Gettysburg

Chapter Eighteen

12:45 PM, JULY 4,1863

UNION MILLS

The battle was poised on the most delicate of balances. An officer panicking, a flag bearer falling, perhaps even one man turning, screaming that all was lost, could set off a stampede on either side. In turn, a few men were determined to hang on. An officer oblivious of risk and riding forward, a man who could inspire and lead, could make the decisive difference.

For the Confederates, at that moment, there were four profound advantages, which were at that same instant distinct and terrible disadvantages for the Union. The Confederates had not been forced to advance, all they had had to do was wait, saving their already half-depleted strength for the supreme moment. They were on the high ground, with all the natural advantages that implied, and along most of the front Except where several small breaches had been cut into their line, they were still in the trench or the battery bastions, while their foes were downslope and in the open… and finally, they had a commander who at that moment was inspired to lead, to make the decisions that had to be made second by second. The psychological advantage thus gained was tremendous.

The supreme moment was at hand before Union Mills.

Even as the two breakthroughs cracked into the Confederate line, Lee was galloping back to the rear, not in retreat but with orders, his staff at least grateful that for a few minutes he was relatively out of harm's way except for the continual rain of shot arcing down from the Union batteries.

Rodes's heavy division, minus one brigade under O'Neal, which was up on the forward line, had sat out the bombardment and first assault, lying down in a field of waist-high com, four hundred yards away.

The first ranks could see Lee riding up, waving his straw hat, and the men were instantly up.

"Lee! Lee! Lee!"

Rodes, mounted and at the front of his division, snapped off a salute.

"General, send your men in now!" Lee shouted. "Reclose the line and then push those people back!"

Rodes needed no further orders. He could see where the battered brigades of McLaws and Anderson were beginning to bend under the strain.

Rodes's First Brigade, Daniel's North Carolinians, already deployed in regimental front, leapt forward on the double, while behind them, the brigades of Dole and Ram-seur shook out from column to line by regiment and began to move toward their left Iverson's brigade, so badly shattered in the fight before Gettysburg, was held back for the moment, Rodes having decided to personally lead the unit after Iverson's ghastly, drunken display three days earlier, which had nearly annihilated the entire unit when he let them advance into a trap, while he hid in the rear, bottle in hand.

Lee started to turn, to go in with them, but this time his staff did revolt, pushing their mounts in front of Traveler, shouting for him to stay back. Again the realization hit him, and slightly embarrassed he nodded an assent

Meade, pacing back and forth nervously, turned yet again, raising his field glasses. It was impossible to tell. The smoke was thickening again, the rain increasing, the effect now being to mingle cloud and smoke into one impenetrable haze, all but obscuring the view.

Sedgwick was by his side. "Should I go in?" he asked.

And within Meade, at that moment, there was a terrible indecision. To speak an hour ago of forty thousand men at once sweeping forward was one thing; now he was seeing the result Thousands of men were emerging out of the gloom, streaming back, individually, in groups of two or three, helping a wounded comrade, in several cases entire regiments, or what was left of them, moving slowly, sometimes pausing as if debating their course.

The front of the first trench was still visible in places, easy enough to pick out by the carpet of bodies spread before it

Two entire corps were fought out and now word had just come that Sickles, without orders, had thrown at least another division into the fight advancing onto the open.

If that was true, then Sedgwick was now the only true reserve left that and the small remnant of the devastated First Corps, which had marched up during the night

"Do I go in?" Sedgwick asked yet again.

Meade was silent gazing at the heavy columns of Sedgwick, and the ever-increasing flood of beaten men emerging out of the gloom encasing the opposite ridge.

"Sir, what do you want me to do? Should I go in now or wait?"

"Only if Hancock and Slocum break through," Meade replied.

Meade turned, galloping down the line to see what Sickles was doing, leaving Sedgwick alone.

Longstreet stood with Porter in the shattered bastion built by Cabell and now occupied by Mcintosh's valiant gunners, the Second Rockbridge Artillery posted at the right corner, pouring blast after blast of canister into the smoke, confident that canister would do its work at this distance almost without aiming.

Another of Longstreet's old West Point comrades suddenly went down less than a hundred paces away, John Gibbon struck in the stomach by a canister ball from a Rockbridge gun. John struggled back to his feet clutching the agonizing wound, and continued to scream for his men to press forward.

Another seam in the Confederate line ruptured, as men from half a dozen regiments, all mingled together, pushed up across the road and the ruins of the Shriver house, led by the men of the old Philadelphia Brigade, yet again Irishmen under green flags. The hard-fighting Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania led the way, breaking over the trench, gaining a small inverted V lodgment, bending several companies back to hold either flank. It might have gained momentum, but the Seventy-first, on their right, broke apart only feet away from widening the breech, and began to fall back, their comrades of the Sixty-ninth jeering them before turning back to the fight

Henry, shaking with exhaustion, was at a near hysterical pitch, shouting for his gunners to aim high, to keep pouring it in. He could no longer see what they were shooting at but from the flashes of light through the gloom, and the continual roar of musketry along the crest he knew that the top was almost gained but not yet taken.

