Gettysburg

Chapter Seventeen

11:45 AM, JULY 4,1863

UNION MILLS

The first shots came from the skirmishers who had watched the barrage in relative safety, crouched down in the marsh grass lining the banks of Pipe Creek. They had gone out shortly after midnight, sent to act as an alarm if the Union should attempt a night assault or come in through the fog at first light

More than one man, once the barrage started, had laid back, watching the shells arc overhead. An informal truce was declared between them and the Union skirmishers deployed in the pastures on the north side of the creek, men on both sides standing up, leaning on muskets, watching the grand fireworks show.

Now that the infantry battle was on again, the logic that had stilled the slaughter down along the banks of Pipe Creek was null and void. Some of the men, unable to resist the sheer size of the target coming toward them, raised their rear sights to four hundred yards, aimed even higher, and lobbed a scattering of rifle balls into the lines. This triggered a quick response from the Union skirmishers, who were far closer, and men began to fall on both sides. The Confederate skirmish line retreated, men running low through the high grass, stumbling, ducking down for a moment coming back up again, zigzagging across die field and then clambering over the sides of the earthen embankment that was dug in just above the flood plain.

The forward line of the advance-the brigades of Kelly, Cross, Zook, and Brooke on the left; men of the old solid Second Corps, including McDougall; and Ruger of the Twelfth Corps on the right-were halfway down the slope. A hundred yards behind them came the Third Division of the Second Corps on the left and the Second Division of the Twelfth Corps on the right, with Lockwood's brigade as the third wave. The Second Division of the Second Corps, which had borne the brunt of the previous day's fighting, was the third wave coming in on the left as well.

Porter's Confederate reserve guns were still bouncing across the fields, moving to replace Cabell and Poague, so the first artillery to fire was the next battalion down, Posey's battalion, dug in behind Anderson's division.

The guns were well placed to drive their shot in enfilade across the front of Second Corps, and the gunners opened with a will, cutting their fuses to five seconds, and then to four seconds, and then down to three seconds. In a sense they were getting even for the battering they had taken from the Union artillery three days earlier at Gettysburg. Farther on the line to the left the battalions supporting Pender and Pettigrew were joining in as well, though the range was long, at nearly a mile, for batteries positioned with Pettigrew's to reach, and most of them turned their weapons onto the batteries deployed along the front of Third Corps, which was not yet committed to the fight. Joining them were the gunners covering the front of Early's division, which was on the far left of the Confederate line.

Onward the battle lines came, the men moving fast on the steep, downward slope, jumping over torn-down walls of split-rail fencing, which had been knocked apart in the previous day's assault. The far left of the column swept through the edge of the town, the ground to their left opening out, leading toward the still-smoldering mill and miller's house. Alignment was kept, a grim professional pride taking hold in these, the elite troops of an elite army that had only known disappointment and defeat

If there was a hope, and nearly every officer had spoken of this, the hope was that they, the veterans of the Army of the Potomac, would sweep onward, regardless of loss.

Keep closing on the flags, men. Let that be your guide this day, your flag. Don't stop, don't slow down for anything, keep pushing forward. Forty thousand of us will be in this together; never has a charge been done like this by our army. Meade is sending us in together; Hunt and his boys will pound a way clear. Just go for the heights, and we will win.

These were not green recruits so innocent that they would believe anything said, as they themselves had once believed in a long-ago time. Many had attempted to cross this same field in the boiling heat only yesterday; they knew its slope; they knew what would happen; and yet they were going forward now without hesitation.

Those who would hesitate were gone from the ranks; they had run away or found a way to skulk off. Those going knew what was at stake and what would happen to many of them in the minutes ahead.

Just stay with the colors. Keep an eye on that flag and, by God, if it goes forward, you go forward. If it falls, every man of you should move to pick it up and keep it going. Do not let the flag touch the ground.

They were stripped down. Blanket rolls were stacked to the rear, the cowards, or those truly too sick to advance, staying as a guard. Canteens at least were full; that had been an order passed straight down from the top. Drink your fill and runners to refill all canteens two hours before the assault goes in. Haversacks were mostly empty of rations; they had been consumed on the march south from Gettysburg; now an extra forty rounds were in most of them.

Enduring the morning showers, most of the men were wet, but it was at least comfortable for the moment, cooling after the heat of the previous three days. The shoes and wool socks, however, were heavy with moisture, walking made more difficult by the wet, tangled grass on the downslope.

