Gettysburg

Chapter Four

4:00 PM, JULY I, 1863

MCPHERSON'S RIDGE GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

The shell burst knocked him to the ground. Maj. John Williamson, of the Fourteenth South Carolina, felt as if he were floating, not sure if he was alive or already drifting into death. He came back up to his knees. Someone was helping him. He could feel hands on his shoulders, pulling him up.

No pain, just the numbness. The thought triggered a momentary panic. He had seen men eviscerated, entrails looping out onto the ground, stand back up and try to go forward, momentarily unaware that they were dead, until finally the dark hand stilled their heart and they fell.

He started to fumble, feeling his chest, stomach. Where am I hit? "Sir! Sir!"

Sound was returning. The hazy mist behind his eyes was clearing. It was Sergeant Hazner who was speaking, holding him by the shoulders, turning him around. "Are you all right, sir?"

He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

Someone else came up to his side. Private Jenson, his orderly, eyes wide with fear. "You're alright, sir, just stunned!"

Hazner was shouting, and John looked around. The noise, the noise was returning, a wild roar, the swirling insane thunder of musketry, artillery, men screaming, cursing, crying.

He looked past Hazner. The charge was losing force. The regiment was staggering to a halt, men now crouching in the middle of the open field.

"All right. I'm all right. Keep moving!"

He broke free from Hazner's grasp, and at that instant another shell detonated… and Jenson seemed to disappear into pulpy mist, what was left of him spraying over them.

Hazner staggered back, stunned, face covered with Jenson's blood.

John turned away, struggling not to vomit. — "John!"

He looked up; the voice was clear and recognizable, Lt Colonel Brown, commander of the regiment.

"Goddamn it, John, move these men!" Brown screamed. "We've got to move!"

The sense of what he was supposed to do, why he was here, returned. He saluted as Brown turned about and disappeared back into the smoke.

John looked down the length of their line. Only minutes before (or was it hours?) they had stepped off, moving past the wreckage of Harry Heth's division, which had fought itself out Heth's boys had shouted that they were facing that damned Black Hat Brigade of the Yankees' First Corps.

The ridge ahead was wreathed in a dirty yellow-gray cloud of smoke, the only thing visible the pinpoint flashes from muskets and artillery. Above the smoke he caught occasional glimpses of a cupola crowning a large brick building.

"Come on, boys!" It was Brown, stepping in front of the line, waving his sword. "We can't stay out here! Come on!"

The battle line started to surge forward. He heard Brown screaming, urging the men on.

He spared a quick glance for Hazner. The sergeant face covered with Jenson's blood, pushed back into the line, screaming for the men to keep moving.

"Go, goddamn it go!" John screamed, adding in his own voice, pushing through the battle line, urging his men forward.

The momentum of the charge began to build again, and he felt swept up in it, driven forward like a leaf, one of thousands of leaves flung into the mouth of a hurricane.

Men were screaming, a wild terrible wolflike cry, the rebel yell.

"Go! Go! Go!"

He kept screaming the single word over and over, urging his men on. Some were ahead of him, running forward, heads down, shoulders hunched, staggering as if into the blast from the open door of a furnace.

He caught a glimpse of the colors. Then the flag bearer spun around, going down in a heap. An instant later he was back up, like a sprinter who had lost his stride but for a second. Disbelieving, John saw that the boy had lost his right arm, blown, off at the shoulder. The boy was holding the colors aloft with his left hand, waving them defiantly, screaming for the regiment to press in and kill the bastards.

They were at the bottom of the swale, the ground flattening out, then rising up less than a hundred yards to the crest

No fire from up forward. Were they running?

The smoke was drifting up, rising in thick, tangled coils.

"Go! Go! Go!"

John caught a glimpse of their line. "Merciful Jesus!" The cry escaped him. The Yankees weren't running. They had always run when the charge came in. Not this time. They were standing up, preparing to deliver a volley, bright musket barrels rising up, coming down in unison.

A thousand voices all mingled together as one, screams of terror, rage, defiance… calls to press on, to charge, to halt to run. Momentum carried them forward, inexorably forward into the waiting death.

He saw the rippling flash, the explosion of the volley. It swept over them, through them, tearing gaping holes in the line. Men spun around, screaming. The entire line staggered, dozens dropping. Bodies went down in bloody heaps, punched by two, three, even half a dozen rounds.

The line staggered to a halt. Those who were left were raising their rifles, ready to return fire.

"No! Now, charge them now!" The words exploded out of him, and he continued forward, sword raised high.

The mad spine-tingling yell, which had nearly been extinguished by the volley, now redoubled. Men came up around him, shouldering him aside, pressing forward.

The Yankees were so close now John could see their faces, so blackened by powder they looked like badly made-up actors in a minstrel show. Some were frantically working to reload; others were lowering rifles, bayonets poised, others swinging guns around, grabbing the barrels. Yet others were backing up, starting to turn, to run.

The sight of them unleashed a maddened frenzy, his men screaming, coming forward, shouting foul obscenities, roaring like wolves at the scent of blood. They hit the low barricade of fence rails in front of the seminary and went up over it. A musket exploded in his face, burning his check. Clumsily he cut down with his sword, the blade striking thin air, the.man before him disappearing.

The melee poured over and around him. They were into the line, breaking it apart. The Yankees were falling back, some running, most giving ground grudgingly, as if they were misers not willing to give a single inch without payment It was the Black Hats, the Iron Brigade; after then-stand at Second Manassas and their valiant charge at Antietam they were the most feared brigade in the Army of the Potomac.

