Gettysburg

Chapter Nineteen

On the night of July 4, 1863, the old Army of the Potomac died

The cause of death could be traced back across an illness of a year or more, incompetence of commanders, the tragically bitter politics that had divided officers against each other, but most of all the disintegration of belief in those who led them by the weary foot soldiers who had seen defeat once too often.

Never in the history of the Republic had there been such an army. An army of idealisms, of volunteers willing to lay down their lives for such abstract ideals, the belief in the Republic that had called them to arms, a visceral sense that there was a destiny to that Republic, the "city on the hill," as their puritan forefathers had called it, "the last best hope of mankind," as their current president defined it For some there were other causes as well, a belief in a dream as defined in the Declaration, that all men were, indeed, created equal.

And never had so good an army been so ill served. Man for man, they were the equal of any soldiers in history; that had been proven in the cornfields of Antietam, before the sunken road at Fredericksburg, on Seminary Ridge in the first day of the Gettysburg campaign, and in the final closing hours, on the blood-soaked banks of Pipe Greek.

Few in those battered regiments knew even a fragment of the details that had led them to such a tragic moment, but those few fragments of knowledge were enough. They had fought with a gallantry unparalleled in history… it was, yet again, their commanders who had failed them. Whether it was incompetence, self-serving interests, cowardice, or ignorance, the bitter sacrifice was one that created nothing except another defeat

Something within broke at that moment striking into the heart of each man, of every company and regiment brigade and division. They could still fight as individuals or small units; if any dared to try and reach out to touch their sacred blood-stained flags, they would indeed fight for that, for that they sail believed in. For their survival if cornered, they would still fight; but for the generals, that was gone, perhaps forever.

On the other side, it was a moment long dreamed of, a fulfillment of a sense that half victories, which had cost a hundred thousand men in the last twelve months, had now finally reached a climax, that on this Fourth of July all things were, indeed, still possible.

The Fifth Corps of the Army of the Potomac made its final stand in a torrential summer downpour on the outskirts of Littlestown, after being driven back four miles by the relentless onslaught of Pickett Hood, and the hard-bitten survivors of Johnson's division, the men of the old Stonewall Brigade.

In a way this final stand was indeed their finest hour, reminiscent of the Old Guard's stand at Waterloo. The backbone of the "old Fifth" was the division of regular troops, men who had been in the army since long before the war, when no self-respecting civilian would be caught dead in army blue, and now they were the ones dying in a final bid to hold the road open in die same way they had held the road after me debacle at First Manassas.

Sykes dismounted after losing three mounts in a row, stood with the division as it was battled back, yard by yard, in the pouring rain. If hit only in the center, they most certainly would have held; but whatever position they attempted to secure was soon outflanked, the rebel hosts threatening to completely encircle them. And yet, even then, they bought time, allowing several thousand to move up the road to safety.

Forced into Littlestown, Sykes finally made the fateful decision to turn the division north, back toward Gettysburg, to get what was left of his men out. To try and hold the town would have meant encirclement; to turn south would have meant encirclement as well.

He would be remembered for that moment, for when a panic-stricken officer galloped past, screaming that the army was destroyed, Sykes watched him go then turned to his men. "Yes, the army is gone," Sykes announced sadly, "but these regiments will always remain."

For the men of the Stonewall Brigade charging into Littlestown, it was like the memory of a springtime long ago, marching on relentlessly through the rain, sweeping forward to victory. Old Jack was gone, but now there was Lee, riding at the fore, urging them on, pointing the way, promising that but one more charge would crown them with victory undreamed of.

And so they stormed into Littlestown at the point of the bayonet, rifles all but useless as sheets of rain washed across the fields, churning the road to rivers of mud. The old Fifth broke apart, its bitter survivors turning back on the road toward Gettysburg, their morale broken by the certain knowledge that the rest of their army had just been defeated behind them at Union Mills and there was no sense of hope or rescue. A grim hopelessness set in among the men.

The back door had been sealed. It was six in the afternoon of July Fourth.

Hood, deployed across the Baltimore Road, now had to simply wait, for there was no other way back from Union Mills, except for narrow country lanes that were turning into rivers of mud. The one pike north, its pavement a sticky glue of crushed limestone, was sealed.

Their first take was the flood of broken survivors of the old Second and Twelfth Corps, coming back from the disaster, and the sight of Hood blocking that road sent them recoiling back again, word racing like an electric shock: 'The rebels are in Littlestown."