By order of the commanding general, brigade and division commanders were not to advance ahead of the line, but several ignored it; Kelly, of course, for what self-respecting

Irishman would not be in the lead at a moment like this; Gibbon, a professional who should have known better, was out front as well, sword held high.

As they marched down the slope, the great amphitheater of this drama was spread out before them, the open valley ahead, the meandering stream, millpond to the left, the raw slash of earth across the base of the opposite slope, the second line of tom-up earth along the crest above. Their professional eyes judged it and they knew with a terrible certainty what would come down upon them in just a few more minutes.

And yet, for a brief moment, they saw beyond it, the awe-inspiring sight of the long battle lines rolling down out of the hills, flags of over thirty regiments held high, the dark waves of blue moving on like a relentless tide.

Maybe, just maybe, we'll do it this time.

Half a prayer, half a dream, and thousands said it, looking sidelong at neighbors and friends, nods, tight grins of acknowledgment, a few weak gibes. A rabbit kicked up out of the grass in front of Ruger's brigade, dashing along a farm lane in a mad panic back and forth before it finally cut straight between the legs of the soldiers and went tearing back to the rear. Men laughed, shouting they wished they could trade places.

The Napoleons in the lower battery, whose front they had yet to cross, continued to fire, pounding the opposite line, the sharp, almost bell-like "sprang" of the guns echoing with each discharge.

The ground started to slope outward into a gentle decline. Ahead was a sharp bank that tumbled down half a dozen feet, marking the divide between hills and flood plain. Men slid down the grassy slope, some falling, comrades reaching out to help pull each other up, officers shouting to keep alignment, to keep moving.

The first wave was into the bottomland pastures, a giant undulating wave of men, one man for each foot and a half of front, two ranks deep, nearly a mile across. Behind them the second wave of two ranks was a hundred yards to their rear, behind that the third wave of Gibbon's division and Lockwood's brigade. Deployed-out in heavy column, a division wide and three divisions deep, eighteen thousand men of Sedgwick's corps, just beginning to crest the ridge, poised to exploit any breakthrough that developed.

The grass in the bottomland was thicker, tangled mats in places, the ground soggy after the rain. Men began to lose their shoes, unable to stop to retrieve them, continuing on with wet wool socks sagging, peeling off.

The shells from the enfilading fire cut in across the front; men began to drop. Mercifully, the ground was damp enough that when a round ball or bolt hit, it tended to plow into the earth, the notoriously poor fuses of the Confederate artillery going out in the spray of muck. Airbursts of case shot, however, sprayed down on the lines. Here and there a man dropped, or cried out, stumbling away from the line. In Zook's brigade, one well-placed bolt came skimming in, dropping a dozen men in one bloody burst, officers shouting for the ranks to close up, to keep moving.

The first wave was a hundred yards into the pasture. Union skirmishers in the field now stood up, some sprinting back the few yards to fall in with their comrades, others waiting for the first wave to pass over them. The creek tended to favor the south bank of the valley, though in places it meandered out in its slow, wandering course, looping to midfield. The first wave was nearly upon it, men able to see its waters now, really nothing more than a shallow, muddy flow, in places so narrow that an energetic farm boy could leap it in one bound.

And then, along most of the front-in spite of the rumbling of the cannons, the shouts of their own officers, the banging of tin cups on canteens, the sloshing of wet leather-they heard it The command racing down the Confederate front line, picked up by officers, riflemen shouting the order in response.

"Ready!"

A wall seemed to materialize out of the ground, a wall of butternut, gray, occasional splashes of sky blue trousers, rifle barrels, several thousand of them held high.

The range was in some places 300 yards, in others, such as the approach to the burning mill, less than 150.

‘Take aim!"

The barrels dropped; hammers clicked back. For those in the very front rank there was the terrible moment, the strange illusion that made it look as if every rifle was aiming straight at you.

"Steady, boys! Steady!" the cry echoed across the Union line. No matter how brave, how determined they were, there was an involuntary flinch, a slowing down, as mere flesh recoiled in anticipation of what was about to be unleashed upon them.

Time distorted. Some felt as if every step taken now seemed to transcend into an eternity. Some could look only at the guns; others could not look. A few gazed heavenward beseechingly; some noticed the most trivial of things, a frightened dove kicking up out of the tall grass, a grasshopper poised on a stalk of grass, about to jump, the sidelong glance of a beloved comrade who in another second would be dead, the back of an officer, hat poised on sword blade, who had turned, looking back to shout something to his men that could not be heard.

"Fire!"

The command was barely heard by either side. As if a single hand had struck the flame, in an instant three thousand rifles discharged.