His men surged forward, pressing them across a narrow killing ground, the two lines sometimes touching and exploding into a flurry of kicks, jabs, punches, and clubbed rifles, then parting, firing into each other across a space of less than a dozen yards.

They pushed around the brick building, crossing over the ' top of the crest As the land dropped away, what was left of the Yankee formation broke apart, the last of them turning, running.

John caught a glimpse of men leaping out of the open windows of the seminary, one man dropping from the second floor, his legs snapping as he hit the hard ground. A Yankee officer was by the entryway, wearing a bloody apron, waving a hospital flag.

"Major Williamson! Secure that building! Round up the captives."

He caught a glimpse of Brown in the press, the one-armed flag bearer beside him, still waving the colors. "Hazner!"

The sergeant was by his side, rounding up a mix of men as John sprinted for the steps. The Yankee officer was still in the doorway; he caught a glimpse of green shoulder straps, a surgeon.

"This is a hospital!" the Yankee shouted. "Hazner, check the building."

The sergeant shouldered past the Yankee surgeon and cautiously stepped through the door. He hesitated for a second and then plunged into the gloom.

John, the hysteria of the charge still on him, panting for breath, kept his sword pointed at the surgeon.

"I surrender, sir."

"You're damn right you surrender," John gasped.

The surgeon stared, gaze drifting down to the sword that John held poised, aimed at the man's chest.

John suddenly felt embarrassed; the mad frenzy was clearing. The man was a surgeon, a non-combatant He lowered the sword. "Sorry, sir," he said woodenly.

The surgeon nodded.

"I need help in here," and the surgeon gestured into the building.

The stench was drifting out through the open doors… blood, excrement, open wounds, ether, a steady, nerve-tingling hum, groans, cries for water, air, engulfed John as he went inside. He stepped over the body of a Yankee gunner, both legs gone just above the knees, a sticky pool of blood congealing on the floor. The corridor was packed with wounded, men cradling shattered limbs, gasping for air. Frothy bubbles of blood mushroomed from chest wounds. A boy still clutching his fife was crying; a grizzled old sergeant, left foot shot away, sat cradling the lad in his lap.

The sergeant looked up at John, eyes smoldering. John looked away, unable to say anything. He caught a glimpse into a classroom, desks pushed together, a door torn off from its hinges laid across the desks, now serving as a surgeon's table. They were working on a boy, stripped naked from the waist down, taking his leg off, the meat of the thigh laid open. It reminded John of butchering day, the way the meat of the leg was cut away. He averted his gaze. "Gave you hell, we did."

He looked down; a lieutenant, pale, sweat beading his face, cradling a shattered arm, holding it tight against his chest, looked up at him defiantly.

"Gave you damn Rebs hell, we did."

John nodded, looking away, trying to find Hazner.

"Reb."

John looked back down. "A drink. Got anything."

Caught by surprise, John reached around to his canteen and unslung it, handing it down.

The lieutenant tried to reach up, grimacing as he let go of the arm. John could see the white of the bone, arterial blood. spurting. The lieutenant groaned, grabbed the arm again.

"Here, let me help," John whispered, as he knelt down, uncorking the canteen, holding it up.

"Whiskey mixed in there; take it slow."

The lieutenant tilted his head back, took a long gulp, choked for a moment, then nodded for more. John held the canteen, let him drink again.

The lieutenant sighed, leaned back. "Ah, that's good, thanks, Reb."

He started to cork the canteen and saw the pleading eyes of a man lying next to the lieutenant, shot through both cheeks, bits of bone and teeth still in the wound. The man couldn't speak, but his desire was clear.

"Major Williamson?"

It was Hazner. The sergeant was standing in the corridor, looking at him.

John handed the canteen to the man shot in the face.

'Take it slow, rinse your month out first" The Yankee nodded, eyes shiny, unable to speak. "Where you from, Reb?" It was the lieutenant "South Carolina." He hesitated, then the question spilled out "And you?"

"Indiana. Lafayette. Nineteenth Indiana." "Iron Brigade?"

The lieutenant's eyes brightened. "Yes, by God, and we gave it to you today."

John had a flash memory of the final volley, the way the muskets had caught the sunlight sifting through the smoke, the flashing barrels lowering as if guided by a single hand, the shattering volley at near point-blank range.

"You did well, Lieutenant"

"You won't win this one, Major."

John said nothing.

"We'll keep fighting. Keep fighting, we'll never give up." "Nor will we," John said quietly. "Lieutenant you're next"

Two orderlies stepped to either side of John and reached out with blood-caked hands, helping the lieutenant up. John stood up, motioning for the man next to him to keep the canteen. Inwardly he regretted the decision. It was hot The day was still long, but he didn't have the heart to take it back as the man raised it up and vainly struggled to rinse his mouth out so he could get a drink, blood, watered whiskey, bits of teeth, and saliva dribbling down his jacket.

John stood, heading toward Hazner. The lieutenant was going through the door into the operating room. The boy on the table before him was dead, two orderlies lifting the body off, clearing the way for the next customer for the knife. John caught the lieutenant's eyes for a second.

"Good luck." '

"You too, Reb."

"Major, you gotta see this."

Hazner was by his side, pointing.

John followed as Hazner reached the staircase and started up.

Damn strange war, John thought Ten minutes earlier I would have killed him, killed everyone in here; now I leave my canteen with them.