The men of the First Corps, so savagely mauled in the first day's battle, formed a final defense along the ridges north of Pipe Creek, still game and defiant, but the rest of the army now began to break apart

Sickles kept his head, both figuratively and literally, though his action, even as he undertook it would be the source of bitter debate and acrimony. With the largest intact command, he had waited for over two hours, listening as the sound of battle from the north, the flanking march by Lee pushing back Fifth Corps, gradually receded to the northeast Several of his officers begged for him to march to the sound of the guns, to flank Lee in turn, but he refused, announcing that the battle was already lost and his duty was to keep his units together to form the nucleus of a new Army of the Potomac.

He ignored, as well, the garbled order that came from Meade's headquarters to fall back onto the Gettysburg-Westminster Road, saying that would take his command straight into the trap.

When he judged the time to be right he ordered the position along Pipe Creek to be abandoned, along with all guns and wagons and those wounded who could not walk, each man to load up a hundred rounds of ammunition, and then set the corps off on a grueling march to the northwest cutting far behind Lee's flanking force, an action that when first reported to Lee, caused an hour of tense anxiety until it was realized that Sickles was making for Harney and the road back to Gettysburg. Lee decided to simply let this command go; to try and bring it into the net would overextend an already exhausted and far overextended command.

The march would be the most harrowing the Third Corps had ever endured, a nightmare of slogging through the mud, exhausted men by the hundreds collapsing and Dan Sickles relentlessly setting the pace and already lecturing to his staff about why Meade had lost the battle. He had mis-stepped every inch of the way, and if only he had listened, just listened, how different it would all be, Sickles announced with self-righteous bitterness. He would be damned if ever he would take an order from such a man ever again. His mission now was to save his men and, around the nucleus of the Third Corps, rebuild an army, this time with the right general in command. After all the failures, Lincoln would have to buckle to that; Sickles's Democrat war allies in Congress would see that Sickles now had his chance. In fact, if Lincoln had picked him instead of Meade, Lee would be defeated and his army broken, or so Sickles reasoned to himself, increasing his own anger and determination.

Sedgwick felt as angry as Sickles and as bitter at Meade. Already word was spreading that Meade was now blaming him for the failure, that Sedgwick had failed to advance when he should have, then failed to stop when he should have, thus destroying the reserve that could have been used to punch a way out The fact that Hancock had usurped command would be an issue that Sedgwick would make sure he answered for, and, if need be, he would take it all the way to the Congressional Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War and demand a court-martial as well as a congressional investigation.

Hancock knew nothing of this. His ambulance had passed through Littlestown only minutes before the road was blocked, his escort of loyal men pushing on toward Gettysburg. The word was already out that Stuart's men were closing in on the rear, having brushed aside the disjointed efforts of the Union cavalry to contain them. At Gettysburg, there might be safety with the men of Eleventh Corps, who still occupied the town.

The death blow hit just before six in the evening. Longstreet had waited, resting his men, bringing up rations, though the meal was a cold one of soggy hardtack and salted pork, but it was rations nevertheless. Units were reorganized; dry ammunition was distributed; a dozen batteries were organized and limbered up.

He knew the plan, watching the weather, trying to calculate. No word came from Lee, but Longstreet sensed that the flanking attack had indeed gone in, the distant sound of gunfire fading northward, by then washed out by the intensity of the storm.

Finally, just after five-thirty, he ordered a general advance all along the line. It was evident that there were still troops deployed along the opposing heights, but all could see, as well, that since the previous two hours that line was melting away, guns moving out, skirmishers bringing in prisoners who reported that the Army of the Potomac was abandoning the field.

Three divisions went in: Rodes on the right, Pettigrew in the middle, Early on the left. Pender, McLaws, and Anderson, those who had suffered the most in the defense, were formed into marching columns and held in reserve, with Anderson's division detailed off to the task of preparing to receive the anticipated flood of prisoners. And for once there was a surplus of supplies and an order to prepare to feed these thousands of men as well.

The orders were to avoid a frontal assault at all cost, to probe; to go around the flanks, for Pete sensed that if anyone was still up there, they would fold once their flanks were turned, but would indeed fight if hit head-on.

It was as he assumed. The First Corps held for less than half an hour, with Rodes only skirmishing at long range, until Early's men swept over the heights abandoned by Sickles. With that the First Corps of the Army of the Potomac, the "old First"-the men who boasted that they were the backbone-broke and started for the rear.

With Pender's column pushing up the road, the pursuit was on in earnest, but the advance was determined and careful. The goal was to herd the Union army north and gather up stragglers as prisoners, not to engage in a frontal fight that would force the Union army to draw itself together and cause unnecessary casualties to the already weakened Confederate forces.

