Walter keeping watch outside throughout the rainy night the stage-whispered commands from the road for those passing by to keep quiet because "Lee is sleeping."

Today is the Fourth of July. He had a memory of childhood. Old men gathering at the house while he sat quietly to one side, listening as they talked of Washington, of the cold of Valley Forge, the heat of Monmouth, the triumph of York-town. I thought them to be giants, men who had shaped the world to their vision and desires.

What would they say of me now, leading this war to divide the nation they created?

He had settled that argument long ago, at least he thought he had. It is not us, but they, those people on the other side who had drifted from the intent of the Fathers. We are now defending that heritage, not they. We represent the Founding Fathers' intent of a nation of states, not a centralized dictatorship of one government

And yet what would they say then to all of us squabbling children, tearing apart the dream they had created. I cannot change that now. I am on the path set before me and cannot waver from it Afterward, perhaps afterward we can find some way to sit down, to talk, perhaps to heal.

He thought of his boy in prison. Even now old friends will look out for him, while I; here this day, shall kill the comrades of those friends.

How many will die this day? How many a boy stirring in camp at this moment is awakening to his final day?

He swung his legs off the cot, moving quietly so Walter would not hear, stifling a groan, his legs and back stiff. He knelt on the damp ground and lowered his head, hands clasped in prayer.

7.30 AM, JULY 4,1863

UNION MILLS

Exasperated, Winfield Scott Hancock looked to the heavens. It seemed as if the rain was easing slightly, the uniform flat dull gray beginning to shift, a cloud parting for a second, revealing a gunmetal blue patch of sky before closing over again. Occasional spits of rain fell for a few minutes then drifted away.

His men, deployed out in the open fields behind Union Mills, sat on the ground, hunched over, heads bowed. They had begun to file into position at dawn. There was no enthusiasm, but then again these were veterans, not green boys excited about going to see "The Elephant" for the first time. They knew what was coming, what to expect.

The two-division front stretched for nearly half a mile, Caldwell's men forming the first wave on the left, a division of Twelfth Corps to his right, then Hays's the second wave, and Gibbon's-whose boys had taken the brunt of yesterday's assault-the third.

He rode slowly along the line, motioning for the men not to stand up, offering words of encouragement, trying above all else not to reveal the heavy sickness in his heart as he looked at them, his men, his boys.

Most of the men of Kelly's brigade were saying the rosary, kneeling together in a semicircle, prayer beads out, Chanting together… "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…"

He had been their division commander from the banks of Antietam Creek to Chancellorsville and knew many of them by name, never forgetting the sight of them going up the slope at Fredericksburg chanting "Erin go bragh!"

He respectfully edged around the circle, not wishing to disturb them, taking off his hat as he passed

He looked up the slope to where scores of limber wagons were parked What had been dull shadows only minutes before were now visible, wisps of steam rising off the backs of horses.

All was silent.

8:10 AM

Pete Longstreet, sitting on a camp chair, nursed his fourth cup of coffee of the morning, gaze fixed northward The coffee was excellent, several wagon loads of the beans having been found in Westminster and brought up during the night Someone back there was thinking. Many of the men had not had a real cup in months, and as it was distributed along the line in the early morning men awoke to the smell of kettles full of the brew boiling on smoldering campfires. Several dozen head of cattle and pigs were driven up as well and slaughtered just behind the line. His men were going into this one well fed for once, and he could sense the effect as men chewed on half-cooked steaks or fried pork. There was even real sugar for the coffee. He knew that McLaws was most likely chafing at being stuck back at Westminster, but the man was doing his job, knowing what the boys would need this day. Along with the food had come the entrenching tools and ammunition, extra boxes stacked with each regiment covered over in the trenches, and extra limber loads for the artillery kept a mile to the rear.

Most had slept only four or five hours, the work details for digging in finally told to stand down shortly before midnight if for no other reason than the fact that the men were literally collapsing from exhaustion. Most had simply gone to sleep in the mud. Tents had been left behind long ago. Almost to a man the troops were filthy beyond belief, having marched for days on dusty roads and then labored like madmen for upward of twelve hours digging in. In some cases you literally could not tell who was behind the encrusted dirt.

Still, no time to stop digging and clean up. The fortifications were still not up to his liking. In most places the trenches were only three feet deep, with the dirt piled up forward to form a parapet. The battery positions had been fortified with whatever trees or lumber could be found for additional protection.