Hazner took the steps two and three at a time, shouldering aside the Yankees who cluttered the way. Surprisingly, some of them were still armed, but he could see the fight was out of them as they leaned against the blood-splattered walls or sat in dejected silence.

Reaching the top floor, Hazner pointed the way to a ladder that ascended into the cupola. One of his men stood with lowered musket pointing it casually at several officers. One of them made the gesture of offering his sword; John waved him aside.

He followed Hazner up the ladder, and as they emerged through the hatchway, the relative silence inside gave way to a thunderous roar.

John stepped up onto the platform. "My God."

Hazner looked at him, grinning like a child. "Best seats in me house!" the sergeant cried.

John soaked in every detail and knew that if he should live a hundred years, this moment, this place, would forever be etched into his soul.

A great, vast sweeping line, rank upon rank, regiments, brigades, entire divisions were arrayed in a giant arc, closing in on the town of Gettysburg from the northeast north, northwest and directly below from the west.

Dozens of battle flags, red Saint Andrew's crosses and state flags marked the advance. Formations moving forward behind the colors looking like inverted Vs.

They were running, the Yankees were running, and he felt a wave of exultation. All semblance of formation was lost crowds of men were stampeding, pouring into the streets of the town, surging around the perimeter, jumping fences, stumbling, falling. The roads were tangled knots of artillery limbers and caissons, ambulances, supply wagons. A thunderclap erupted to his left, and John turned, saw the first gun of Pegram's battalion already in place. Other guns we're coming up the road, driving hard, swinging into position.

The noise was beyond anything he could imagine, louder even than in the woods of Chancellorsville. It was a wild, steady, thundering roar, punctuated by the shrieking rebel' yell as the arc closed in, driving the Yankees.

A hissing scream snapped past the cupola, followed an instant later by another, the shell bursting fifty yards behind them.

He looked past the town. A hill rose up beyond, wreathed in smoke, billowing clouds igniting… artillery.

"Here, sir, got this from one of them Yankee officers."

Hazner handed John a pair of field glasses..One of the cylinders was badly dented, the lens cracked. He closed his left eye and focused the one good lens, training it on the hill.. The lower slopes were swarming with men, disorganized clumps, flotsam tossed up on a stormy beach, the tide of defeat sending them up and over the hill. Here and there defiant groups clustered around their flags, turning, firing, then continuing to fall back.

The top of the hill was crowned by a cemetery. Guns ringed the crest. Even as he watched, a battery of three guns laboriously climbed the hill, gunners leaning against the wheels, helping the exhausted horses. Men came running down to help. A mounted officer galloped up to the battery, reining in, gesturing, pointing.

"Digging in up there, sir."

John said nothing, studying the position.

It was good ground for them. He caught a glimpse of a swarm of men, running up the road that crested the hill. An officer cut in front of them, waving a sword. Some of them surged around the officer, continuing in their mad flight, but most slowed, a few collapsing on their hands and knees and then staggering back'up, forming around a flag.

John turned and looked back westward. The Cashtown Road, the road they had advanced on only this morning, was clearly visible, all the way back to the South Mountains. It was packed with troops, long, swaying columns. Afternoon sunlight poked through the clouds, flashing on the muskets. He saw a cluster of officers riding alongside the road coming toward him. Men were raising rifles, hats held aloft, a rippling movement that swept down the line as the officers pressed forward at a slow canter. "Come on!" John cried.

He slid down the ladder, landing hard, and ran down the stairs. Reaching the main floor, he gingerly stepped around the wounded. The surgeon who had surrendered the building tried to say something, but John avoided him, moving fast.

He raced out of the building. All was confusion outside, wounded Yankees, wounded Confederates now intermingled. Those who could walk were coming up from the field where the charge had swept in. Several hundred bluecoats, disarmed, sat around the building, a few sentries guarding them. A column of troops, moving on the double, was coming up over the crest, following their colors, a North Carolina state flag. The men were panting, canteens rattling. A number of men had pairs of shoes tied by the laces and slung over their shoulders or around their necks, booty stripped from the dead, but there was no time yet to try them on. He reached the road just as the knot of officers came up the slope.

Men were stopping, seeing who was coming, cheering.

John took a deep breath and stepped in front of the group. "Walter! Walter!"

One of the officers looked over, saw John, smiled, and reined in.-

John, remembering that his old friend was now a superior in rank, came loosely to attention and saluted.

Lt Col. Walter Taylor, chief of staff to Gen. Robert E. Lee, leaned over and extended his hand. "John, how are you?"

'Tolerable. A hard fight"

"Saw you go in. You were magnificent The general said it was a proud day for South Carolina."

John caught a glimpse of the general coming up the slope, General Longstreet by his side.

"Walter, can I have a word with the general?".

Walter looked at him appraisingly. He was the gatekeeper, the one who fended off the glory seekers, the hangers-on, the dozens, the hundreds who every day wanted to see Lee.

"Up there, Walter," and he pointed to the cupola. "Go up there. You can see the whole thing. There's a hill beyond the town; that's where they're falling back. I saw everything from up there."

"The cemetery?"

"Yes."

Walter nodded. "Follow me."

Lee approached. John looked up at him. He had seen Lee numerous times. Being an old college roommate of the chief of staff meant that he was often invited to headquarters for a late-night drink or game of cards. Yet every time he had seen him, there was a cold chill, a sense of reverent awe, a belief that if their country was to survive that this man would be the savior. He remembered him from just three nights back, sitting alone in the field, most likely contemplating all that was now happening.