Three thousand rounds of.58-cal. slashed across the open field, muzzle velocity slow at but seven to eight hundred feet per second, but carrying a frightful punch, the conical round weighing close to an ounce, made of soft lead. Sometimes the rounds sounded like the buzz of an angry bee or the hiss of a snake, and if it passed close enough to you, you'd feel the smack of the shock wave. '

If it hit human flesh, the sound was audible, like an open-handed slap. The slower speed, at that instant, that microsecond as the bullet struck, actually made the impact more deadly; the round would begin to flatten out, distort as it first penetrated cloth, striking a button, a cartridge box sling, or belt plate. Often it would begin to tumble, glancing off at a slight angle, mushrooming out as it tore into the body, and traveling so slow that it was not sterilized by the heat of its passage, dragging with it bits of black powder, tallow that had been used to grease the ball, and fragments of whatever it had struck first before entering the body.

Arteries that might have been cauterized by the passage of a high-speed jacketed round were instead torn open, the next pulse of the heart sending out the first spray of bright arterial blood. The truly frightful moment was when the round struck bone. It did not punch through a bone; rather it shattered it, the shock of the blow causing the bone to disintegrate laterally, fracture lines and fissures often running the length of that bone clear up to the joint Here the bullet would flatten out even more, to the diameter of a quarter, at times to nearly a half dollar, tearing everything in its path. If there was enough momentum left the hunk of lead would exit the body, pulling out fragments of broken bone, marrow, flesh, and blood with it sometimes striking a man behind the victim, injuring him as well, or spraying him with the contents of the comrade in front

If the ball struck between rib cage and pelvis, death was just a matter of time, be it seconds if a main artery was hit or days of slow agony if it simply lodged in the intestine. A man shot crosswise might have his liver shattered, the stomach or small intestine punctured, — the kidney torn apart Within minutes he would begin to bloat up, as blood cascaded into his abdominal cavity.

To be shot through the lungs was almost as bad. It took time to die unless the bundle of arteries and veins linked directly to the heart was severed. The lungs would slowly fill up with blood and liquid, each breath a struggle to keep from drowning, sometimes the air wheezing in and out of the bullet hole.

If one was to be struck, and die, then the lucky shot was to the head or the heart It would be barely felt if it was the head, just a sudden going out of the light If in the heart more than one man would actually stop, look down, and have a few seconds to comprehend what had just happened, perhaps enough time to even look up at a friend with that strange, quizzical look of men when they know they are dead but have yet to fall back into the earth.

For several hundred along that first line, this is what now happened. Rounds thwacked into the first line; men grunted from the blows, those who survived describing it as feeling like you had been kicked by a mule or hit with an ax handle. Some just simply collapsed, comrades to either side sprayed with blood and gray, sticky matter if the man next to them had been hit in the head. Others turned, staggering backward, dropping rifles, more than one man not being hit by a round but struck instead by a broken musket spinning through the air or from splinters kicked back as a ball tore through a gun stock.

Some paused, doubled over, and then, with iron will, staggered back up, pressing forward, dropping after a dozen feet Those hit but not too bad, perhaps with an arm broken, would stop, look down, and grin. Honor had been fulfilled; they could now walk back past the provost guards to the rear, who would shout the demand, "Show blood," and now blood could be shown and they were safe. Many would be in shock, not even feeling pain until they staggered into the hospital area and saw the surgeons at work.

Some simply sat down, not quite comprehending, looking down at a shattered leg, seeing the bright blood spurting out knowing what it meant and then quietly lying back, gaze fixed on the heavens. More than one would be found later clutching a Bible or a daguerreotype of wife and children.

"Close up! Keep moving! Guide on the colors!"

The line staggered, slowed for an instant and then forged ahead. The front contracted slightly as regiments aligned to their centers, the first gaps opening between formations.

The first wave began to hit the creek, some jumping at the narrow points, others slipping down into the cool, muddy water, churning it up. Dozens of men, hit in the first volley, reached the bank and then collapsed, more than one of them to drown in water so shallow that a toddler could have splashed his way to safety.

Alignment of the first wave began to waver, a few stopping at the stream, ducking down behind the relative safety of the low bank, file closers slapping them across the backs with the flat of swords or musket butts, pushing them up. The flag bearers of the thirty-two lead regiments, almost to a man, pressed forward, caught up in that strange euphoria that seized men of their kind, men who fought for the privilege to carry the sacred totem of their regiment, of their Republic. Colors held high, they defiantly pressed forward.