Winfield Scott Hancock, hat off, eyes blazing, galloped at full speed down the Baltimore Road, oblivious to Meade's orders to stay back from the fight Those were his boys up there, but that was not where he was heading first

On his right arrayed across the open slope that his divisions had marched down less than an hour before, were the three heavy divisions of Sedgwick, eighteen thousand men… and they were not moving!

Reaching the front of the Sixth Corps, which was deployed at the edge of the flat bottomland, he leapt a ditch, nearly losing his saddle, and then streaked across the field, his mount nervous, shifting and weaving to avoid trampling the dead and wounded.

At last he spotted Horatio Wright commander of the First Division of the Sixth.

"In the name of God, why are you not advancing?" Hancock roared.

"Sir, we've yet to receive orders to go in," Wright replied, stunned by the near hysteria of Hancock. "I was ordered to stay in reserve until a breakthrough had been achieved by your men."

"Goddamn you, sir. Go in! Go in! My boys are dying up there."

"Sir, I was ordered to wait for General Sedgwick to give the final order to advance."

Hancock threw back his head and screamed the foulest of oaths against Sedgwick. Standing in his stirrups, he fixed Wright with a malignant gaze. "Look over there, man!" and he pointed toward the opposite crest "You can see we're almost in. My men are dying up there by the thousands. All that is needed is one more push. Now give your men the order to charge, and I will go with you!"

Wright hesitated, looking to his staff, who were gazing at Hancock as if he were a madman. The seconds dragged out and finally Wright nodded. 'I will follow you, sir."

Hancock swung about drawing sword and holding it high. "On the double, men, on the double!"

Wright's division lurched forward. At the sight of them advancing, the second division in line behind them, Russell's, believing that the order had been given, stepped forward as well, followed a minute later by the third and final division.

Wright's men still had over eight hundred yards to go before coming into effective range; at double time it would take five to seven minutes. If deployed forward, on the opposite side of the valley, it would have only taken one minute.

"Here comes Rodes!" Longstreet cried hoarsely, thrilling at the sight of the brigade-wide front charging the last hundred yards, the Second and Third brigades advancing at the oblique to their own left followed in the rear by the decimated remnants of Iverson's brigade, those men now eager for pay back for the slaughter endured in front of Seminary and Oak Ridges three days before.

The countercharge swept into the thinning volley line of McLaws's two brigades, hitting it like a tidal surge. The units instantly mingled together and now flooded back into their trench, in places continuing straight forward, down the slope, covering the last few paces into the men under Gibbon and Hays.

The charge hit with a vicious momentum, in many places propelling men forward who normally would have hesitated to cross those last ten to twenty feet into actual hand-to-hand combat.

An audible impact of men slamming into men, rifles against rifles, and steel into flesh was heard, the Union line staggering backward like a wall about to burst when hit by a battering ram.

Hundreds fell within seconds, many just tripping, going down in the confusion, men then backing up or pushing forward, stumbling over the fallen and going down as well.

For a moment the battle degenerated into a brawl in which all lashed out, some in rage, others in terror, kicking, stabbing, clubbing, and gouging anyone within reach. More than one man, in his terror, was slammed into by another, and whirling about stabbed a comrade by mistake, sometimes not even realizing what he had done.

And yet again, all of what was said about the "good ground" came to pass here. If the rebel charge had been met on level ground and by men not already exhausted, the line just might have held, but their backs were to a downward slope now churned up into slippery mud, all was confusion in the smoke, none could see more than ten, maybe twenty feet, and what little could be seen was a glimpse of hell.

Men began to stagger backward; some in their terror simply threw aside their rifles and ran; others, as always those around a sacred flag or trusted officer or sergeant, backed out, slashing and stabbing at those who pressed too close.

The entire Union line disintegrated as Rodes's Second Brigade slammed in and the Third Brigade, a few minutes later, obliquely hit Lockwood's lone brigade on the Union right

John Gibbon, defiant to the end, stood clutching his ghastly wound. Mercifully, a North Carolina boy stopped short of him, grounded his musket, and then just simply offered a hand, not saying a word. Gibbon, nodding, slowly sank to his knees.

Those still standing from the second and third waves of Hancock's and Slocum's corps poured down off the slopes above Union Mills.

"Keep moving; don't stop!"

Hancock was still out in front, weaving back and forth in front of Wright's brigades, sword held high.

Already across the stream, they had taken almost no casualties, all the Confederate fire concentrated on the annihilation of those on the slope.

Though he could not see it, so thick were the smoke and the steadily increasing curtains of rain, Sickles, a mile and a half to the west, was going in with two divisions. Sickles's charge was just now slamming into the flank of Early's brigade, which itself was on the flank of the retreating Twelfth Corps.

Hancock caught a glimpse of a courier riding straight down the middle of the Baltimore Road, swerving off, going down into the streambed, and then just disappearing. He suspected it was from Meade or Sedgwick.

To hell with them now.