The artillery battalion bastions, positioned above the mill and then spaced at intervals of two hundred yards or so down the length of the line, were the strong points, fallback positions for infantry as well if the line broke. These points were fully enclosed on all four sides, with earthen walls four-to-five-feet high, strengthened on the inside with logs and cut lumber.

Unfortunately, there was no reserve line to the rear, nor traverses; not enough time for that. Extra supplies moving up and wounded heading to the rear would have to run the open gauntlet behind the lines.

A forward line, down at the bottom of the slope, was little more than a shallow cutout, able to protect men lying down, but not designed for a hard, stand-up fight There were no covered access ways down to the forward line. The men stationed forward would have to simply hold as long as possible then, if need be, run like hell up the slope to gain the protection of the main line. But if they did their job right they would slow down and break up the coherence of the Union charge. That could be worth everything.

The scattering of trees, saplings, and brush bordering the flat bottomland had been cut down to provide a clear field of fire.

A faint breeze stirred, and he noticed that the steady drumming of the rain had eased, almost come to a stop. Mists still blanketed the valley.

The shadows of the hills to the north, only moments before a dim outline, began to take shape, coming into focus. The men who had been up out of their trenches, gathered round smoky fires, drinking coffee, wolfing down strips of meat with singed fingers, fell silent, all looking to the north.

Now he could see them; all could see them. The crown of the opposite ridge was a raw slash of earth across more than a quarter mile; the guns lining the brow were a dark menace. Another great battery, farther down the slope and to his left, positioned near a farmhouse that had been torn apart during the night, was composed of Napoleons, their bronze barrels dull in the diffused gray light.

Longstreet looked over at Porter. Nothing needed to be said. Porter nodded and then, strangely, he came to formal attention and saluted before mounting up to ride down the line.

Pete took another long sip on his coffee and braced himself for what was to come.

8:50 AM, JULY 4,1863

"Battalions, on my command!"

All up and down the line 120 gun crews stood to attention, battery commanders standing back from their pieces, looking in the direction of Henry Hunt each crew sergeant standing with lanyard taut, layers, rammers, loaders, fuse setters, runners all poised, ready to spring into action.

A shaft of sunlight poked through the clouds for a second, fingers of light illuminating the ground below and the opposite slope. The air was still, not as hot as yesterday, but thick with humidity. He knew that within minutes smoke would obscure the target, and the battery commanders had been given careful orders to ensure that their guns were properly laid after every shot.

He raised a clenched fist heavenward and held it poised for a moment.

All were silent and he felt as if he were on a stage, the culmination of all that he had ever lived and trained for narrowing down to this moment

Dean God, please let this work, he thought and even as he muttered the prayer, he knew the irony, the obscenity of it praying that he could successfully kill hundreds on the opposite slope with what he was about to do.

His arm started to tremble. There was no reason to wait to drag it out Let it begin. He let his arm drop.

"Fire!"

The cry echoed down the line, battery commanders mimicking the downward sweep of his arm. The salvo ripped down the length of the line, 120 guns recoiling, more than three hundred pounds of powder igniting, twelve hundred pounds of solid and case shot splitting the silence apart as the bolts shrieked across the valley.

Henry, ducking low, raced between two pieces, crouching, trying to watch the impact all the shot aimed at three rebel batteries dug in along the crest. Five seconds later, the first bolts hit, thin geysers of earth kicking up, airbursts detonating. He caught a glimpse of at least one rebel piece upending from a direct hit

The valley echoed and reechoed from the concussive blast Dimly, to his right he heard the battery of sixty Napoleon smoothbores firing in unison, their round shot aimed to strike the forward line directly across the valley and only eight hundred yards away. Though he could not hear it he had to assume that the other sixty guns, positioned farther down the line, on Sickles's front had opened as well.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that rammers had already sponged their tubes; loaders stood poised with powder bag and shot.

He stepped back, weaving through the organized dance of gunners at work. A shot screamed overhead, clearing the crest a second, later detonating beyond the slope, high enough that the shrapnel raining down on the vast columns would be relatively harmless.

Gun sergeants were hooking lanyards into friction primers set into the breeches, stepping back, carefully bringing the lanyard taut, raising a left hand indicating their piece was ready, shouting for the rest of their crew to stand clear.