A thunderstorm of frightful intensity now lashed the skies, as if reflecting the far more violent confrontation unfolding below. In the darkening gloom, the hot electric blue flashes revealed a road swarming with tens of thousands of men, all semblance of order breaking down among the Union forces, troops splitting away from the line of retreat, streaming off into nearby woods, there to simply collapse. Individual regimental commanders, those with some initiative, ordered their men to turn aside, to march cross-country, hoping to break out of the net For word raced up and down that desperate column that Lee was now in their front on the Baltimore Pike at Littlestown, and Longstreet was closing up from the rear.

It was the worst night of the war for both sides.

For the men of the old Irish Brigade, Second Corps, haunted by the loss of their commander, there was a vicious lashing out when a regiment of Pender's division stormed into the road expecting a quick surrender.

To a man, the Irishmen turned with clubbed rifles and bayonets. It was a brutal vicious melee, no longer a military battle; now it was a settling of scores, and men on both sides were beaten to death without mercy in the gloom, until the survivors broke from the road and spilled into the darkness, heading due east and out of the fight but leaving more than a hundred dead Confederates behind.

All organization at corps and division and even brigade level was gone.

With the road severed at Littlestown, the vast, surging column had come to a complete halt unable to move. Some regiments just stood in line, waiting and waiting in the driving rain-a colonel or in many cases now a major or even a captain in command-for someone to tell them what to do, until the enveloping wave of gray and butternut swarmed in about them.

Here and there fires briefly flickered to light as a lantern was smashed, the coal oil poured over the regimental colors, and then burned; or like their comrades of the Twentieth Maine, the flag was cut to ribbons and pressed into hands, men weeping in rage, frustration, bitterness, and exhaustion.

Every farmhouse, every barn and outbuilding, became a refuge, filled to overflowing with the wounded and with those too exhausted or too frightened to continue.

Strange moments, only possible in this war unfolded, and acts typical of any war. A soldier with one of Pender's North Carolina divisions, coming upon an exhausted Union straggler, discovered him to be his own son who had moved to Ohio before the war, the two embracing and weeping by the side of the road, while less than a hundred yards away another North Carolinian unknowingly shot his own brother in the back when the latter tried to flee.

In nearly every case, prisoners were taken in and treated with at least some compassion, a quick bandaging of wounds, a shared drink from a canteen, though a Georgian, moved to insanity by the death of his brother earlier in the day, methodically stabbed a wounded boy from New York to death as the boy begged for mercy; and then, within seconds, the murderer was summarily executed by his own colonel, who had witnessed the crime.

An unimaginable array of equipment Uttered the road and fields, discarded muskets, cartridge boxes, blanket rolls, uniforms, caps, boxes of rations and ammunition, an entire collection of musical instruments dropped by a regimental band, a case of French champagne found by some boys from Mississippi, who promptly got drunk and were finally placed under arrest, books and newspapers, a paymaster's box with ten thousand in greenbacks, all mingled in with upended wagons, braying mules, burning caissons that exploded with thunderclap roars, and everywhere bodies, some dead, most just collapsed in exhaustion by the side of the road.

Some commanders broke down in the confusion, told the men to save themselves and scatter. But more than one elected to fight, pulling their regiments off the road. Some would fight clean through to the next day, others perhaps only a few minutes before being overwhelmed, but the old army did not die easily.

Vicious, frightful battles unfolded all along the road. The survivors of the First Minnesota turned about when Rodes pressed too closely; their volley killing the hard-fighting Confederate general, dropping him into the mud. The First was swarmed under then and disappeared.

One colonel, who had survived a year in Libby Prison before being exchanged, when facing the prospect yet again, shot himself in the temple right in front of his men. Some officers wept, some raged, a few abandoned their own men, but most tried to lead as best they could; and more than one NCO and private emerged that terrible night as a leader as well.

Henry became an infantryman. He had come across two batteries of guns, stalled in the road, the way ahead blocked by a tangle of wagons, ambulances, an overturned caisson and gun, its team still tied to their harnesses, kicking and thrashing.

Behind, in the semidarkness, he could hear the dull crackle of rifle fire, flashes of light reflecting off the low-hanging clouds, a stampede of men racing by on either side of the road, crying that the Rebs were coming.

A battery commander stood before him, waiting for orders.

For a moment he was tempted to order the guns unlimbered, but in all that mad confusion, what would he shoot at? Thousands of Union soldiers were swarming across the surrounding fields, a flash of lightning revealing a compact column of Confederates already passing him in an open field to the left

"Spike the guns!" Henry shouted.