From out of the maelstrom cloaking the ridge ahead, he saw a wave of men emerging, falling back, some running like madmen. Spurring forward, he waded straight into their ranks, standing high in the stirrups.

"My men. Rally to the old Sixth! Fall back in. Rally!"

At the sight of their corps commander, many of the men actually did turn about, though there was little fight in them now, exhausted as they were.

The blue wave of the Sixth Corps hit the bottom of the slope and started the final climb up toward the blood-soaked ridge.

"My God, another one," Porter gasped. "When will they stop this!'

Rodes had somehow managed to rein in his men charging down the slope, and they were now falling back up the slope in fairly good order, firing a volley, withdrawing a couple of dozen yards, then firing again before sliding into the trench.

Porter's guns had switched back to solid shot and case shot with fuses cut to two seconds, firing downslope into the mist, the passage of the shot visible by the twisting swirls lashed through the smoke.

"One more time!" Longstreet shouted, stepping back from the walls of the bastion, looking at the gunners. "They can't have anything behind this."

Venable and Moxley were waiting outside the bastion, holding Longstreet's horse. He left the position, pausing for a second to look back. The battlefront was emerging out of the smoke, a powerful block. He caught a glimpse of a divisional standard, the new ones that the Army of the Potomac had just instituted. He wasn't sure which division it signified, but it was obviously Sixth Corps. So, after all these days, he knew exactly where they were at last, the heaviest corps of their army, coming straight at them.

He judged the width of the line, a half mile or more across. Most likely a second division behind it..Thank God, they had not come up ten minutes earlier.

He turned to Moxley. "Ride like hell. This will hit here," and both ducked as a shell screamed in close, but failed to burst.

"Pender and Pettigrew are to leave a light screen, one brigade each to cover their lines, but then start moving everything else down here."

"Sir?" Moxley looked at him, a bit confused.

"Every regiment, every battalion, I want them here! Get a message back to General Lee as well. Tell him we've pinpointed the location of Sixth Corps. They are directly in front of us. They are not before Taneytown; they are here!"

Moxley saluted and galloped off, his horse kicking up sprays of mud

Longstreet swung up into the saddle. The rain had closed in hard, dropping visibility to less than a hundred yards, so that for a moment the advancing lines were lost to view. There was no need to see them; one could hear them, the ground, the air vibrating from the steady trample of eighteen thousand men, coming straight at him.

Henry watched the advance, tears in his eyes, knowing that the timing was off, that they should have gone in ten minutes earlier.

Barely able to speak, he grabbed the nearest battery commander. "Pour it in. Sweep that crest Don't stop!"

The major shook his head. "Sir, we're out. Just canister and half a dozen rounds of case shot as reserve."

"Then fire the case shot!"

Even as he spoke, Meade, who had swept past Henry twenty minutes earlier, in response to the word that Sickles was advancing, reined in.

Sedgwick, hat off, came racing up to join Meade.

"Did you order your men in?" Meade shouted.

"No."

"Then why are they going in? Did we break through?"

Sedgwick hesitated. "I'm not sure. I sent a courier down to order them to stop, but they are still going forward."

"They're going in without orders?" Meade cried.

Henry looked at the two, at first mystified, and then overwhelmed with despair.

"I did not yet order the final advance," Meade gasped.

Henry, all thought of propriety gone, stepped forward between the two. "Let them go!" Henry shouted, his voice breaking. "They still might carry it."

"It's out of control, Hunt," Meade said, his voice cold and distant. "Sickles went in without orders; it's too late to stop him; now this, my last reserve other than First Corps."

Henry wanted to ask him why, if that was the case, had he had Sedgwick move up halfway in support to start with. He sensed that at this moment Meade was losing his nerve, thinking more of a battle lost than a battle that could still be won.

"They can still carry it" Henry offered.

"Those are my men going in without my orders," Sedgwick announced stiffly.

"Then go in with them now, sir," Henry replied, his voice filled with rebuke. "Show them that you can still lead."

Sedgwick glared at him coldly. "Goddamn you, sir. I'll have you court-martialed for that"

"Go ahead," Henry said wearily, shaking his head.

The nearest battery fired, and Meade, startled, looked up.

"I thought you said we were nearly out of ammunition."

"I'm putting in what we have left" Henry replied, turning away from Sedgwick. "My God, those men need my support Sir, they are our last hope. Let them go in."

Meade was silent watching as the Sixth Corps started up the slope, disappearing into the smoke and mist

"Go, John, see what you can still do." Meade sighed.

Sedgwick glared angrily at Henry for a moment and then, with a vicious jerk of the reins, turned his mount around and raced down the hill.

Henry said nothing, looking up at Meade, who sat astride his horse as if transfixed, not moving, almost like a statue, rain dripping from the brim of his hat

Flashes of light danced along the ridge crest; long seconds later the rumble of a volley rolled across the valley.

"I've lost control of the battle," Meade whispered, speaking to himself.

Even as he spoke, Henry saw a rider emerging through the drifting clouds of smoke, standing tall in his stirrups, shouting for General Meade. A gunner pointed and the courier turned, seeing the flag of the commander of the army, and raced up, then reined in hard, mud splattering up from his horse.