More bolts were beginning to come back across the valley, ripping the air overhead, casting up clods of muddy earth from the front of the parapet

When each unit of six guns was loaded, their commanders raised clenched fists in the air, then brought them down. It was impossible to command 120 guns to fire at once, except on the first shot, too cumbersome and wasteful of precious time. First one battery fired, and within seconds the rest fired as well, guns recoiling violently. A few batteries had managed to pave their gun positions with heavy boards torn off the sides of barns; most were working on the muddy ground, the recoil already tearing into the earth, the men responsible for rolling their pieces forward straining and slipping on the wet ground.

Loaders ran past Henry, bringing up the next charge of powder and bolt while rammers again sponged the bores clean. The thunder of the battery salvos came rolling back across the meadows, seeming to pitch the volume to a higher level. The clap of the rebel guns on the far slope washed over him as well.

There was a flash and then a staggering explosion to Henry's right a caisson going up, bodies tumbling through the air, horses tied to the traces shrieking in agony as splinters, burning powder, and parts of human bodies slammed into them. One poor beast most of its hindquarters gone, screamed pitifully until a gunner ran up with drawn revolver and systematically put a shot into the head of each of the dying animals.

Another well-placed shot came in, this a solid bolt striking the trunion of a three-inch Parrott gun, dismounting the tube, the piece collapsing onto a gunner who died without making a sound.

Splinters exploded as another round struck a wheel of a neighboring gun, parts of the fennel and spokes scything across the field, the fennel literally tearing a man in half at the middle.

He started to ride down the line, ignoring the scream of incoming shells, carefully examining each crew at work, chewing out a battery commander for not taking the time to try and aim. The smoke was beginning to build up into a billowing cloud that cloaked the entire ridge, the occasional puff of breeze driving it along the slope. At times it was so thick he could barely see twenty feet, the men working around him looking like fiends in some infernal nightmare as they ran back and forth, brilliant flashes of light marking the discharge of each gun.

It was getting hot, the heat radiating off the barrels, the choking sulfurous smoke, the damp air the gutted ruins of a caisson burning, shells bursting overhead.

He spared a quick glance back across the open fields on the reverse slope. The infantry, close to forty thousand men, were down, lying in the tall grass, trampled corn and wheat fields, their dark lines spread across dozens of acres. They were starting to take the brunt of it now. Typical of rebel gunners, they were shooting high, trying to hit the narrow silhouette of a target along a higher crest. Off by even a fraction of a degree and the shot winged by, ten, twenty feet overhead, only to plunge down into the fields a quarter, even a half mile away. The men, in general, were protected by the reverse slope, but enough shells were detonating, or coming down on a high-enough arc, to hit the lines.

It was all becoming silent to him; the continual crack of artillery was deafening him. He couldn't hear their screams, but he could see the stretcher bearers running back and forth, carrying their bloody burdens to the rear.

He looked back toward the roiling clouds of yellow-green smoke, so thick that it would eddy and swirl as shot shrieked back and forth through it I only hope they're getting hit far worse, he thought grimly. My God, this has to do it.

9:30 A.M.

Longstreet finally accepted the inevitable and went into the trench, his staff pushing in after him. There was no sense in getting killed in this, he realized. Two of his orderlies were already wounded, one with a leg blown off.

The infantry around him nodded in recognition, one of them grinning. 'Too hot out there for ya, General?"

Pete said nothing, just offered a grin. Leaning up against the parapet, he trained his field glasses on the area below. It was hard to see. Everything was cloaked in smoke every bit as thick as the morning mist

The noise was beyond anything he had ever experienced. His own batteries were pouring it back, unmindful of ammunition spent. The captured Union supplies at Westminster guaranteed that for the first time in the war, the Confederate artillery could fire more intensely and longer than its Union counterpart Alexander finally had a chance to fight an artillery duel without rationing out each round and counting each minute of the engagement against a dwindling supply of ammunition. The effect was amazing to Confederate soldiers used to absorbing more than they hit with the artillery arm. The opposite slope was barely visible in the gloom. The only way to mark the battery position was by the continual ripple of flashes racing along the crest of the slope.

A shot came screaming in, men ducking, a spray of mud and dirt washing into the trench, covering Pete. Spitting, he stood up, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the lenses of his field glasses.