Exhausted gunners climbed down from limber wagons, battery blacksmiths moving along the line with mallets and the deadly spikes, iron ringing against iron. Loaders tore into almost empty limber boxes, pulling out their few remaining rounds, tearing the powder bags open, throwing them onto the road.

"Sir, should we shoot the horses?" someone cried.

Henry shook his head. Merciful God, there had been enough slaughter this day. Sacrificing the poor beasts for no reason other than the failure of their masters was beyond him.

"No," he said gently. "Those that can stand the march, cut them from the traces and ride; the rest, just leave here. "They'll get picked up by some farmer or become the property of the Confederacy. They have served us well, and we can't simply slaughter them because of our failure this day."

The horses were unharnessed, some of the men swinging up on them to ride bareback, a sergeant riding one of them, bearing a battery guidon, which now served as a rallying point

A flash of lightning revealed a wheat field to the right a farmhouse on a low ridge beyond, a road climbing up past the house. It was as good a direction as any to go. "Follow me," he said, and pushing through a break in the fence, he led his ragged command out across the field and into the night

10:00 PM, JULY 4,1863

THE WHITE HOUSE

"General Haupt I am grateful that you are well," Lincoln said, standing up and extending his hand as Haupt came into the office. Herman could see that behind the kind words the president was numb with exhaustion, eyes red rimmed, as if he had been in tears only minutes before.

"I received word, sir, that you wanted to see me before I left Washington." "Yes, General." "What can I do for you, sir?"

Lincoln tried to force a smile, then turned away. "I guess you know the reports are not good."

Haupt said nothing. Rumors had been sweeping the city all day of a battle being fought to the north, near Westminster. A captain, claiming to be on Sedgwick's staff, had ridden into Baltimore, stating he had broken through the

Confederate cordon and that the Army of the Potomac had been soundly defeated and was reeling back in full retreat

Lincoln finally turned to look back at Haupt eyes shiny. '1 wonder how many men we lost this day" Lincoln whispered, "this Fourth of July."

"I have no idea, sir," Haupt replied, not sure what to say.

"For several hours today you could actually feel the bombardment" and Lincoln motioned toward the window, "if you put your hand on the windowpane you could feel it And then silence, nothing but silence."

"We should know tomorrow, sir."

"Yes, tomorrow."

Lincoln nodded and then drew a deep bream. "You know that Halleck was against your wish to go to Harrisburg to establish a new base there. He claims that the army will break through and the supplies and equipment will be needed here."

Herman was aware of the argument; in fact he had threatened to resign if not allowed to go. All his instincts told him that if Meade was rash enough to attack at Union Mills or Taneytown, he would be repulsed. He knew the land. He had lived in Gettysburg for several years, often ridden down to Westminster there to visit friends, and if Lee had indeed taken position along Pipe Creek the result was all but a foregone conclusion. Therefore, Harrisburg would be the new base, for Meade would have to retreat And even if he did not engage, with which all indicators now seemed to agree, Harrisburg would still be the base; but a bridge had to be thrown across that river now, tomorrow, if there was any hope of saving the Army of the Potomac.

Apparently Lincoln had learned of the fight with Halleck and had intervened directly, overriding the General of the Armies.

"I did not wish to cause trouble, sir," Herman finally offered.

Lincoln nodded. "Sir, I think it is all right for me to say that controversy with Halleck shall soon be a thing of the past"

"Sir?’

"Oh, nothing, sir, but that comment stays here please, at least for now."

Herman was startled to realize what the chief executive had just shared with him. Halleck was to be relieved as nominal commander of all forces in the field.

"But that is not the purpose of this meeting. General Haupt, I just want to ask you, if the Army of the Potomac has been defeated, perhaps destroyed…" and his voice trailed off for a moment When he started to speak again, his voice was tight as if near to breaking. "Can we rebuild?"

Herman looked into the man's eyes, shocked by this momentary display of heartfelt anguish. His heart went out to this man who carried the burden, who in fact tomorrow could simply announce that all was over, that the killing would stop… but in so doing the Republic would forever be cut asunder.

"Sir, by the day after tomorrow I will have a bridge across the river at Harrisburg, supplies sufficient for fifty thousand men stockpiled, at least a battalion of fresh artillery brought up to defend the crossing. The rail network from Harrisburg is a good one. I can call in trains from New York, Pittsburgh, Reading, and Philadelphia. That sir, is our strength, the mere fact that I can do that As long as there is the will to fight sir, I will provide the tools to do it"

"As long as I have the will," Lincoln said, turning away to gaze out the window.