John remembered as well his own panic and terror of that night It had lingered about him like an unpleasant scent in the air that would not disappear. He had mastered it again for the moment, caught up in the hysteria of the charge, but the fear was still there, whispering to him, warning that something terrible was just ahead.

He forced the thought aside. He was about to speak to the "Old Man," and he had to play his part.

He self-consciously tugged at his uniform and caught a glimpse of Sergeant Hazner by his side, fumbling to button up his jacket

Walter intercepted Lee; the two exchanged words; Lee looked over, nodded, approached the last dozen yards, and stopped.

John saluted.

Lee, eyes bright calm, looked down, the touch of a smile on his face. "I trust you are well, Major Williamson."

John, surprised that Lee remembered his name, could barely speak for a moment

"The blood, sir, are you hurt?"

John looked down at his uniform… his orderly, head gone, body collapsing. He shook his head. "No, sir. One of my men…" and his voice trailed off.

Lee nodded, a fatherly look of understanding in his eyes. "South Carolina did splendidly today," Lee finally replied. "I saw the charge go in."

"Thank you, sir," and he hesitated, not sure what to say next

"You have some information for me?"

John gulped, nodded. "Sir. From up there," and he pointed back to the cupola. "I was just up there. We're driving them, sir, really driving them. But south of the town, they're beginning to reform. Artillery, I'd say at least thirty guns, sir, and what's left of their infantry; most of it is rallying."

General Longstreet reined in beside Lee, catching John's last words.

"Fresh troops?" Longstreet asked.

"I didn't see any, sir."

John was surprised at how casually Longstreet had interrupted the conversation, but Lee did not react

Lee looked over at Longstreet "We have their First and Eleventh Corps here, and we've defeated them," Lee said. "It might be nightfall before the rest of them begin to come up."

"We are not sure what's beyond that hill," Longstreet replied, pointing east where the crest of Cemetery Hill was just visible, covered in smoke.

Lee looked back down at John. "Thirty guns?"

"I can't promise that sir, but I think that's close. I saw a battery coming out of the town and moving into place. There might be more soon."

Lee turned his attention back to Longstreet

"Sir," Longstreet said slowly, "we've done well today, very well. We don't want to get tangled up in that town. If we try for that next hill now, we might be sticking our necks out"

"General Longstreet we have them on the run. We will drive these people, drive them, sir!"

He stopped for a second, looking with solemn determination from Longstreet to Taylor, then back to Longstreet again. John stood by, aware that Lee barely noticed that he was there.

"Drive them, sir, drive them. If they are running, I will press them."

As he spoke the last words, he gestured toward the town, to the heart of the battle. John turned to look and sensed that the thunder was abating, the attack dying off even as Lee called for the battle to continue.

"Now is when to press them," Lee said, his voice sharp. "I want those people driven off that far hill within the hour. Colonel Taylor, let us go find General Ewell."

Longstreet began to speak, but a glance from Lee stilled him.

"General Longstreet, return to your corps. Have them come forward with all possible haste. General Hill is not well today. If need be, you are to assume control over his men still on the road and press them forward. I want Johnson and Anderson's divisions to come forward and prepare to go into action."

Without waiting for a reply, Lee reined Traveler around and started toward the town.

John saluted as he passed, but the general did not notice.

"By God, what is going on with him today?" Longstreet asked, looking over at Taylor.

"His blood is up, General. His blood is up."

Walter saluted as Longstreet, features grim, turned his mount and started back in the opposite direction.

Walter looked down at John. 'Take care, John. It's a hot day."

John saluted, saying nothing as Walter set off to catch up with Lee.

A hot day. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. "Sergeant, you got a drink?''

Hazner shook his head. "Gave my canteen to some Yankee."

"Damn it," John sighed.

"Sir, we better get back to the regiment. The Old Man's blood is up, and you know what that means."

John watched as Lee cantered down the road, heading into the town, hat off, acknowledging the cheers of his men, urging them forward. He could sense the vibrant excitement rushing through the army, the indefinable something, the inner spark that Lee could strike and, once struck, exploded into flame. It felt as if they were on the edge of a distant dream, that just beyond the mist, the smoke ahead, were the green, sunlit fields… of home.

"Perhaps today is the last day," John whispered. "Perhaps today we will finish it."

"That's it Dilger, feed it to 'em, damn them, feed it to 'em!"

Sitting down to see under the smoke, Henry braced his elbows on his knees and trained his field glasses on the column of Confederate infantry cresting over Seminary Ridge.

"Number one… fire!"

The first of Dilger's Napoleons recoiled with a thunderclap boom, smoke jetting from the muzzle and touchhole. "Number two… fire!" Henry waited expectantly. "Number three… fire!"

A yellow blossom of fire ignited fifty yards short of the Reb column.

"Number four… fire!"

No detonation from the second… "Goddamn fuses," he muttered softly. Number three's shell slammed into the flank of the column and detonated, toylike figures of men tumbling over.

"That's the stuff, number three!" Henry cried, coming back to his feet.

The powder-begrimed crew paused for a second in their labors, looking over at Henry, grinning, but knew better than to revel in their glory, and within seconds were back to work.

"Number one, set your damn sights!"

Captain Dilger, whose Ohio volunteer battery had been in action since midmorning, came up to the general. "Sir, ammunition?" Dilger asked, voice barely a whisper.

Henry unslung his canteen and handed it over. The captain

took a mouthful, rinsed, spat it out, and then took several long

gulps.