Another shot tore past and he heard anguished cries. From the corner of his eye he saw a body collapsing, the man decapitated, comrades crying out in fear and anger.

Looking beyond the dead man, he saw Porter emerging from the smoke, on foot crouched and running low. Venable stood up, shouting for Porter to come over. The artilleryman slid into the trench, breathing hard.

"How goes it?" Pete asked.

'Twelve guns with Cabell and Poague's battalions are wrecks, sir, guns dismounted, a couple of hundred horses dead; casualties with those batteries are high. Looks like they had every gun aimed at them first. Should I get them out?’

Pete shook his head.

"I want them to stay," his words cut short by an airburst exploding nearly straight overhead. "Sir?"

"I want them to stay."

Porter looked at him, as if ready to voice an objection.

"All this smoke, they can barely see. Tell the surviving gunners they must keep firing."

"It will be a slaughter," Porter objected.

"It will be a slaughter wherever their fire is directed. That's Hunt over there, Porter. He knows counterbattery. You pull out and he'll shift fire to the next target I want you to keep those men at it"

"Yes, sir."

"Ammunition?"

"More than enough. I have reserve caissons and an ammunition train a mile back. I'll begin to move them up when we need them."

"Just make sure you have plenty of canister in reserve."

"We will."

"Keep at it Porter."

The gunner wearily stood up and ran back down the line into the middle of the storm.

The fire continued to thunder and roll, reverberating off the hills, the earth beneath Pete shaking and trembling.

9:50 AM, JULY 4,1863

WASHINGTON, D.C. THE WHITE HOUSE

Abraham Lincoln stood alone, looking out the window. The traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue was still this morning. It was, after all, a day of observation

and celebration. Word had just been publicly announced confirming that this day Vicksburg was surrendering to Grant A great salute was planned for this evening, a discharge of a hundred blank rounds of artillery at Lafayette Square.

No one's mind was on that now. A runner from the War Department had just come in bearing a telegram from Baltimore, declaring that heavy gunfire was clearly audible to the northwest toward Westminster.

There was no need for that report Putting his hand on the windowpane, Lincoln could feel the vibration from over sixty miles away.

10.15AM

UNION MILLS

"Hunt is there any sign this is achieving anything?"

Henry, ears ringing, did not know what to say.

Meade stood expectant hands on hips, both instinctively ducking as a round, one with a high-piercing scream, snapped past. Several gunners nearby looking up, exclaiming that it was a Whitworth bolt.

"I cannot say, sir. The smoke. You can't see."

Henry waved toward the south. The swirling, eddying canopy completely obscured the valley and the slopes of the hill, mingling in with pillars of smoke rising from burning caissons, wagons, and several of the houses in the town hit by the Confederate counterfire.

The gunners moved like men seized with a terrible palsy, convulsively, gesturing wildly, typical of men who had been delivering a sustained barrage for well over a hour, crews manhandling the one-ton pieces back into place after each shot rammers covered in black filth, loaders gasping for air in the thick fumes. A hundred or more dead horses littered the ground behind the pieces, cut down by solid shot shrapnel, splinters from exploding caissons, and shattered field pieces.

Everything around the guns was churned to mud, the recoil from firing each piece eighty times or more having dug the earth up into a sticky mess.

Injuries were mounting, men hit by shell and explosions, caught momentarily unaware and crushed as a gun recoiled, kicked by panic-stricken horses, impaled by splinters bursting from limbers shattered by solid bolts.

Behind the lines, the infantry continued to endure, curled up on the open slope, but staying in place. If anything they were far safer than trying to make, a run for the rear because the shot skimming the ridge was plunging down behind the lines.

"How much longer, Hunt?" Meade shouted.

"Sir, as I said before, I can sustain this for roughly two hours. We must keep a reserve, sir…" and his voice trailed off. He did not want to add the final words,… "in case we lose."

"I will not commit my men in until you have suppressed their batteries, Hunt You will tell me when the time is ready."

"Sir, I can only advise you on that"

A round shot clipped the parapet nearby, moving slow enough that Henry could see it go careening off, cutting into a team of horses, dropping two of them in a bloody heap.

"I can't wait here all day, Hunt"

Henry turned away for a moment. Meade was trying to shift it onto him, to have him make the decision. He started to move toward a gun. It was obviously too high, someone letting the elevation screw at the breech wind down. He stopped. I can't walk off from this.