"Sir, I've come down from Hanover, sir," the courier gasped. "Hell of a ride. Damn near got caught twice by Reb cavalry."

As he spoke the courier fumbled with his breast pocket and finally pulled out a packet It was sealed with wax, several large matches tucked into the edge of the envelope, so that if the courier felt he would be captured he could quickly burn it

"Has anyone else brought this in?" the courier asked.

Meade grabbed the envelope and shook his head.

"I was told three other riders were carrying the same message, sir."

"Well, Lee is most likely reading those by now."

Meade tore the envelope open; inside were two memos. Henry, standing by his side, caught a glimpse of one, the letterhead standing out boldly

THE WHITE HOUSE.

Meade read the first memo and then the second one. His shoulders slumped.

"My God," Meade whispered, and folding the letters from Lincoln and the contradictory one from Halleck back up, he tucked them into his breast pocket

"Useful for my court-martial," he said, looking at Henry; then, turning slowly, he rode away.

Hancock continued to ride back and forth across the front of the advancing division, shouting for the men to keep moving, to close it up, to close in.

A blast of canister swept across the line, dropping Wright and a dozen or more around him. He could see them now, the final line, the ground before the entrenchment paved with bodies. "Just a few feet more!"

John Williamson, with Hazner at his side, braced for what was about to hit the right wing of the Union advance lapping over into his division's entrenchments.

Merciful God, when will this ever end? he silently pleaded.

More than one officer, pistol ammunition expended, had picked up a rifle and stood on the firing line. Williamson held his poised, waiting for the order.

"Ready!"

He raised his rifle up, hands trembling, and then brought it straight down. It was hard to pick an individual target; all he could see was a dark blue wall emerging, coming up the slope. Time seemed distorted, the men in front of him moving woodenly, slipping on the wet grass and mud, line weaving as the Union troops stepped around and over bodies. 'Take aim!"

He pointed his rifle downrange, finger curled around the trigger. A rider crossed in front of his sights, turning, sword held high, now coming nearly straight at him.

"Fire!"

He squeezed the trigger, the heavy Springfield rifle recoiling sharply. All was again cloaked in smoke. It was impossible to see, to know, what he had done.

The blow slammed Hancock back in his saddle. At nearly the same instant, his horse reeled, screaming pitifully, half rearing up, blood cascading out of a torn neck, the round then bursting through the pommel of his saddle and into Hancock's upper thigh. For a moment Winfield was filled with a blind panic, terrified that his horse was rolling over.

Hands reached up. Someone was grabbing the reins of the horse, pulling its head down, steadying the dying animal. Others grabbed Winfield, dragging him from the saddle. The shock, the pain, struck him with such intensity that he felt the world start to spin away, drifting on the edge of passing out

Men were storming past him. He caught glimpses of feet mud spraying about. He looked up. A soldier was leaning over him, shouting something; he couldn't hear what the man was saying. Someone was holding a canteen, — cutting off the sling and then kneeling down. Another man helped Winfield to sit up while the first soldier looped the canteen sling around his left thigh.

He wrapped the canteen sling around a discarded bayonet scabbard and began to twist it the pressure increasing, the pain unbearable.

Sound was returning; he could hear men shouting.

"The general's dead!"

He wasn't sure if they were talking about Wright or himself. "I must stand up," he gasped.

"Your left leg, sir" It was one of his staff, kneeling, examining the wound.

"I know it's my leg, damn it" "You're bleeding bad." "Get me up." No one moved. "Get me up!"

Several men gathered round, bracing him, hoisting him up, and for a few seconds he passed out and then vision gradually returned.

The line he had been leading was stalled, having advanced only a few more yards past the place where he had fallen. A volley erupted and men, standing in place, began to reload.

"Charge, don't stop!" Hancock gasped.

The men holding him up started to turn away. Swearing, Winfield feebly struggled to break free from their embrace, but they ignored his pleas.

"Charge them, charge!"

One of the men stumbled and then just collapsed, shot in the back of the head. Winfield fell, hitting the ground first with his injured leg.

The world went dark.

Longstreet crouching low in the saddle, rode along the line just behind the trench. The air was thick with shot but for the moment he was all but oblivious to it.

The charge was stalling, caught out in the open ground. Some of the men in the trench were so exhausted that they simply sat on the ground like statues of stone, incapable of moving. Rodes's men, though, in general, were still relatively fresh, and in places ranked three and four deep, pouring a devastating fire down into the blue ranks.

The Second Division of Sedgwick's corps pushed up the slope, merging into the stalled line of the First but this renewed surge only advanced the line a few dozen feet before it stopped yet again.

They had seen too much, the defeated troops coming down off* this damnable ridge. The footing was increasingly treacherous in the rain, and the piled-up carnage before them was almost a barrier in itself, thousands of dead and wounded caught in the open between the two volley lines, men thus trapped curled up, screaming, begging for the horror to end. -

Sedgwick, coming down from the grand battery across the open held, was nearly stopped several times by the sheer numbers of wounded and fleeing troops heading to the rear. At last he reached the left flank of his Third Division, which was just reaching the first trench line.