"I'm bringing up more," Henry said, "just keep pouring it in."

"Thank you," but his voice still cracked, raw from hours of shouting, breathing the thick, sulfurous fumes, and from sheer exhaustion.

"Pour it on 'em," Henry replied. "You've got infantry columns in flank, by God," and he pointed toward the seminary, where snakelike lines of butternut and gray, following their regimental flags, were pouring over the ridgeline north of town, streaming down into the fields beyond, maneuvering past the town and heading east

"My God, the arrogance of those people marching like that" Henry exclaimed excitedly. "Just pour it on. I'll make sure you get resupplied." He started to turn away.

"Sir?"

Henry looked back.

"Ah, sir. My men, it's been…" His voice trailed off under Henry's icy gaze.

"We hold this hill till the last gun, the last man," Henry replied sharply. "I don't give a damn if you are the last man standing, these guns don't go back another inch."

"Yes, sir."

Number one fired again. He turned his attention back, but the smoke was too thick; it was impossible to see.

"You have the range!" Henry shouted, section commanders and gun sergeants looking back at him. "Smoke or no smoke, keep pouring it on!"

He stalked off, barely flinching as a shot plowed through the trees overhead, branches ripping off, littering the ground around him.

Looking downslope, he watched as the infantry continued to dig in. Most of them were General Schurz's Germans, the one reserve brigade from Eleventh Corps who had been held back by Howard to fortify the hill. They were the only fresh troops left; and though most of their comrades had broken and run in the debacle north of town, these men still looked fit, eager to prove their name.

A colonel, seeing Henry, came off the line, approached, and gave a friendly salute. "Think the Rebs are going to keep coming?" he asked.

"By God, I hope the bastards do come," Henry growled.

Even as he spoke, there was a flurry of rifle fire, confused shouts. Out of the smoke clinging to the bottom of the hill, shadowy, forms emerged, dark blue uniforms, running, most of them unarmed. One of them spun around, going down, his comrades leaving him behind. They reached Schurz's line, refusing to stop, crying that everything was lost and that the Rebs were coming.

Henry watched disdainfully as the men, several of them officers, staggered past. A light breeze eddied across the face of the hill, lifting the smoke, revealing hundreds of panic-stricken Union troops still pouring out of the town.

The infantry colonel, features drawn, looked over at Hunt. "A shameful.day for Eleventh Corps," he sighed, shaking his head. "We broke at Chancellorsville and again today. Damn it all, sir, I have good men in my command; its just that we keep getting put out on the flank."

"Redeem it then, Colonel. I'm counting on you to cover my guns. You want to redeem your honor? Then hold, man. You've got to hold."

Dilger's battery fired again, the infantry downslope and in front of the guns crouching low, cursing as the shells screamed over them.

"If it comes to canister rounds, I want clear fields of fire in front!" Henry shouted. "We won't have time to stop for anyone still in front. Make sure of that, Colonel. When the time comes, you pull back in around my guns and clear the field for my canisters."

Henry turned and continued down the line without waiting for a reply. Next to Dilger, to the east and nearly astride the main road to Baltimore, were the three twelve-pound Napoleon smoothbores of Stewart's Battery B, Fourth U.S. Regulars.

Their professionalism showed. At midmorning, on the flank of the railroad cut the Rebs had surged up to the muzzles of their guns and the battery had held, — before being ordered to retreat back to the cemetery.

The intensity of their fight showed. Limber wagons, caissons, and even the field pieces were scored and splintered from rifle fire. The once-polished bronze barrels were blackened, the men grimy, uniforms torn, more than one soldier with a makeshift bandage around an arm or leg. Some infantry had been drafted into the ranks to replace those lost in the final melee, the new recruits serving on the wheels and prolonge to maneuver the pieces back into place after firing. The smoothbores didn't have the range to accurately shell the troops maneuvering to the north of town, so instead they were carefully dropping case shot against any columns of Rebs moving within the town of Gettysburg.

No need to offer advice here, Henry thought as the sergeant on the number two piece, not satisfied with the aim, crouched back down, sighting along the barrel, urging the two men working the prolonge to shift the trail piece a couple of inches to the right Both his hands suddenly went up, signaling that the gun was correctly laid. He barely touched the elevation gear positioned under the breech and detached the rear sight Reaching into the pouch dangling from his hip, he pulled out a fresh friction primer and inserted it into the breech, then clipped the lanyard to the primer. Stepping back and to the side of the gun, he uncoiled the lanyard until it was taut. The sergeant did his job with an almost detached calm, even though the air was alive with the hum of bullets, the shriek of enemy solid shot, and shells winging in. "Stand clear!"

The infantrymen pressed into service jumped back from the gun, turning away, covering their ears. The sergeant looked back over his shoulder to Stewart, the battery commander, waiting for the signal. As his gaze swept back, he caught a glimpse of Henry. There was a flash of recognition and a nod. O'Donald… sergeant back with Battery A of the Second, long before the war, his first command.

Henry returned the nod and smiled, remembering O'Donald as the quintessential Irish artilleryman, loudmouthed, a first-class brawler who could clear out a saloon, especially if some cavalrymen dared to make a comment about gunners. He was proud of his craft, every inch a professional.

"Number two… fire!"

O'Donald jerked the lanyard, turning half away as he did so. The Napoleon let off with a roar. Mingled in with the discharge was the sound that was music to Hunt's ears, the almost bell-like ring from the bronze tube as it belched forth its twelve-pound shot, a sound distinctly different than the sharper crack of the ten-pound rifles.