He looked back at Meade. "Sir, at this moment I can't see a damn thing. All I know for certain is that they are still firing back."

A distant thunderclap echoed across the field, most likely a caisson going up on the other side.

"If you can't see, then how the hell will you know?" Meade shouted.

"Let me cease fire for a few minutes," Henry replied.

"Perhaps this smoke will lift enough so that we can judge the results. I can then redirect fire as needed." "Then do it, damn it!" Meade shouted.

10:30 AM, JULY 4,1863

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA

Lee cocked his head. All around him were silent, looking toward the north, expectant, wondering. yes, the volume of fire was dropping, intervals of half a minute or more between distant peals of thunder.

He looked over at Walter. The young colonel was actually asleep, stretched out on a pew, snoring lightly.

"I'm going up," Lee announced to no one in particular.

The gathered staff nodded; they were eager to see what was going on; the inactivity of sitting here, half a dozen miles from the action, was chafing on their nerves.

One of them started toward Walter to shake him awake. "No, no, let him sleep," Lee said, with an indulgent smile. "He can act as liaison here. If word comes from Ewell, forward it up to me immediately."

A groom brought up Traveler, and Lee swung up into the saddle, several men approaching to help him, but a sharp glance made them step back.

He was feeling better; the long night of sleep had been a blessing, some strength returning for all that was needed this day.

He started north toward the fight, the world around him so quiet that he could hear the chirping of birds, the sigh of a gentle breeze in the trees.

10:40 AM, JULY 4,1863

UNION MILLS

It had taken fifteen minutes for the smoke to slowly clear, fifteen minutes of agonizing frustration. Even the slightest of breezes would have

lifted the curtain, the thick humid air holding the clouds in place.

The rebel lines were now visible. They were continuing to fire back, a slow measured pace, but with the lifting of the smoke it was regaining accuracy, another of his guns dismounted by a direct hit as they waited for the air to clear.

He carefully scanned the line with his field glasses, Meade by his side.

The shooting looked fairly good in places. The parapet overlooking the mill was torn, busted down in places, four, maybe five guns definitely out of action. The grand battery of Napoleons to the right was continuing to fire slowly, shot impacting along the lower line. But the enemy was still in place, a fact that did not surprise him at all. It was one thing for guns to engage an enemy out in the open, another to try and force them out of a prepared position.

He looked over at Meade. Hancock had come up as well, remaining on his black horse, which fidgeted nervously as a shot screamed overhead.

"Keep at it," Meade announced, "I want those batteries suppressed."

Behind them fresh caissons were coming up, crews struggling to back them into place, maneuvering gingerly around wrecked equipment and dead horses. Gunners were leaning on their pieces, speaking in loud voices, everyone's hearing stunned by the pounding of the last hour and a half.

Word was already going down the line to aim carefully and be prepared to resume fire.

"I have enough for one more hour," Henry announced. 'That's it, sir, beyond that and we run the risk of totally depleting our reserves."

"I want those guns over there knocked out," Meade replied, his voice shaky with weariness and nervous strain.

"I've passed the order to slow the rate of fire, gunners not to fire until they can clearly sight a target," Hunt replied.

"Then do it Resume fire."

Henry nodded and, stepping back, he raised his fist up.

10:50 AM

Longstreet was up out of the trench, standing with Porter inside the shattered remains of the earthen fort occupied by what was left of Cabell's battalion. Over half the pieces were destroyed, the gunners all but collapsing from shock and exhaustion. The brief respite allowed them a few minutes to sink to the ground, oblivious to the blood, the dead horses, the dead men dragged to one side. The wounded who could not walk were being run out by stretcher bearers taking advantage of the interlude.

"I think he's about to open up again," Porter announced.

Pete, standing beside him with field glasses raised, nodded in agreement

"They're good, damn good," Porter offered.

"So are we," Pete snapped. "Your gunners are pretty damn good, too.".

He lowered his glasses, looking to the left and right. Some of the infantry were up out of the trenches, walking about examining the damage, like boys who had taken shelter from a violent storm and were now looking at the destruction wrought

The position was still relatively intact casualties about what he had expected. The long bitter hours of work yesterday and through the night were now paying off. If the men had been caught in an open field under this barrage, he doubted if they could have held.