"Halt! Halt!"

He pushed through the ranks, shouting the order over and over again. Men looked up at him confused, not sure of what was happening, more than one assuming that Sedgwick had to be on the front line, leading the advance; otherwise why would they be going in?

Wheaton, commanding the division, turned on Sedgwick, mystified. "Why are we stopping?" Wheaton shouted.

"I did not order this advance."

"Sir, we are in the middle of it now. I am going to oblique to the right," and as he spoke he pointed up the slope to where one could catch glimpses of a swarm of Confederates now outside of their trenches, moving to flank the assaulting column.

"Who authorized you to advance?"

"I thought you did, sir."

"I did not."

"We can still turn this," Wheaton cried, "but we've got to move now; our boys up there are getting flanked."

Sedgwick shook his head. "It's lost," he replied. "I want you to hold here.".

"Sir, it's lost if we do hold here."

"Hold," Sedgwick cried. "You, sir, are the last reserve division in this entire army now. Meade wants you to hold."

Wheaton hesitated, and then finally nodded his head in agreement

"General Lee!"

Lee, who had remained behind the lines at the point where Rodes had been deployed, saw Taylor approaching, and somehow he knew exactly what would be reported.

Taylor reined in and saluted.

"What is it, Walter?" Lee asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Sir, I felt I should report to you personally on this." "Yes.'!

"Sir, about a half hour ago, a courier came in from General Ewell." Taylor handed the message over and Lee opened it

12:00 PM

Near Taneytown, on the Littlestown Road. Sir,

I have heard the cannonade from our right for the last two hours, the sound of it just now diminishing. I am, at this moment, unaware of conditions along the front held by General Longstreet and have received a report that his position is about to be turned.

Therefore, respectfully sir, I am refraining from initiating the advance ordered by you last night until such time as I can be assured that my right is secured In addition, sir, the condition of Hood's and Johnson's divisions makes offensive operations highly problematic.

I await your orders, sir.

Ewell

Lee crumpled the message in his right hand, held it in his clenched fist for several seconds, and then flung it to the ground. All about him were shocked by this display.

Lee looked at those gathered around him. He pointed at a young cavalryman who was part of his escort detail, the same one who had sworn at the black cook the night before.

"You. Ride up there," and he pointed to the battlefront "Longstreet should be in that artillery bastion. I want an answer, and I want it now. Can he hold against this latest assault? I expect you back here within ten minutes."

The trooper saluted and galloped off.

"Where are McLaws's two brigades from Westminster?" Lee asked impatiently. "I ordered them up here nearly three hours ago."

A trooper, without waiting to be ordered, spurred his mount onto the Baltimore Pike and galloped south; but even as he did so, Lee could see the head of a column coming out of the mists, the men running flat out.

Without waiting, he turned and started to ride straight toward the front, none of his staff now daring to try and intervene.

Longstreet stood silent, unable to speak. The slaughter that was unfolding before him had simply become too much. Straggling units were now coming in from Pettigrew, pushing down on to the flank of the Union forces, pouring fire in.

The courier from Lee had been answered with a single word, and he vaguely saw, in the smoke and curtains of mist, the rider slowing, a momentary glimpse of Lee.

"They're giving way!"

The blue wall was starting to fall back, caving in. Rodes's men were again up and out of their trenches, pushing forward.

"General Longstreet!"

Pete turned, recognizing the voice. It was Lee. "Are you all right, sir?" Lee asked. Pete realized that in his numbness he had failed to salute, and now did so.

"Yes, sir, I am unhurt"

"Fine then, sir. But remember, I ordered you to take care of yourself," Lee said chidingly.

"Sir, you are under fire as well." Lee forced a weak smile and nodded.

"Can you hold here, and maintain the action on this front?" he asked.

"Sir, they are falling back."

Lee stood up slightly in his stirrups and surveyed the ground ahead. His features were grim, lips tightly compressed. "Yes, I see," he replied softly.

"General Lee, that is Sixth Corps falling back. We now know for certain where they are. I think they are out of this fight In fact, after this slaughterhouse, I think Meade's entire army is out of the fight. They will not find the will to attack again this day."

Lee said nothing for. a moment, unmoving though random shots were still clipping the air around the two.

"General Longstreet, the orders for you are still the same."

Lee reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. "It's nearly one-thirty. We might have just enough daylight, six hours, to finish this once and for all. I am leaving here now. You know what to do."

"Yes, sir."

Lee snapped off a salute and, calling for Taylor, he galloped off.

"Come on!"

Sergeant Hazner was scrambling up out of the trench, the men around Williamson following.

Hazner looked back at him, grinning.

"I told you you'd live through it The battle's over." Hazner laughed.

They were the last words Williamson ever heard.

There was no pain, no fear, never a realization of how profoundly he had affected the battle, just a quiet going out, the rifle ball striking him in the left temple.