Directly to their front, through the coiling wisps of smoke from the first volley, they could see arms moving rythmically up and down as the rebel infantry tore open cartridges with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, pushed greased ball into the muzzle, pulled ramrods out from under the barrel, or now, in many cases, retrieved them where the long, thin steel rods had been jammed into the dirt of the earthworks. Arms rose up, then pushed down, ramrod slamming rounds down to the breech of the barrel. Rammers were then stuck back into the earthen bank, rifle raised, half cocked, percussion cap fumbled out of capbox on the belt, cap set on nipple, and then gun raised up to the vertical, signaling that all was ready. After thirty seconds nearly every gun was poised at the vertical.

"Battalions, take aim!"

Again the barrels were leveled. The advancing blue wall now seemed to hunker down, men advancing with heads lowered, leaning forward, as if going into the teeth of a gale.

"Fire!"

A couple of hundred more dropped. Not as many as from the first volley, which was always the most accurate because the field was clear of smoke, and the loading had been done more carefully. In the excitement more than one rebel had pushed the ball down first rather than the powder or had fumbled the percussion cap and now snapped the hammer down on an empty nipple, and the smoke in places obscured the view, but the range was closer as well by forty yards or so.

Men collapsed into the high, wet grass, the dirt starting to chum up, more men losing shoes, some dropping rifles when a comrade in the front rank two feet ahead came slamming back into them. Flags dropped, for always it was the flag bearers who were special targets. Within seconds, though, eager hands grabbed the colors, hoisting them back up.

"Close on the colors! Keep moving, men! For God's sake keep moving!"

To some the assault might appear to be an exercise in madness, men advancing shoulder to shoulder against a deadly fire, standing erect, out in the open… and yet there was a terrible cold logic to it all, the idea of bringing a maximum number of men, in a close compact line, into effective combat range, and then either charge over the opponent with fixed bayonets or drive him back by concentrated musketry. The hard part was to keep the men moving, to keep them moving forward and not let the charge grind to a halt out in the middle of the field.

"On the double, quick time… march!"

The pace accelerated, from 110 yards a minute to twice that. Start it too early and the men would be winded when the climatic moment came, a fine equation balanced against how many would fall getting there at the slower pace.

The forward line surged ahead, those drummer boys allowed to go in on the advance, beating out the tattoo, officers waving swords, flag bearers setting the pace, the steady rulerlike line now beginning to break apart into thirty-two inverted V formations, each regiment closing in on their colors with the flags at the apex, flanks lagging a bit behind.

'Take aim!"

In places the range was down to 30 yards. Over on the right, with Slocum's brigades, the men were still 150 yards short of the enemy line.

"Fire!"

More fell, the charge staggering from the blow, collapsing bodies tumbling into the second line, men tangling up, flags going down.

Finally the tension was too much, and as in nearly every charge, the momentum began to slow. The enemy was so close that in the swirling smoke individual features could be seen, an officer, filled with battle madness, standing atop the low parapet, old men with graying beards standing alongside fresh-faced boys, all of them tearing cartridges, loading.

One of Zook's regiments came to a halt, a few men raising their rifles, firing, and then in seconds the entire Union front, spread across that open plain, leveled rifles and fired, the volley an explosive tearing roar that raced up and down the line, drawn out for long seconds, the shock wave from the discharge thumping across the fields, the sound of it mingling in with Henry's cannons, which had resumed their bombardment, the artillery fire aimed high to pass over the advancing lines and strike the crest of the hill.

Another thunder was adding in as well. The first of the replacement batteries reoccupying the bastions of Poague and Cabell were swinging into action. Gunners unhooking the trail of their pieces from caissons, manhandling the one-ton weapons forward, pulling aside bodies, smashed caissons, and in more than one case simply pulling the gun up and over the prone body of a dead horse. The first of the guns recoiled, throwing case shot down into the third wave of troops, who were still on the downward slope.

The Confederates in the forward trench went into independent fire at will, men loading furiously, barely aiming, just pointing into the clouds of smoke, some trying to sight on the flash of a rifle discharging in the gloom. More than a few loaded, forgot to cap the nipple, pulling the trigger then grounding their weapon and pushing another load in. A tragic few, after doing this half a dozen times, would successfully cap and when they squeezed the trigger, the breech of the gun burst, blinding or killing the man behind it

A searing fire raced up and down the lines, men firing individually, some officers maintaining company volleys, a couple of regiments firing all at once, these volleys of three to four hundred rifles at once a sharp crack above the rolling cacophony. Upward of twelve thousand rifle balls were crisscrossing the held every minute.