All outside was silent The celebration of the Fourth, the firing of the hundred-gun salute in Lafayette Square across from the White House, had been canceled, the troops on alert those guns now deployed around government buildings, two batteries' worth on the grounds of the White House.

Lincoln finally turned and looked back at Haupt "Good luck in Harrisburg, sir, and thank you."

"Thank you, Mr. President" and Herman took the president's hand, Lincoln's grip warm and powerful.

"General Haupt, you provide the material, and I will provide the will."

11:00 PM, JULY 4,1863

LITTLESTOWN

Gen. Robert E. Lee walked into the church, taking off his battered straw hat It was a Lutheran church, simple in its design and appointments. Flashes of light outside briefly illuminated the stained-glass windows. The distant roll of thunder and of gunfire was continuous. He tried to block the noise out of his mind.

Lee turned and looked at Walter, who had walked up to the altar and, after struggling with several damp matches, finally managed to strike a light touching the flame to the two candles.

Lee nodded his thanks. "I'll be along in a few minutes, Walter." "Yes, sir."

The door to the church opened, several staff coming in. Lee said nothing as they approached.

"Sir," one of them cried, "Generals Johnson and Hood beg to report that they can no longer keep track of the number of prisoners. Pickett just sent back a report that he will push on toward Gettysburg as long as one of his men can march with him. He's taken twelve colors and more than a thousand prisoners from the Fifth Corps. General Stuart sends his compliments as well, sir, and will block every road as ordered."

"Any word from General Longstreet yet?" Lee asked. "No, sir. But we can see the flashes of gunfire from his columns. They are pushing the Yankees straight into us." Lee said nothing. "Sir, are there any orders?" Again a moment of silence. "Sir?"

Lee looked at the three with a sense of infinite weariness. They were really nothing more than boys, filled with that strange exuberance that sometimes comes after a battle, exhaustion not yet laying them low.

"Repeat the orders I've already given," Lee said softly.

"Show mercy now. The time for killing is over. Show mercy." "Yes, sir."

Walter stepped between the messengers and Lee, gently turning them about One of the men stopped and came up to Lee, extending his hand. "Please forgive me, sir," the lieutenant gasped, "I just want to be able to one day tell my grandchildren that I shook your hand this day, this most glorious Fourth of July."

Lee nodded and briefly extended his hand, forgiving the boy his bad manners.

Tears came to the boy's eyes. "God bless you, sir," he stammered and men, embarrassed at his impetuous act he fled.

Walter looked back and Lee just motioned for him to leave and close the door.

Alone, Lee sat down in a pew, and leaning forward he clasped his hands, resting his forehead upon them.

Walter Taylor stood outside the church, arms folded, guarding the door. A small crowd had garnered, curious civilians, wounded soldiers, staff, even a few Union prisoners, disarmed, standing in the rain.

He waited and as the minutes passed, he finally became concerned. Throughout that long day he had watched his general almost like a child, now an adult keeping a watchful gaze over an aging parent Three times during that final drive into Littlestown, he had been compelled to hold the general back, for the fire was in him as he drove Pickett forward, directing the battle, reeling from exhaustion as they finally broke into the town and gained the road that cut off the Union line of retreat

Finally, after a half hour of waiting, he felt a flicker of fear. Motioning for the cavalry escort to block the door, he slowly opened it and stepped back into the church.

There was a terrible flash of terror. Lee was slumped over, head resting against the next pew. Taylor carefully walked up, about to cry out In the candlelight Lee looked so deathly pale.

He stood by the general's side, not sure for a moment what to do. "Sir?" he whispered. There was no response.

Ever so gently he reached out, touching Lee on the shoulder, terrified that when he did so Lee would just simply collapse.

Leaning over, he finally heard a gentle respiration.

Walter stood there for a moment and then began to weep. Taking off his rain-soaked jacket, he balled it up, placing it on the pew by Lee's side. Ever so gently he put his arms around his general and eased him over on his side, the jacket now a pillow. Stepping next to the pew, he lifted the old man's legs and carefully stretched them out.

Lee stirred for a moment "Roonie," he whispered.

"He'll be all right sir," Walter whispered back. "Your boy will be all right"

Lee did not stir, lost in exhausted sleep.

Going up to the altar, Walter blew out the two candles. Sitting down in the pew across from his general, Walter Taylor kept vigil throughout the long night.

And thus the Fourth of July, 1863, came to an end.

8:00 AM, JULY 5,1863

LlTTLESTOWN

It had been a long night the longest of his life, General Longstreet at the head of the column of Pender's division, led the way up the main street of Littlestown. The road to either side was packed to overflowing with troops, both Confederate and Union. The men of Johnson's division cheered his approach, and at that moment it touched him profoundly.