The crew leapt to work, rolling the gun back into position.

"General Hunt!"

Henry turned

It was Hancock. Winfield Scott Hancock, trim looking, almost dapper in a sparkling white shirt, cuffs and collar still clean. His coat was adorned with two

stars on each shoulder and neatly tailored. He was no dandy though. There was a radiant power that generated the instant respect that Henry always felt in his presence. Hancock reined in hard, followed by half a dozen of his staff.

"Glad to see you're still alive, Henry!" Hancock shouted, leaning over from the saddle, extending his hand.

"You too, sir."

Henry grinned. Winfield was his definition of a commander, a man who led from the front and set the example. Another shell whistled past. Winfield didn't notice it, even though those trailing behind him flinched and ducked low in their saddles. "Henry, they'll do it any minute now."

Henry spared a quick glance back to the north. The massive columns, what looked to be an entire division, were still-moving, continuing to flank to the east. 'They might wait till those reinforcements are in position."

"I think that's Johnson," Hancock replied, "the old Stonewall division, the best they've got.

But it'll be an hour or more before they're in position.

"They're pressing hard, damn hard. Bobbie Lee won't wait. He's coming straight in with what he's got."

Bobbie Lee. Damn, how strange this all is. There was a time when I would have led a battery straight into the gates of hell if that old man had asked me.

He can go to hell by himself for abandoning the flag and his oath to it. Henry thought bitterly. Let him come and try to take this hill now.

"Henry, can you hold?"

"Ammunition. Give me enough, and I'll hold this hill until Judgment Day. But if they come on now, I'll need more ammunition for later when Johnson comes in."

"You hold now; I'll worry about later. Give 'em everything you've got!"

As if in fulfillment of Hancock's prophecy, Henry saw a column of Confederate infantry emerging out of the smoke that drifted along the streets of the town. They were on the Baltimore Pike, charging straight in. Another column poured out of a side street, spreading out, no semblance of order, just a ragged tangle, coming on fast, jumping over fences, moving through back lots, kitchen gardens, and alleyways.

"This is it!" Hancock roared.

Spurring his mount, he tore past Henry, waving his hat, standing in his stirrups, shouting for the men to get ready.

Henry looked over his shoulder. His orderly was still trailing, leading his mount He ran over, got back into the saddle, and grabbed the reins.

'This road is the Baltimore Pike," and as he spoke he pointed at the road that passed in front of the cemetery gate; "it heads back to Littlestown. There are troops and batteries strung along it for miles. I want you to ride like hell."

The boy nodded, looking past Henry, taking in the sight of the advancing Confederates, eyes wide.

"Look at me, damn you!" The boy shifted his gaze and stiffened under Henry's icy stare.

"Any batteries you pass, tell them I am ordering them up here on the double. I need ammunition, especially canister. You tell any battery commander you meet, press the ammunition forward. If need be, drive the horses till they drop and then push the damn limber wagons by hand! Now go!"

The boy, impressed with the urgency of his mission, forgot to salute as he reined his horse about and set off at a gallop.

Henry moved along the line, angling downslope to a knoll at the northern tip of Cemetery Hill, where the Reb assault would first hit. Wiedrich's First New York Light Artillery, one of two batteries of Napoleons kept back by Howard and ordered to dig in, held the forward point. The men had been frantically working throughout the afternoon, their efforts undoubtedly spurred on by the sight of the disaster befalling their comrades north and west of the town.

Crescent-shaped lunettes, piles of dirt, fence rails, logs, anything that could stop an incoming round, were thrown up around the four guns. Decimated regiments, what was left of Adelbert Ames's brigade from the battered Eleventh Corps, deployed around the guns, a lone regiment farther downslope. Henry reined in behind the four guns, judging the lay of their fire as the four guns slammed case shot into the advancing enemy.

Red flags-the Saint Andrew's crosses of the Army of Northern Virginia-were streaming out of the town, half a dozen regiments at least, not slowing to shake formation out from line to column; they were coming on at the double.

"Arrogant bastards!"

It was General Ames, face powder blackened, uniform sleeve torn, hat gone, hard pushed but obviously boiling for a fight, standing by Henry's side.

"Land north of town is a worthless piece of shit!" Ames shouted, pointing to the indefensible flat ground. "I told Howard, put us all here, but he sent us over there instead. I lost half my brigade."

Henry said nothing, attention focused on the advancing Rebs, still four hundred yards out. Every gun that could be brought to bear, more than thirty of them, was opening up. Case shot ignited over the enemy lines, dropping dozens. Still they pressed on.

"Good ground here though," Ames continued. "Let the sons of bitches come. You back me up, Henry, just back me up."

Henry remembered Ames as an infantry captain before the war, the star on his shoulders a very recent climb to the exalted rank of brigadier general, supposedly for organizing and training some regiment from Maine to a fighting pitch and leading it into action at Fredericksburg.

"It's the other way around!" Henry shouted back. "Support my guns, and we hold this hill."

Ames, noted for a volatile temper, colored slightly, then broke into a grin. "All right then, damn it, all right"

Ames left him, going on foot down the slope to his forward regiment the Seventeenth Connecticut deployed at the bottom of the hill.

Henry rode straight into the middle of Wiedrich's battery, the men working slavishly at reloading, fuses on the case shot cut to two seconds.