The men suddenly began to scatter, diving back into their trenches. He looked back and saw the flash of fire racing down the front of the grand battery, like firecrackers igniting on a long string.

The sound finally hit a sustained rolling boom, followed a little more than a second later by the scream of more shells coming in. Dignity forgotten, he flung himself down against the parapet Porter by his side, as dozens of shells and solid shot plowed into the battery position. Screams echoed as the concussion of detonations washed over him.

Porter grunted, cursing. Pete looked over. The man was grimacing, holding his arm, the sleeve of his uniform sliced open, blood already welling out

Behind them a caisson blew, jagged splinters spraying the position.

Pete stood up, knowing that if d be a minute or more before the next salvo came in.

Porter, shaking, face pale, stood up, clutching his arm. "Let me see it" Pete shouted.

"I'm all right" and he gingerly held out his arm, flexing his hand, the gesture indicating that a bone was not broken. A gunner, seeing the situation, came up to Porter, pulling out a handkerchief, which he deftly wrapped around the arm, pulling it tight so that Porter cursed softly under his breath.

"Another one!" somebody shouted.

Again they were down, the blizzard of shot raining down on the position.

"Damn all, General, my men can't take this much longer."

Pete nodded, standing back up again. Two of the guns with the battalion finally responded, lone shots going back in defiant response.

He realized that his staying at this exposed point served no logical purpose. Lee was right on such things; the potential loss of a general through reckless exposure was nothing more than a foolish waste. Save yourself for the key moment not now. I get hit and things here might begin to fall apart

Reluctantly he scrambled up over the side of the parapet motioning for Porter to follow, blocking out the stares of the gunners watching him leave, hoping they did not see it as cowardice that he was leaving them to stand the hurricane alone.

Porter moved slowly, favoring his arm. "Can you stay in command?" Pete asked. "Yes, sir, I can manage. They will not drive me off this battlefield."

The curtain of smoke on the opposite slope began to part again, and seconds later more shots came screaming in.

"He's measuring it out now," Pete announced "They must be running low on ammunition. We have their supplies, and it is beginning to limit their rate of fire."

He stood silent for a moment, staff that had been trailing the two trying to act poised, but obviously nervous as a solid bolt came far too close to the group, killing the horse of a courier, who jumped off as the dying creature reared up screaming and then went down on its side.

Suppose they don't come in? he thought Then what?

"Porter, how is the ammunition supply?"

"More man enough left sir. I have more than a hundred rounds per gun stockpiled back there," and Porter gestured toward the rear area, where the park of limber wagons was clearly visible and safely out of range. "And then there are the additional supplies at Westminster. The Union army has provided for all our ammunition needs."

The group ducked as yet another salvo impacted dirt flying. Another secondary explosion ignited from within Cabell's position. Part of a broken wheel came spiraling out of the battery position and plowed into Longstreet's staff.

A staff officer was down, trying to stifle a scream, leg torn off below the knee; another man had been hit in the chest by a wooden splinter as thick around as a man's wrist blood washing over him.

Pete, stunned came up to the first man's side, grabbing him by the shoulders, holding him as someone struggled to wrap a tourniquet around the knee.

Stretcher bearers came running up, lifting the wounded captain up, and then turning to run off. Longstreet stood up, trying to wipe the blood off on his trouser legs.

He looked around at the carnage and destruction. Porter was right Cabell's men, and beyond him the redoubt held by Poague's battalion, were played out shattered by the thousands of shells that had poured in on them.

"Order Cabell to pull out now, also Poague's battalion. Have them retire to the rear."

"Sir?"

"Order them to retire now!" Longstreet shouted.

"And bring up the reserve?" Pete shook his head. "No."

He turned away, catching the eye of Wofford, the brigade commander holding the heights above the mill. "Come here, Wofford."

Wofford, as ever, stepped smartly forward and saluted, looking a bit absurd since his uniform, which had been all brightness and shiny trim the day before, was completely soaked in half-dry mud.

Wofford stared at Longstreet as the order was given.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Just do it," Longstreet snapped. "Do it now."

11:15 AM, JULY 4,1863

"Are you seeing this?" Meade asked, riding up to where Henry stood at the center of his grand battery.

Henry nodded, lowering his glasses. The rebels were abandoning their two main bastions facing the ground over which Second and Twelfth Corps were supposed to advance.