These were the veterans of Stonewall, and across the last year-since the Army of the Valley had fallen in with the ranks of what would become the Army of Northern Virginia-he had always sensed a certain haughtiness on their part, that they saw their leader, "Old Jack,” as the superior of Lee's two lieutenants.

That was gone this morning. Men saluted at his approach, then took off their hats, shouting and waving. Behind him the mud-spattered boys of Pender marched with a jaunty swagger, returning the cheers. A group of Hood's men, drawn up in a small column, each of the men carrying a captured battle flag, fell into the line of march to resounding cheers.

The disarmed Union prisoners, part of a long column of troops now being marched back toward Westminster, had been pushed to die side of the road. They looked up at him, some with open hatred, most with that vague, shocked, distant look of troops who had seen and endured far too much. An officer in their midst stepped forward a pace and saluted.

Pete hesitated, looking down. It was Maj. Gen. Abner Doubleday, left arm in a sling, a comrade from an eternity ago, a fellow graduate of the class of 1842.

"Abner, sorry to see you're hurt," Pete said. "How are you?"

"That was you I faced yesterday at Union Mills, wasn't it, Pete?"

"Yes, Abner"

"A long way from West Point now, aren't we?" "Yes, Abner."

'And the pledge you made mere to our flag." Pete could not reply.

"Abner, if you need anything, let me know, send for me."

Abner shook his head. "No, Pete, I won't"

"I'm sorry, Abner."

"So am I, Pete. So am I."

Pete drew up, saluted, and rode on.

Hospital flags, hanging sodden and limp in the morning rain, were draped in the doorways of churches and school-houses. Every house in town was a hospital as well. Union and Confederate surgeons and orderlies, working side by side, tended to the wounded. Women of the town scurried back and forth, carrying buckets of water, torn-up bedsheets, and blankets.

A grim sight hung in the center of town, a dead Confederate soldier at the end of a rope slung over a tree limb… ATTEMPTED ASSAULT OF A WOMAN was written on the sign draped around his broken neck, two provost guards standing beneath the corpse.

The men marching behind Pete fell silent at the sight of him, more than one spitting on the ground at the feet of the dead man as they passed.

Passing through the town, the column worked its way up a low hill, an orderly waiting for them atop the crest, motioning for Pete to follow his lead.

As they crested the ridge, the sight spread out before him was breathtaking. The fields north of town had become a vast holding area for thousands of prisoners, a long, serpentine column of them now marching along the side of the road in the opposite direction, heading south.

And there was Lee.

Pete spurred his mount, covering the last few yards, grinning in spite of his exhaustion, snapping off a salute as he approached.

Gathered round Lee were Taylor, Hood, and dozens of others. The rain picked up, the sky dark and sullen; but around Lee, at this moment, there almost seemed to be a strange golden light

"General Longstreet it does my heart good to see that you are safe," Lee said, riding up the last few feet to him, warmly extending his hand, which Longstreet took.

Pete did not know what to say.

"You were magnificent General. This victory is to your credit sir."

"No, sir," and Longstreet started to fumble, embarrassed, "it is yours, sir. Let me congratulate you for this, your greatest victory."

"You were the one who first proposed it"

'It was merely a suggestion, sir. It was your leadership that inspired it"

Lee smiled. "We'll argue about that later."

Longstreet lowered his head, not sure what to say.

'1 just received a report from General Pickett," Lee said. "He is stalled just outside of Gettysburg due to the rain, but reports that their Eleventh Corps, and what is left of the Third, have abandoned die town and are moving toward Carlisle."

"They're trying for the river, for Harrisburg most likely," Longstreet replied.

"My thoughts exactly, General. We will pursue them of course. I understand the bridges there are all down, burned by them last week. If this rain continues, Stuart might pin what is left of the Union forces against the Susquehanna and finish that as well."

Pete nodded.

"And Washington?"

"In due course, General. We've cast our net wide," and as he spoke he nodded to the prisoners marching past, "but it is safe to say that maybe thirty thousand of their forces, perhaps more, have broken out We know their Third Corps, as well as what is left of the Fifth and Eleventh, are back in Gettysburg. I hope we can still pin those. Elements of their cavalry are largely intact, though scattered, and will serve as rallying points for those who are fleeing. That is our first goal, to finish their army.

"Then we need to see to our prisoners, to move them safely out of the way, and to tend to the wounded of both sides. The losses have been grievous. Our men need rest. We have to push them toward Harrisburg for now, if we can indeed destroy what is left of the Army of the Potomac. Some of the units are so battered, however, that they may need to be reorganized before they can fight again."