Guns recoiled, their thunder joined by the other batteries ringing the hill. He beard the sharp whine of shells from Stevens's guns, deployed on a knoll flanking the east side of Cemetery Hill, the three-inch bolts skimming close to where he stood, dropping down into the rebel lines, detonating with deadly accuracy.

"Canister! Switch to canister!" Henry roared.

Wiedrich's loaders, working at the caissons, deployed twenty yards behind the pieces, picked up the premade rounds, tins holding seventy iron balls and strapped directly to serge powder bags so that the close-in ammunition could be loaded more swiftly. The loaders ran forward, gun sergeants swearing, urging the men oh.

Henry watched, always the professional. He carefully eyed the pieces, nodding with approval as gun sergeants actually raised elevation slightly to loft the canister rounds across the three hundred yards to the closing enemy lines. On a flat plain he'd still be ordering case shot, but this high up, canister would plunge down into the Rebs with enough force still remaining to break an arm or smash a skull.

The first gun fired, the other three following suit in a matter of seconds. The deadly dance continued: gunners wheeling pieces back into place, rammers sponging out gun bores to kill* any sparks, loaders running up with ammunition, sergeants directing the lay of their piece, depressing elevation slightly, even as the rammers.slammed the rounds in. Pieces were primed, crews stepping back, section commanders shouting the order, the one-ton Napoleons lifting up with a terrifying recoil. The hissing scream of canister tins bursting as they cleared the breech echoed around Henry, iron balls shrieking downrange. If close enough, one could hear the sound of that hot iron tearing off arms, legs, killing with a hideous cruelty.

And still they came on. The enemy lines were spreading out, a brigade or more coming straight at Wiedrich and Ames.

The Seventeenth Connecticut, down at the bottom of the slope, opened up with a sharp volley. Schurz's men, on the left flank, opened as well, a good hard volley that cut into the flank of the Reb charge.

Another volley from Connecticut and then the men started to pull back, not running, Ames directing the orderly retreat, his high, clear voice ringing, making it clear he'd shoot the first bastard who tried to run.

The Seventeenth poured up the hill, the sight of their pullback heartening the Rebs; who let loose a triumphal shrieking roar. The defiant note of it, almost a mocking laugh, stiffened the men around Henry.

"Come on and get it, you sons of bitches!" one of the men of the Seventeenth cried as he came up over the lunette of Wiedrich's second gun.

His cry was picked up by others who stood, holding rifles high, bitter men, angry at the beating they had been taking all day, ashamed, and now ready to prove something.

"Come on, come on and get it!" the scream rolled up and down the line.

"All the cowards have run off. What we have left is the steel." It was Hancock, reining in by Henry's side. He stood up tall in the stirrups, right fist punching the air. "Come on, come on and get it, you bastards!"

Henry, looking at him, felt that here was a moment he 'would forever hold in memory, the late afternoon sun slanting in, illuminating Hancock, behind him and arrayed up the slope of Cemetery Hill, six batteries, thirty guns, firing, smoke billowing, tongues of fire lashing out, and Hancock filling the foreground like a god of war, fist raised high, urging the enemy to just try and take the hill.

The men of the Seventeenth filled in around the guns, hunkering down, rifles poised, flinching as the guns beside them fired yet again. The range was down to less than 200 yards and then to 150.

For a gunner this was a murderous dream, to be up on a good slope, supported by infantry, the enemy in canister range with only a scattering of ineffective counter-battery fire in support… it was impossible to miss them.

' "They're actually going to try for it!" Hancock exclaimed.

Henry didn't need to be told. Enemy flag bearers were at the fore, colors leaning forward, officers waving swords, the rebel yell echoing.

A hundred yards, they were on the slope, over the low stone wall abandoned by the Seventeenth pouring up the road, breaking into a run.

Madness!

"Wiedrich, load double canister!"

His battery commander didn't need to be told. The charge was coming on fast; Ames's men were pouring it on, volleys by companies and regiments, then the steady staccato roar of independent fire.

Gun sergeants waited, poised, crouching low, holding lanyards taut The Rebs, seeing what was ahead'-a full battery loading with double canister-slowed, until officers and noncoms, screaming for the charge, pushed them forward. In the fore was a lone mounted officer, hat gone, white hair streaming, standing in his stirrups, urging the men on.

"Battery!.. Fire!"

Wiedrich's four guns' recoiled, each piece discharging nearly 150 two-ounce iron balls. Six hundred man-killing rounds filled the space in front of the battery, screaming downrange, turning the space ahead into an impenetrable killing zone.

The impact was devastating. Entire lines went down. Men were picked up, pitched backward half a dozen yards, decapitated bodies, broken limbs, shattered muskets, torn-up sod, gravel, and dust, the debris swirled up by hundreds of canister rounds flung high into the air.

"That's it!" Hancock screamed. "Again, give it to them again!"

Amazingly, out pf the dust and smoke, a rebel battle line emerged. There were gaping holes, but still they pressed on. Rifle lire flickered out of the smoke.

Henry's mount let out an agonizing shriek, rearing up, nearly throwing him. The horse started to roll over on its side. Kicking his feet out of the stirrups, Henry jumped clear, rolling as the horse crashed down, its hooves flaying the air.

Stunned, Henry came back up to his feet and was staggered as the horse, thrashing in its death agony, kicked him just above his left knee, nearly knocking him back over. For a second he thought the leg was broken.

He stepped back and then felt a tug at his left shoulder. He looked down and saw the ragged tear where a rifle ball or a shell fragment had torn off his shoulder strap.