"Are they pulling back, Hunt?"

"I can't tell yet, sir."

Now he could see infantry getting out of the trenches, not many, but still a significant number, breaking, heading to the rear. His ears were ringing; sound was distorted. It was hard to see, not because of the smoke, but because of his own eyes, which were red, stinging, tears clouding them.

He looked at Meade.

"Hunt, have you done it?"

"Sir," and he paused to rub his eyes with blackened hands, "Sir, I can't tell you that. I see two battalions of their guns withdrawing. Some infantry breaking. I know we gave them a rough going-over, but I can't speak for anything beyond that"

Even as they spoke, Hancock came up, followed only a minute or so later by Slocum and Sickles riding side by side. "Are they breaking, Hunt?" Hancock cried.

Henry felt his chest tighten. He knew that here, now at this moment, whether he wanted to or not, the decision was devolving into his hands. If he said no, if he told Meade flat out that the sustained bombardment by every gun of the Army of the Potomac had failed, perhaps this assault would be called off.

And then what? Follow Sickles's wild scheme? Meade would never do that. Fall back on Harrisburg? Impossible. Just as impossible as trying to flank to the left Washington would hang all of them because surely Lee would finally move toward the capital, even if just to occupy the outskirts, to bring the place under siege and trigger a panic.

No. Fate was drawing them in. The web, whether created by us, by Lee, or ordained long ago, had come to this moment He looked back at the long lines of troops. Some were standing up, many of them looking straight at this knot of officers, obviously the high command of the Army of the Potomac, who were about to make the decision.

A light shower opened up, the cool rain drifting down.

"If you are going to do it sir," Henry replied, voice trembling, near to breaking, "then do it now. I have to break off this barrage to keep enough rounds left to provide minimal cover once you go in. Once the columns are into the valley, I'll open back up with measured support"

Meade said nothing; the corps commanders were silent; Hancock was stock-still, gazing across the open ground.

"Now is the time, gentlemen," Meade announced, voice steady. "To your posts. Remember my orders. No corps commanders are to go forward. My headquarters is here, and I expect you to report back here. Hunt in ten minutes, fire one salvo from all your guns; that will be the signal to go in."

Henry nodded, unable to respond.

"God save our Republic," Sickles whispered, taking off his hat and lowering his head.

Henry, startled, looked up at the normally profane general.

The corps commanders rode off at a gallop; the sight of them moving thus, followed by their flag bearers, set up a rippling cheer from the tens of thousands assembled behind the ridge. Drums began to roll, bugles echoing, calling the men to arms.

Henry lowered his head and prayed, letting the minutes slowly tick out.

He finally looked back up and saw Hancock, dismounted, kneeling in the wet grass with Kelly's Irishmen, a priest standing atop a small boulder, making the sign of the cross. Battle flags were uncased; a hundred or more American flags, each one marking a regiment, were held up, a faint breeze stirring them to life.

The sight of them made his heart constrict, his throat going tight, tears coming to his eyes. Today is the Fourth of July, he thought yet again. Dear God, let there be reason to celebrate another come next year.

Kelly's Irishmen were back on their feet, their battle chant beginning to echo, "Erin go bragh."

Other regiments began to cry out as well, "The Union, the Union, the Union!"

His gunners were poised, at their pieces, looking toward Henry!

Hat still off, he looked straight up, letting the light rain wash his face for a moment.

Henry raised his hat up over his head, and cleared his throat "Battalions, at my command!"

The cry was picked up, racing down the line yet again.

He looked across the field, gaze fixed on a small knot of mounted officers atop the distant crest He closed his eyes and slapped his arm down. "Fire!"

For over eighty thousand men, Union or Confederate, it was a moment unlike any seen before, a moment all would carry to their dying hour, whether that was but minutes away or destined to be four score years into the future.

Hancock, tears streaming down his face, saluted as the Irish Brigade started up the slope, falling in to ride by their side.

Sickles, not yet back into his own lines, turned, mesmerized by the sight of two full corps, the 22,000 men of the first waves, going up the slope, line after line, flags held high, a breeze snapping them out

Henry, arms at his side, turned, watching the vast phalanx approach. As the first battle line drew near, he shouted for his gunners to stand clear, trace riders to hold their teams. Many of the gunners came to attention, saluting; others cheered, their cry picking up, echoing down the lines…

"The Union!"