"I still wonder about Washington, though, General," Longstreet replied.

Lee fell silent, looking at the column of Union troops passing by along the side of the road, Pender's men moving in the opposite direction. Longstreet pointed to the head of the column. Leading the way were the captured standards of thirty regiments or more. The men carrying them falling out of the line of march, coming up to Lee's side. One of them was Sergeant Hazner, another Sergeant Robinson, who had stopped Lee in front of Taneytown.

For Longstreet the moment was etched like a frozen tableau, the rain-darkened clouds, the mud-splattered, weary prisoners marching past, but in the eyes of more than one a look of steadfastness, that even in defeat there was still pride as they looked at their colors now being presented to Lee.

It seemed that Lee sensed it as well. He stiffened in the saddle, back ramrod straight, and drawing up his right hand, he saluted the captured flags. The Union troops marching past slowed, some stopping, looking on with surprise. A Union colonel, blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head, came to attention and saluted the colors and Lee as well.

Lee, seeing the gesture, turned and nodded. "Colonel, sir," Lee said, "I shall pray that soon this will all be over and that you and your gallant men swiftly return home to your families."

The colonel bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir, and I shall pray the same for you," he replied, "but, sir, it will not be over until the Union has been saved."

Lee nodded and then looked away.

The colonel fell back into the ranks and disappeared with his men into the rain.

There was a long moment of silence, a soft peal of thunder rumbling in the distance.

"I suppose you heard about General Meade," Lee said, his voice distant

"Sir?"

"He's dead. They're bringing his body in now." Longstreet sighed.

"East of here," Lee continued, "about five miles. A regiment of Stuart's cavalry, led by Wade Hampton, came upon him just after dawn. He had a couple of dozen staff and troopers with him. Meade charged. In the melee, Hampton recognized Meade, begged him to surrender, but Meade just tried to cut straight through. He was shot before Hampton could stop him." Lee lowered his head.

"I think I'd have done the same," Pete replied.

"'My fault, all my fault,' those were the last words Meade said."

"Another old comrade gone," Longstreet whispered.

Lee looked away and said nothing for a moment

"We press toward Gettysburg today and try to finish what is left of their army, General Longstreet We must make this victory decisive and so overwhelming that the North will sue for peace. If not, then it will be a march on Washington."

SUNSET, JULY 6,1863

MARYSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA

‘I think those are our men up there," someone gasped.

Henry, nodding with exhaustion, raised his head. In the gathering twilight, he saw a heavy skirmish line deployed along a low crest half a dozen guns dug in at the top of the hill.

"Don't move." The voice came out of the shadows from a wooded grove flanking the road.

Henry turned and saw several dozen rifle barrels poised, aiming toward him and his ragged band of men. 'Identify yourselves."

"Who the hell are you?” one of Henry's men shouted back. "Damn you, identify yourselves or we'll shoot" Several of Henry's men started to raise pistols, and he shouted for them to stand and not move. After two days of running, of dodging Confederate cavalry, brushing around the flank of a regiment of Confederate infantry, he was beyond caring. Besides, the fight was out of his men. They had staggered for over forty miles, cutting across fields, hiding in woods to catch a few hours' sleep, abandoning those who could no longer keep up. If this now meant prison, then so be it

"I'm Henry Hunt Commander, Artillery Reserve," he paused for a second, his throat feeling thick, eyes filling up, "the Army of the Potomac."

His inquisitor stepped out of the woods, pistol still drawn but now lowered slighdy. It was a Union captain.

The man drew closer, looking first at Henry, then at the hundred or so men trailing along with him. The captain sadly shook his head, and then saluted.

'Captain Jamison. I'm on the staff of General Couch, commander of the emergency garrison in Harrisburg."

"Harrisburg?' Henry asked. "We made it?"

"Just beyond that ridge, sir. We finished a pontoon bridge across this afternoon, threw out an advanced guard. I guess you can say I am the advance guard. We've had stragglers, thousands of them, coming in all day, but a lot of Rebs, too, trying to round up men like yourselves. Sorry, sir, but with everyone covered in mud, it's hard to tell who is which at the moment"

Jamison fell in by Henry's side, offering to guide him to the bridge.

"You hear about Sickles and Howard?" Jamison asked.

Henry shook his head. All he knew of the army now was what he had seen with his own eyes these last two days.

'Their corps are over by Carlisle. Been some sharp fighting is the report but word is they will be here come tomorrow, at least what's left of them, along with what's left of Fifth Corps. Maybe twenty thousand men or so."

"And the rest?'