Logic would seem to dictate that after a minute no one would be left alive, and yet for each volley of a hundred fired, maybe only three or five rounds would find their target. Rifles were aimed too high or too low; smoke covered the field so that it was rare to clearly see what one was shooting at A strange illusion was created with the high grass. Rifle balls, aimed low, would come zinging through the grass, a line of stalks leaping into the air with its passage, the streak racing straight at a man, sometimes passing between his legs, as if a deadly invisible snake were flying past

Bodies dropped on both sides, men collapsing into the muddy bottom of the Confederate trench, Union troops falling in the grass.

One of Brooke's regiments went into a mad charge, bayonets leveled, racing across the last hundred yards, emerging out of the gloom, Confederates to both sides pouring in a ghastly enfilade that dropped a hundred or more before the battered remnant swarmed up the low, mud slick bluff delineating the end of the flood plain, clawing their way up onto the parapet of the shallow trench. Some of the Confederates gave back a few dozen feet; others leapt down, clubbed muskets raised, men rolling down the embankment kicking, gouging, stabbing.

The charge broke, a final melee ensuing when a dozen Rebs tried to tackle the flag bearer and drag the colors away from him. Retreating men turned, surged back, clubbing and stabbing, physically dragging the dying flag bearer out of the melee.

This action finally broke the deadlock. It was the men themselves to either flank of the dying regiment that started to scream out a single word

"Charge! Charge!"

That strange, almost indefinable moment in a battle was occurring when morale surged for some reason, and men, rooted to a spot only a minute before, knowing that to take but one step forward would mean death, began to move, as if shoved into the maelstrom by the hand of some angry god of war desiring more blood.

A wild frenzy took hold, men screaming, lowering weapons, bayonets flashing, here and there two or three beginning to go forward again, in other places entire regiments advancing, keeping formation.

The dam broke.

The Confederate infantry, deployed up on the ridge, had so far remained silent, ordered to hold their fire; but some, unable to stand the strain, stood up, aimed down into the valley, and opened up. The artillery was still aiming across the valley to strike at the second or third line or Sedgwick's heavy brigades. Eighteen-thousand men strong who were in reserve and halfway down the slope began to crank up their elevation gears, raising the breeches of their guns, dropping the muzzles in anticipation of what was coming.

The brunt of the storm hit the muddy embankment, men floundering, falling, getting back up, sergeants and corporals physically pushing men up the slope. The assault wave broke into the line three hundred yards to the west of the mill, drowning it under in a wave of blue. The breach spread, like an old rag disintegrating as it was torn asunder.

Many of the Confederates backed out of the shallow trench, turned, and started scrambling up the slope to the main line. Some stayed; many died; many others dropped weapons, holding hands high, and for some the gesture was too late as they were shot or bayoneted in the wild frenzy.

The small bastion thrown up around the ruins of the mill and miller's house continued to hold. Its eastern flank was guarded by the millpond, the regiment that made up the extreme left of the Union attack stalled by the shallow, open body of water, the soldiers there simply kneeling and lying down along the bank to pour in supporting fire. The bridge below the mill had been destroyed during the night. The stream here had banks steep enough to offer a barrier and cover, so that the men who struck it stopped on the opposite shore, trapped in the narrow defile, while from thirty yards away the rebels inside the rough-built earthworks poured out a continual blaze of fire, dropping any man who dared to try and stand up and push forward.

But beyond that, from the opposite side of the Baltimore Road, clear down to the end of Slocum's divisions, who were opposing Pettigrew, the forward Confederate line fell.

For some this was as far as they felt they could get. They had braved the impact of the first volleys, stormed across the open fields, taken an entrenchment, but above them, three hundred yards above, was the crest

All had been told what to do; officers had gone over it again and yet again. Don't stop, boys. There're two trenches. Don't stop till we're over the top of the ridge. Don't stop!"

"Come on!" The cry echoed along the line, some men, still capable of cold logic, realizing that if they pressed quick enough, right on the heels of the retreating first line, the second might not fire until they were up onto them.

"Come on! Charge, for God's sake, charge!"

The blue wave lurched forward, all semblance of formation gone, men from Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and even Maryland, a few of them having once played and fished along this same creek an eternity ago, pouring over the breastworks and up the slope.

Behind them the second and third waves, which had stopped at midfield and at the base of the slope on the northern side, moved forward again, while Sedgwick's divisions waited for what would develop next

The surviving Confederates from the first trench ran up the hill, arms flapping, some casting away rifles in their haste, a few loading as they ran, turning to fire a defiant shot Their comrades on the crest were up, rifles raised high, the signal that all were loaded and just waiting for the command.