The breaking of the First and Second Divisions of Sixth Corps, there on the muddy slopes above Union Mills, precipitated a general rout all across the field. As the men swarmed back down the hill, the Third Division of the Sixth attempted to hold on in the first trench, but within minutes gave way, John Sedgwick, still not sure of what should be done, first ordering them to fall back, then for a moment reversing himself, as the realization came, with awful intensity, of what had just occurred. But to try and push the thirteen thousand survivors of his corps back into the fight in any organized manner was now beyond the ability of any mortal man.

Hancock, slung in a blanket carried by four men, was borne across the muddy pastures, and even in that moment of disarray and panic, he was a rallying point As word spread that their general was down, dozens of men came to his side, finally several hundred in all, forming a protective shield. Sedgwick rode past him, less than twenty yards away, not even aware of Hancock's presence.

"Cease fire."

Henry, head bowed, turned away from his batteries and walked away. All was wreckage around him, dead horses, shattered caissons, dismounted cannons, a long line of dead gunners dragged to the rear. It was a terrible fact of his chosen profession of arms that artillerymen tended to suffer far more terrifying wounds than the infantry. Men had been torn in half by shells, impaled by flying splinters, burned from bursting ammunition wagons, crushed beneath recoiling or collapsing guns. He looked up at Meade and was startled by the sight of tears in the general's eyes.

"My God, Hunt" Meade said, still holding the dispatch from Washington, "what have I done here?"

Henry looked back toward the enemy lines. Thousands of men were staggering back; the field seemed like a seething mass of floundering lost souls, coming back with heads bowed, the rain still lashing down, torn battle flags hanging limp.

"I'm going to try and rally the men," Meade announced. "Have your guns ready, Hunt"

"Rally the men? The guns ready?" Henry gasped. 'For what?"

Meade said nothing and, trailing a dejected staff, he started down the hill.

"Let us go in, sir," Rodes cried, pointing at the broken forces streaming away, covering the pasture below.

Longstreet wearily shook his head.

"No, General Lee wants us to reform here."

"We have them beaten now, sir, beaten."

"I know that"

"Then let us go in."

Longstreet held his hand out, motioning for Rodes to be silent

Some of the men along the line began to cheer. A soldier came in, triumphal, holding a torn and mud-splattered national flag aloft. That set off a scramble, with dozens climbing out of the trench to run down the slope in search of trophies.

"Stop those men!" Longstreet shouted.

Venable nodded and spurred his mount the horse so exhausted it whinnied in protest and then moved off at a slow trot nearly falling as they tried to go down the muddy forward slope of the trench.

"Reform your division, General Rodes. Rations should be coming up. Get your men some food; find water other than that down mere," and he nodded toward the millpond, now a muddy brown with splashes of pink all along its banks.

"Why are we not attacking?"

"General Lee ordered it so. You saw what we just did to them. Broken or not we try and cross that field now, and it will be the same for us. We have shattered them, sir, but they are angry, as angry as we would be. They will turn and fight back. I know I would. Let us get them truly running first and then on other ground it will be finished."

Pete lowered his head. "And for God's sake, sir, get some volunteers down mere to help the wounded, theirs and ours. I want prisoners taken care of. Colors taken, returned here, and not to be dragged about. They deserve some respect sir, the same respect we would want."

Rodes nodded.

"When this war is over," Pete whispered, pointing toward the carnage, "what will we say to each other then?"

With that he turned away, stepping around the wreckage, the chaos, pausing for a second to look at a sergeant cradling the body of a major, the sergeant rocking back and forth, telling the major over and over how sorry he was.

Longstreet walked off to be alone with his thoughts.

Of the nearly fifty thousand men who had advanced, including those men of the two divisions of Sickles who had attempted to engage Early, nearly eighteen thousand were dead, wounded, or captured. Of the roughly twenty-six thousand Confederates who had faced them, close to five thousand were down as well. The terror of the twelve hours along Antietam Creek, the horrendous losses of that bitter day, had been compressed into less than four hours.

Second Corps was forever finished as a fighting command. As Hancock was loaded into an ambulance, around him close to 70 percent of his men were casualties. All three division commanders were dead or dying. Ninety percent of the officers of colonel's rank or above were dead, wounded, or captured. Entire regiments had been swept off the roster of battle. Slocum's Twelfth Corps had fared nearly as badly. Slocum was unconscious, like Hancock disobeying orders and going forward to be with his men, knocked out by a bursting shell. Both of his divisional commanders were dead.

Dan Sickles, ever the survivor, was getting out Breaking off the engagement in which he had briefly committed two of his divisions, one of which was badly mauled, he was even now preparing to abandon the line.

Kelly, dying, had refused to let go of his flag, respectful Confederates kneeling by his side, a son of Ireland, whom fate had cast up in Charleston rather than New York, reciting the rosary with him, then, as Catholic rite allowed, hearing his confession so that afterward as a proxy, he could carry that confession to a priest Kelly slipped away, his confessor prying the colors from the colonel's hands, folding it up, and tucking it under his shirt with the solemn promise that one day they would be returned to his brigade.

Porter, passed out from loss of blood, was loaded onto an empty caisson to be taken to the rear by gunners.