"You, men like you, sir," Jamison said quietly, "coming in a couple at a time, part of a brigade from Fifth Corps, a scattering of regiments. A rout sir. A total rout The Army of the Potomac has fallen into pieces."

Henry said nothing, too shocked, too weary to speak.

"Seen any of our cavalry?' Jamison asked.

"Not a one," Henry said dejectedly.

"Word is they're reforming over by York. Been some heavy fighting; apparently they blocked Lee from pushing all the way up here. Everyone is so damn fought out and exhausted at this point."

They crested the low rise. Though darkness had settled he could now see the Susquehanna River below, a flickering line of torches and lanterns drawn like a line across the broad river.

"Some general came up yesterday morning with three trainloads of pontoon gear and built that in a little more than a day. They were like ants; never seen anything like it. They're saying, though, it won't hold for long; the river is rising fast"

Henry made his way down the embankment falling in with hundreds of others shuffling through the mud. In the dim light he could make out on their caps, the Maltese Cross of the Fifth Corps, the circle of the First men of the Second and the Twelfth, all moving along silently, the able helping wounded comrades.

As he stepped on the bridge and bid farewell to Jamison, Henry felt as if he were crossing the river out of a dark land of nightmares, the bridge swaying beneath his feet, sentries posted at regular intervals cautioning the men to not march in step, to stay away from the edge, and to keep moving, keep moving.

The lights of the city of Harrisburg shone softly beyond the mists rising up from the cold, churning river, the road along the riverbank was packed with wagons, ambulances, and disorganized troops wandering about As he reached the end of the bridge, Henry heard sergeants shouting orders, calling off the numbers of corps, then giving directions where to go. Henry was reassured to see a full battalion of guns arrayed along the riverbank, barrels aimed to shell the other side of the river, three-inch rifles, one battery of twenty-pound rifles, the guns obviously straight from the foundry.

Orderlies were waiting, grabbing hold of the injured, taking them to ambulances that lined the street As each ambulance was loaded up, the driver lashed his mules forward.

No one was giving any orders as to where the men- of the Artillery Reserve should go, and Henry stopped in the middle of the street after stepping off the bridge, looking around, confused, not sure what to do next "Hunt?"

He turned and saw by the light of a torch a star on each shoulder of the man calling to him. The two saluted each other.

"I don't think you know me," the general offered, and then extended his hand, "Herman Haupt" "Railroad?"

"Yes, we met just after Second Bull Run."

Henry said nothing. Right now he couldn't remember.

‘You were in the thick of it?" Haupt asked.

"Yes, the thick of it" Henry said woodenly. "Union Mills. The charge."

Haupt reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a flask, uncorking it

'I’d better not," Henry whispered. "If I have a drink now, I think I'll pass out"

"Go ahead, you can pass out on my train."

"Your train?"

"I came up here to build this bridge and get supplies up in case the army got out" "It didn't"

"I know. But we have twenty thousand men here with Couch."

"Militia?" Henry asked.

"Yes, but it's something. Word is parts of three corps will be in here tomorrow." Henry was silent "So you saw it"

"Yes, I saw it I was at Westminster as it fell. I saw it all right"

Haupt put his arm around Henry's shoulder. "General, look at me," Haupt said softly. Henry raised his gaze and saw the coldness in Haupt's eyes.

"Lee won the battle, but he has yet to win this war. Those are your guns over there," and Haupt pointed to the batteries arrayed along the riverfront. "Some of those tubes were cast less than a week ago. The army will be rebuilt; I promise you that."

"My men, all those men," Hunt whispered.

"I know, God save them, but the Republic will endure. There will be more men and the Republic will go on; that is our strength."

Henry nodded, drawing energy from this man's determination and belief.

"You're coming back with me, Hunt"

Confused, Henry looked at the men who had followed him out of hell.

"My men."

"They'll be well taken care of. I've put the town under martial law. Every house is open to the troops for billeting. I've got three hundred head of cattle for food and enough rations to stuff every man full.

"But you, sir, I think some people in Washington will want to hear your account, Hunt. So far you are the only general, other man Hancock, who's gotten out from Union Mills."

"How is Hancock?’

"He's in that hotel right over there," Haupt said. "Word is he isn't going to live. So you're going back with me."

Henry looked at his men. "In a minute, General."

Henry walked over to the men who had suffered so much with him. They came to attention and saluted. All he could do was nod in reply; words failed him. He took the hands of several, shaking them, and then turned away.

Ten minutes later he was aboard Haupt's train, sprawled out on a straight-back wooden seat, the alcohol unwinding him, and fast asleep.