Officers were out in front of the trench, screaming for the survivors to run, to keep running. Behind them the Union charge was gaining momentum, the race now going to the strongest, old battle wisdom telling some that if they could stay on the coattails of the retreating enemy they just might make it into the next line without facing another deadly volley.

The fleetest of the retreating Confederates gained the trench, eager hands pulling them up over the parapet "Hold! Hold your fire!"

The command was shouted by officers and NCOs, the waiting line solid, ranks packed shoulder to shoulder.

Ever since the Union charge had crested the opposite ridge forty minutes ago, they had waited, awed, fearful, defiant angry all in turn, emotions jumbled together. They waited a few seconds more.

The Union wave coming up the slope could see them silhouetted on the crest, rifle barrels poised high, muzzles of cannons depressed, yawning wide. That struck the first fear after the euphoria of sweeping the lower trench. The artillery was not supposed to be there; all had said they'd be swept away.

All knew what a blast of canister could do at two hundred yards, or far worse double canister at seventy-five yards.

Some of the men slowed, particularly those going up toward where Poague's and Cabell's battalions had been. The charge was now less than 150 yards from the crest For a moment there was a strange, almost deathly silence except for the drumming of thousands of men racing up the slope, men gasping for air, a few voices crying out to keep moving.

'Take aim!"

Several hundred Confederates, now caught in front of their own comrades, dived to the ground, hugging the earth, crying out, praying not to be killed by their own men.

"Fire!"

This time it was not three thousand rifles, it was over ten thousand, many of the men in the front rank kneeling down, resting their barrels on the waist-high parapet to steady their aim.

The twenty-seven artillery pieces in place across the front opened up, each gun discharging a round of canister, the smaller three-inch rifles letting loose with a can containing forty to fifty iron balls, the wider, four-and-a-half-inch bore Napoleons firing cans holding eighty to ninety iron balls.

The blast swept down the slope, and it was if the thirty-odd regiments still in the advance had slammed into an invisible wall. In an instant the charge collapsed.

Hundreds dropped or were thrown back down the slope.. Parts of bodies, shattered muskets, busted canteens, fragments of uniform soared up and rained back down twenty, thirty yards to the rear, especially along the front swept by the canister.

Nearly every flag bearer dropped. One of the green flags of the Irish Brigade was swept off its standard, the standard shattered by two canister rounds, the bearer riddled so that his body was a bloody sack.

The men of that famed unit paused for a few brief seconds until they saw Colonel Kelly, their brigade commander, holding aloft the torn green flag of one of his regiments, the 116th Pennsylvania, waving it over his head.

"Ireland!" he screamed, and he started up the slope at a run, green flag fluttering over his head.

The decimated regiments of Erin leapt forward with wild battle cries, racing up the slope straight at the guns on the heights.

It was a race that would be decided in seconds. Rammers didn't bother to sponge, calling for the fixed round of canister and powder bag to be slammed straight into the muzzle. Gunners struggled to roll their pieces forward even as the rammers slapped their loads down to the muzzle, one gun going off prematurely, blowing the rammer, his staff, and the canister out over the Irishmen, gunners working the wheels crushed by the recoil.

Gunnery sergeants fumbled with friction primers, setting them in, hooking on lanyards, shouting for crews to jump clear.

Some of the Irishmen were actually up over the parapet, Kelly on top, waving the flag.

One gun, then seven more, fired in the next few seconds, some of the rounds discharging straight into the faces of men only a few feet away. There seemed to be a horrified pause for the briefest of moments as both sides were staggered by the carnage wrought

At nearly the same instant Kelly dropped, and some claimed that even as he fell, tumbling inside the parapet he clutched the colors to his breast

A wild hysteria seized the few men left of the brigade as they scrambled up onto the parapet screaming for their colonel, dropping as Confederate infantry waded in around the guns to repel the charge. The surge broke at the crest and fell back, leaving a carpet of blue and red and small swatches of green flag in the mud.

Most of the rest of the line did not advance, the first volley having driven them to ground, to halt yet again along that terrible, invisible line that seems to appear on a battlefront a line that not even the bravest will pass, knowing that to take but one more step forward is death.

Some were demoralized, clutching the ground; others, in shock, were cradling wounded, dying, and dead comrades. Most settled down to the grim task at hand. Raising rifles, taking aim up the slope, firing, grounding muskets, reloading and firing again.