Where terrible blood lust had ruled only minutes before, small acts of compassion now held sway… a shared canteen, a slip of paper torn from the back of a pocket Bible and men used to write down a few last words of a dying foe, a soggy blanket wrapped around an old man with no visible wounds, but shaking uncontrollably with shock, lips blue, heart failing.

Prisoners, heads bowed, not with shame, but sheer exhaustion, labored up the slope, carrying the wounded with them. A large hospital flag went up just behind the crest, men laid down on the ground beneath it so that the field was soon a sea of anguish, men suffering under the cooling rain that again was drifting off, faint shadows flowing across the scarred landscape as the sun struggled to emerge.

Along the banks of Pipe Creek, Meade slowly rode back and forth. "My fault," he said, repeating it over and over, "it is my fault"

No one listened. Men staggered past some sparing an occasional glance, most not hearing, or if they did hear, not caring.

2:50 PM, JULY 4,1863

ON THE TANEYTOWN-LITTLESTOWN ROAD

And ten miles away, Gen. Robert E. Lee turned off the road; He needed no directions; it was easy enough to find what he was looking for. Troops, men of Johnson's command, were spread out in an open field. Some had ponchos out strung together, and spread atop inverted muskets, men clustered beneath. Clear-enough sign that they had not moved for some time.

The rain was picking up again. Off to his left he could see a thin coil of smoke; something in Taneytown still burning, he realized.

He rode on, his anger building as he saw ho activity.

Ahead he could hear a scattering of fire. Skirmishers, an occasional thump of a field piece, but no movement The men sitting where they had most likely been sitting for hours. As he rode past word spread ahead, racing down the line. Men were up, some with hats off, others saluting. A few bold ones shouted questions, asking of the fight "over on the right"

He rode on.

At last he saw them. The carriage that Ewell had taken to riding in due to his missing leg, staff, Hood and Pickett together to one side, both looking up expectantly as Lee rode up to the small farmhouse.

"Where is General Ewell?" Lee asked sharply.

"Inside," Hood offered, pointing to the open door.

Without another word, Lee walked up the steps and into the front parlor. The house was modest, made of fieldstone, the ceilings low. Ewell, leaning against a table, stood up and saluted.

"How is it on the right?" Ewell asked.

"Longstreet held," Lee replied sharply. "The question is, General, why have you not advanced as ordered."

"Sir, we heard the cannonade, two hours of it Someone came in reporting that Longstreet was falling back."

"Who, sir?"

"A soldier with Early."

"A soldier with Early? No one from my command? No one sent by Colonel Taylor or General Longstreet or me?"

Ewell was silent From the corner of his eye, he saw Hood and Pickett standing outside the doorway.

"Why are you not advancing, sir?" and his voice was loud enough to carry outside.

"Sir, given the confusion of the situation, the report from that soldier, the intensity of the cannon fire, I realized, sir, that what I had under me was the only remaining reserve of the army. Sir, I thought it prudent to wait for further clarification before advancing north."

Lee nodded.

"General Ewell," he said, in a cold deliberate voice, "I gave you clear written orders before action was joined this morning. You were to wait until it was evident that the Union forces were fully committed and attacking at Union Mills. You were then to push north, finishing what was left of their Fifth Corps, and men advance behind their lines toward Littlestown."

He paused for a moment Ewell was silent staring straight at him.

"You have not done that sir."

"General Lee, with all due respect sir. We still do not know where Sixth Corps is. For that matter where their First and Eleventh Corps are located. I might very well be facing four corps over there, and I only have three fought-out divisions."

"You did not do as ordered, sir," Lee stated flatly.

Ewell lowered his head. "Sir, I thought it prudent not to."

"Prudent? By all that is holy, sir, it is such prudence that will lose us this war and waste the lives of our men. I did not ask you for prudence; I ordered you to show leadership."

Ewell looked down at the map and vaguely started to trace out the lines.

Lee stared at him and for a moment almost felt pity. Ewell had once been a good division commander, the right hand of Jackson. That Ewell was gone, lost with the leg shattered at Second Manassas. He had become doubtful, hesitant

Is that what I could have become? Lee wondered. What might have happened if I had shown hesitation these last four days, a moment of doubt a moment of deference when I could so clearly see what had to be done but could not quite face up to it… that the nature of this war had changed, and we must change with it if we are to win, if we are to have any chance of winning.

He turned his head slightly, saw Hood at the door, Pickett and Johnson behind him, staff gathered out on the lawn, all of them silent

"General Ewell," and his voice was pitched cool, even.

"Sir?"

Lee took a deep breath. "General Ewell, you are relieved of command." "Sir?"

‘I am relieving you of command, sir. Kindly report to Westminster and there take over the organization and distribution of supplies."

Ewell blinked, face gone red. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came.

Lee offered a salute and turned for the door.

"You cannot do this, sir," Ewell whispered.

Lee turned and for a moment, the old courtly sense of deference almost held sway-to offer a soft word, almost an apology. And then he thought of what he had witnessed along me heights above Union Mills, the sheer magnitude of carnage, the worst he had ever seen.