For most of the men, there was no grand sight If in the first line, just the slope of the ground ahead, dead horses littering the field, dead artillerymen, now the guns coming into view, gunners blackened standing, saluting, some cheering.

For those in the second rank, the third rank, or those with Sedgwick's corps moving forward to occupy the ground just vacated, all that could be seen was the man in front haversack and canteen over left hip, sky blue trousers caked with mud, trampled grass, occasional stains of blood, and bodies where those caught in the barrage had stayed behind. File closers kept shouting the same litany, "Close it up. Guide on the colors, boys. Close it up."

Some prayed; some, caught in the grandeur of the moment stared about Men with the Twentieth Massachusetts, Hall's brigade, of Gibbon's division of the Second Corps, led by a grandson of Paul Revere, heard an officer reciting from Henry V. Some scoffed; more than a few recited along, knowing the words by heart…" 'we few, we happy few, we band of brothers… "'

Along the far slope, twelve hundred yards away, men were up and out of the trench. A teenage boy from North Carolina, one of the "pets" of the company, disemboweled by a fragment, was surrounded by weeping comrades as he penned a farewell note to his mother with trembling hand, then accepted the draught of morphine from a doctor who knew the amount he was giving to him was not murder, but a merciful blessing.

Others stood silent, voices whispering in awe, "Here they come; my God, here they come."

John Williamson, with Sergeant Hazner by his side, was silent, watching as first the tips of flags, then muskets, appeared along the crest of the ridge; and then, finally, the first rank was in view, a solid wall half a mile across, followed by another rank, and then another.

It was terrifying, and yet it held him with its frightful grandeur, its pageantry, the sheer power of what was unfolding before him, coming straight at him.

John looked over nervously at Hazner, who gave him a tight-lipped grin. Standing to the rear of the trench, they slowly paced the line together. The regiment had taken a couple of dozen casualties so far, one shell detonating inside the trench, killing several men and horribly wounding half a dozen more. The wounded were being carried to the rear in the lull, the dead pulled out of the trench. John stepped around one of the bodies, swallowing hard as he looked down. It was Mark Arnson, one of the boys from home, a cousin to Elizabeth. Same hair, pale blond. He looked away.

One of the men had a Bible out and was standing, reading it aloud.

"'A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee

He felt cold, empty, the words bringing no comfort. Thousands would fall in the next few minutes. If all of them pray this same prayer, then whose trust will be betrayed?

If only I could believe, take comfort in that. As he paced the line, he looked at the men, their expressions, wondering who would still be alive an hour from now, who would be silenced forever.

The vast, undulating line of blue was atop the opposite crest, coming on relentlessly.

"My God," Hazner whispered, "I'm glad it's them rather than us."

John said nothing. Hand absently slipping into his haversack, touching the leather volume, wondering if he would ever write in it again.

General Longstreet stood with arms folded and for a moment he felt doubt, hesitation. Such power, line after line cresting that distant ridge, coming on as if they would never stop, feeling as if behind them came a million more. Can I hold them now? Even if we do stop them today, can we hold them?

A cheer began, rippling down his line, building in intensity, the rebel yell. He sensed, though, that it was not given in the lust of battle, as his men so often did when going into a charge. It was a salute, an acknowledgment that those coming toward them had created a moment never to be forgotten, a moment that, win or lose, would be remembered across history.

They most likely would have given the same cheer for us, Pete thought

Drums rolled, calling the men to the ranks, forming up along the length of the trench. From out in the field, the men of Wofford's command who had feigned retreat now came about, running at the double, piling back into their trench, while from a mile back ten batteries, the replacements for Cabell and Poague, came forward at the gallop.

The trap had been sprung. Now, now it was simply a question of holding on against what he knew would be the most vicious assault of the war. Meade might have gotten it all wrong these last four days, but at least in this he was getting it right No hesitation. If it was necessary to go in frontally, throw every man in at the same time and come on relentlessly, regardless of loss.

"It's General Lee, sir."

Longstreet saw Lee coming up, several staff following, one bearing the guidon of the headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia.

Longstreet saluted as Lee reined in. He could see that his general was awed as well. Lee was silent for a moment eyes bright as he scanned the distant lines now sweeping down the slope.

" 'As terrible as an army with banners,'" Lee whispered.