In the coldest sense of military logic, this battered line was the shield, the soak off, having taken the first position and now stalling in front of the second. Their job was simply to absorb the blows, to die, to inflict some death upon those dug in until the second and third lines came up, still relatively unscathed, to push the attack closer in.

And so across the next ten minutes they gave everything they had, these volunteers turned professionals, the pride of the Army of die Potomac, the pride of the Republic. Thousands of acts of courage were committed, none to be recorded except in the memories of those who were there, the greatest courage of all simply to stand on the volley line, to fire, to reload, and all die time the litany chant in the background…

"Pour it in to them. Close on the colors, boys. Pour it into them!"

Two hundred yards to the rear, the next assault wave reached the south bank of the flood plain, their officers ordering a halt, letting the men catch their breath for a few minutes, to gulp down some water, while forward their comrades died.

Atop the crest the Confederate forces blazed away, some of the men, acknowledged sharpshooters, calling for others to load, to pass their guns up, making sure that every shot counted, though in the still air, now laced again by showers, the smoke quickly built to a hanging cloud of fog.

Men were falling in the trenches, though not near as many as down on the open slope. Rifle balls smacked into the loosely piled dirt, spraying the men; shots when they hit tended to strike arms raised while ramming or, far more deadly, in the chest or face.

A growing line of dead and wounded lay directly behind the trench, dragged out of the way so as to not be trampled under.

The Union artillery was again in full play, though aiming in most cases too high out of fear of striking their own battle line in the confusion. But enough shots were tearing in to do terrible damage, a shell bursting on the lip of the parapet of Williamson's South Carolina troops, sweeping away eight men by his side.

A large cauldron that had been used to boil enough coffee for a regiment was struck by a solid shot, flipping it end over end, scalding men nearby, crushing the life out of a man unfortunate enough to be caught in its path.

An ammunition wagon went galloping off, two of the mules with broken legs the driver dead, the two mules still intact dragging the wreckage in a blind panic.

A brief burst of rain swept along the slope, hard enough that as men tore cartridges open the powder got wet and their guns then misfired. The rain, at least for the moment, cut down the clouds of smoke, opening the visibility.

The forward line of the Union assault was staggering. Men no longer able to take the sweeping blasts, many, especially in front of the batteries, beginning to drop back. A few were running; most were giving ground slowly, angry, bitter that after having come so far, they could go no farther.

Drum rolls echoed along the base of the slope; bugles sounded. The second wave, which had waited, hugging the slope along the flood plain embankment or resting in the shallow trench, stood up.

There was no cheering. These men were grim. They had marched over and through the carnage already wrought, lying alongside dead and wounded comrades and enemies in the shallow trench. More than one had given what was left of his canteen to a gut-shot rebel begging for water or a blinded lieutenant asking for someone to wash the blood from his eyes so he could see again.

As they stood up, the first wave of broken troops coming down the slope passed through them. This was always the hardest moment for the following waves in an attack. All ahead looked to be nothing but chaos and disaster, ground covered with bodies and parts of bodies, men contorted and twisted into only the poses that those who had died violently could assume, soldiers, on the edge of panic, screaming that the battle was lost, visual evidence on all sides of the fate that might be waiting just one more step ahead.

Nevertheless, the regiments rose up, heads bowed, pushing up the slope. Behind them the third wave, which had been waiting, crouched along the banks of the stream, stood up and started forward as well. The broken troops fell back. Some slid into the Confederate trench at the base, of the slope, rallying around a trusted officer, or their flags, though up forward a thin line still held, the colors of several regiments now planted in the ground, marking the point of farthest advance, or lying on the ground, the entire color guard dead or wounded.

For the next two minutes, the charge going up the ridge could not slow to open fire; too many of their own men were still in front Twenty-seven regiments stormed up the slope, men from New Jersey, two entire brigades from New York, and another from Pennsylvania, regiments from Ohio and Indiana, a lone regiment from the mountains of West Virginia, and another from the flat coastal plains of Delaware.

The lash of the hurricane descended on them. Gone was the panicked firing of the Confederate batteries about to be overrun by Kelly's now-annihilated brigade. Gunners took a few extra seconds, sighting their weapons as barrels were swabbed out and canister charges set in.

At two hundred yards, one entire battalion of guns cut loose with a salvo.

The impact dropped the entire line across a front of nearly a hundred yards, sweeping it to the ground like toy soldiers cast down by an angry child. At that point of the mile-wide advance the charge did not simply stop, it just disappeared into the ground.