If that was to mean anything, if it was to change anything, then he had to change with it, to take full moral responsibility and bring meaning out of it. To do what was necessary to find some value, some gain out of the horrid sacrifice that was tearing the country to shreds, both North and South.

It is up to me, he thought yet again.

Lee slowly came back to the table that Ewell was leaning on and fixed him with a cold gaze. "Not another word, sir," Lee said coldly. "Not another word. Now report to Westminster."

Ewell gulped and nodded, tears in his eyes.

Lee turned and headed for the door, the three division commanders nervously backing away at his approach. He could see it in their eyes, the shocked disbelief. At no time in the thirteen months of Lee's command had anyone witnessed such a moment Always in the past when someone had to be relieved, it was done quietly, as gentlemen, with a face-saving transfer to some out-of-the-way posting, and never in the heat of battle.

He could see the touch of fear in their eyes. And he thought of the fear in the eyes of all those lying along the slope, in the eyes of the dead gazing up lifeless, the rain pooling on their still, gray faces.

He stood silent, looking at each in turn. "I am taking direct command of this wing," Lee announced. "Longstreet has held at Union Mills and inflicted grievous losses. Meade's army is ready to collapse. We will be the decisive blow to finish him."

He closed his eyes for a moment, haunting images floating before him. Think of that later, he told himself.

He looked back at Pickett, "You will lead the assault, sir, supported by Hood and then Johnson. I want you into their rear, at Littlestown, by dark. We have four hours of daylight left I do not want another Chancellorsville or Second Manassas, with darkness allowing them to escape.

"You are to push on regardless of losses. You will be facing the remnant of only one corps, and they will be shaken, for surely word must be reaching them now of their failed assault at Union Mills.

"I expect you to be across the Baltimore Road by dusk. And I will be with you to the end."

"General, sir," Pickett interrupted, "thank you for the honor and glory, sir. Virginia will bring victory this day, sir."

Lee's features reddened. At this moment all the flourishes, all the high talk that had been so much a part of all of them, now seemed to have turned to ashes.

"War is hell, gentlemen," Lee said, his voice icy. "I pray that God will forgive us all for what we have done to each other this day. And General Pickett we will talk of victory when it is finally won, and not before."

He said nothing more, stepping off the porch, walking toward Traveler, Walter holding the horse's reins. All gathered around the small farmhouse were silent Many stunned, more than a few nodding, features grim.

The Army of Northern Virginia had changed forever.

4:30 PM, JULY 4,1863

THE GRAND BATTERY-UNION MILLS

Henry walked down the battery line, glancing at each piece in turn. Occasionally he would pause and point one out "This one," he announced, and as he moved on, gunners would drive a spike into the breech touchhole with a mallet the rammer then slamming his tool down the bore, bending the spike inside the barrel, effectively destroying the gun. Others attacked the wheels with axes, cutting spokes until the piece collapsed.

It was almost like shooting a beloved pet an old companion.

There were not enough teams available to take out all the guns. Even if there were, the road heading north was clogged; chances were most of the guns tangled into the mess might wind up being abandoned anyhow before the day was done.

All had been silent for nearly an hour after Sedgwick's men crossed back over Pipe Creek. A few had hoped that the Confederates would impetuously countercharge, as they so often had done in the past Gunners muttered about what they would now do in turn, though all they had was roughly half a dozen rounds of canister per barrel.

Henry knew they wouldn't come. There was no need to. And the logic for their waiting finally was apparent when a growing thunder, to the west and norm, started to increase in volume, and ever so slowly shifting more and more to the north… behind their lines.

Lee was flanking yet again, this time driving to cut off the one paved and useful road out of this nightmare, the road back to the north and east The rebels in front had barred the road back to Washington, and now the line of retreat back to York and Harrisburg was being shut as well.

Word came by courier to get the guns out. The army was retreating.

From atop the ridge he could already see the exodus, columns of troops swinging onto the road, some marching in good order, others staggering from exhaustion, especially the men of the Sixth Corps, who had marched up this road on July 2nd to Gettysburg, turned around the following day to force march all that distance back, been thrown into a doomed assault, and now turned about yet again with orders to make for Gettysburg or Hanover once more. It was too much for many to bear, and in the pouring rain, before they had moved even half a mile, the straggling was massive, hundreds, and then thousands of men breaking column to just collapse or wander off to the side of the road, dejected, ignoring the threats and pleas of their officers.

As the batteries slowly began to work their way out of the bastion, Henry kept a close watch on the Confederate lines on the south side of the creek. He could sense that they were ready, just waiting, but would not be so foolish as to try and push in.

No, that would come later, this evening, when the road back to Littlestown, the turnoff to Hanover and York was packed with tens of thousands of exhausted, demoralized, and frightened men… when hundreds of ambulances and thousands of walking wounded clogged the pike. Then Longstreet would hit, and then the panic would truly begin.

Dejected, alone, Henry mounted, pulling the brim of his hat down low against the rain, and rode up the slope and over the hill, leaving Union Mills behind.