To either flank of this hole, the survivors of the two divisions coming from Second and Twelfth Corps surged onward, in many places storming over the forward edge of the line held by their comrades of the first wave, formations breaking up as men slowed to move around the bodies, which at some points seemed almost to have been laid down in perfect lines.

The charge was getting closer to the Confederate lines, the blaze of rifle fire atop the crest a continual thunder sweeping up and down the length of the parapet On the extreme left, this second wave finally broke over the bastion built around the ruins of the mill complex, the Confederate regiment within swarmed under in a frenzy of clubbed muskets and bayonet thrusts, the survivors scrambling out the back of the bastion and running up to the main line, their enraged attackers coming on behind them.

If someone could have hovered far above the battle and — not seen the minute details, they might have assumed that this charge would indeed break over the top. Yet within the ranks of the charge, the sheer volume of fire coming down upon them was having a deadly effect It seemed that with every step another man went down in every company of every regiment Officers screamed themselves hoarse shouting for the men to keep closing on the colors, to follow the colors, the torn flags in many places nothing more than dim shadows in a surreal Stygian twilight of smoke and fire.

The air actually felt hot from all the fire. Men's legs felt like rubber both from fear and from exhaustion after the long run up the slope. The pace slowed and yet it was so maddeningly close, not fifty yards away in many places; one bulge, led by a couple of Ohio regiments of Carroll's brigade of Hays's division of the Second Corps, literally got up to the edge of the breastworks and there leveled their rifles, firing a scathing volley into the enemy from less than fifteen feet away. This caused a momentary breech in the line, the surviving Confederates diving down for cover, or breaking, pulling back out of the trench.

The flag bearer of one of the Ohio regiments stood atop the breastworks, waving the national colors before going down, struck by three rounds in a matter of seconds. As he fell, the colors dropped into the trench, and the Ohioans piled in, desperate to retrieve their precious colors.

In many places regimental commanders called for volley fire, slower perhaps than independent fire, but far more devastating psychologically when striking into an enemy so close that you literally could catch glimpses of the whites of their eyes.

Along the Confederate front a madness took hold as well. Gone was any sense of compassion, of admiration of the higher ideals that many spoke of. Now it was a killing frenzy, a rage at those who kept pressing in, not letting them rest not letting them breathe just a few gulpfuls of fresh air. Men began to curse wildly, slamming charges down barrels thick with gummy residue after having fired thirty to forty rounds or more.

Ammunition carriers staggered down the line, passing out packets of ten cartridges, which men stuffed into their pockets. A shell struck one of these carrying parties, the two men dying instantly, the thousand rounds in the heavy wooden box going off like firecrackers.

Out in the open field in front of the trench the volleys came pouring back, men loading, some trying to stagger forward a few more feet, then raising rifles to fire again. In spite of the steady rain now coming down, the blanketing fog of smoke choked the field in blindness.

And then the third wave came up the slope, men of Gibbon's division, tough professionals, men of the First Minnesota, the Nineteenth Maine, the Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania, on their right flank Lockwood's brigade.

They slammed up against the backs of the second wave, swarming in, ranks mingling, men shoving each other to step to the front to fire, others then pushing past them.

Only paces away, men of McLaws's brigades; Pender's division; and Pettigrew's, who had been so badly mauled only three days before in front of Gettysburg; Anderson's division, which had gone in on that final doomed charge up Cemetery Hill, stood in place, firing back. Both sides were screaming defiance, firing blindly, more than one man collapsing when shot in the back of the head by a comrade only a few feet in the rear. The line in front of the battery bastions was nearly swept clean; gunners struggled to swing pieces around to pour canister into the flanks, while shot from Henry's batteries continued to pour down.

A brigade of Early's division, not yet engaged, finally swarmed out of their trenches, moving to enfilade the attacking columns, an action that triggered Sickles to order one of his divisions forward to try and catch this flanking column in its flank, though it would be long minutes before Sickles's men could cross the open meadows and come up the slope to engage.

At several points, to the left of the bastion held by Cabell's gunners, and a quarter mile farther down just to the flank of Poague's old position, the Union charge gained the trench, the Confederates grimly giving the few feet of ground, now standing in the open, firing down into the trench, Union soldiers hugging the muddy ground, loading while lying on their backs, rolling up, half standing to fire, then sliding back down.

Over it all a slow but steady rain was now falling, the ground beneath the feet of the combatants churned to a thick mud, wounded falling into it, those in the bottom of the trench getting trampled under, some of them choking to death before bleeding out.

The battle hung poised, seconds were like years, minutes centuries.