The sound of battle redoubled into a thundering roar. He looked up. Hancock was still mounted, still standing in his stirrups, shouting. A gun sergeant, stepping back, pulling his lanyard taut, ready to fire, suddenly spun around and collapsed, clutching frantically at his throat, bright arterial blood spraying out in a geyser.

The section commander came up, tried to grab the lanyard, and went down as well.

Beyond the gun, Henry could see them pouring in; several of the Rebs, dashing forward with fanatical bravery, were already up on to the lunette, bayonets poised, only to be swept away as the men of the Seventeenth rose up to meet them. Hand-to-hand fighting exploded around the guns.

Henry limped forward into the middle of the melee, ducking low under a musket butt swung by a screaming Reb, who was suddenly tossed backward, shot in the chest Henry reached down and picked up the lanyard.

He looked forward. Men were coming out of the smoke, a flag bearer in the lead.

He jerked the lanyard taut and then pulled. The Napoleon leapt back with a thunderclap roar. Those in front of the bore simply disappeared, blown into a pulpy spray.

He dropped the lanyard, pulled out his revolver… but there was nothing left to shoot at… only the smoke engulfing them. He caught shadowy glimpses of Rebs falling back, running, disappearing into the smoke. The charge was broken.

On the ground, in front of the gun he had just fired, was a rebel flag, a red Saint Andrew's cross, torn to shreds, staff gone, a twitching body next to it the flag bearer, the bottom half of his body nothing but a ghastly tangle of charred flesh that was still smoking from the blast

One of Wiedrich's gunners scrambled over the lunette and started to pick up the flag. The Reb feebly reached out trying to hang onto the colors. The gunner stopped, knelt down by his side, and relinquished the flag, gently putting the colors back into the hands of the dying boy. The gunner cupped his hands around the Confederate's, leaned over, whispering something. The eyes of the dying boy shifted, looking up at the gunner. He started to say something, lips moving. Henry heard the words drifting as the two spoke together.

" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…'"

The boy shook convulsively and then was still.

The gunner closed the Reb's eyes and then gently pried the bloody fingers loose.

He picked up the flag. There was no triumphal waving of it The men of the battery stood silent staring at him. The gunner came back over the lunette, tears streaming down his blackened face.

The smoke was lifting. What was left of the Rebs receded back down the slope. Flanking batteries continued to pound them, bright sparkling airburst of case shot igniting. Stevens's battery had lifted its range, pouring shell into the streets of the town.

"Henry, you all right?"

Still dazed, Henry looked up to see Hancock, blood streaming down his face from a ball that had creased his cheek.

Henry nodded, unable to speak, stunned by all that had happened and what he had just seen.

Hancock motioned for him to step away from the battery. Henry followed and Hancock dismounted, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and absently dabbed at the nasty furrow plowed across his cheek.

"He came on too soon," Hancock said, voice calm.

Henry looked at him, finding it hard to believe that only minutes before Hancock had appeared godlike, standing in his stirrups, ignoring the hail of fire, and was now talking quietly, as if they were neighbors sitting on a porch, chatting about the weather.

"A brigade. He thought he could trigger another panic, push us off this hill with just one brigade," Hancock continued, shaking his head. "Damn, is that man arrogant This isn't Virginia anymore. We're on our own ground now. He came on too soon."

Henry looked past Hancock. The column north of Gettysburg was still moving, flanking around the edge of town, starting to shake out from column into line. A brigade last time, now a division, a full division.

"Look to the seminary; more forming up there."

Henry shifted his gaze. Amid all this madness Hancock was already thinking ahead and had noticed what was going on a mile away.

"Another division over there, I suspect Maybe fresh, maybe the troops that hit Doubleday earlier. Either way, half hour at most and then they'll come in again, hitting us from both sides of the town."

"Ammunition," Henry said, "I've got to get more ammunition up here, more guns."

"Jones, give your horse to the general."

Hancock motioned for one of his orderlies to come over and dismount. The boy offered the reins to Henry.

"Henry, I don't want you down here when they come in again," Winfield said softly.

"Sir?"

"When that division over there charges," and he pointed to the northeast "they'll roll over this position."

He paused, looking at Wiedrich's men. "God save them, Henry," he whispered, "but they stay here. That charge will have to take this battery first We'll lose where we are standing, and that battery with it. But we can still hold the crest of this hill, and that is what will count in the end. Get your other batteries ready to enfilade this position as they come up and over it. This fight will be decided farther back, at the cemetery," and he pointed up the hill to the crest

Hancock remounted, staff gathering around him. "I'll see you at the top of the hill in half an hour, Henry. That's where we stop 'em, teach 'em that they aren't going to take this hill."

Hancock, with a touch of the spurs, turned his mount and galloped off.

Henry looked at the sorry mare that had been passed off to him as a remount.. "Can you get me more ammunition, sir?"..

It was Wiedrich, Ames coming up behind him.

"I'll have more canister down to you. Hold your case shot till they start to come in," and he pointed at the rebel division shifting from column to line. Even as he spoke, several shells from Stevens burst over the formation.

"We stay here till we get overrun, is that it?" Ames asked.

Henry couldn't lie. He simply nodded.

"I'll get back the honor of Eleventh Corps right here," Ames said grimly. "We stay with this battery till the end."

Henry dropped the reins of his mare and shook their hands. It was chilling to know that he was shaking hands with men who would most likely be dead within the hour. They knew it as well and didn't flinch from it, and that kind of courage filled him with awe. There was evidence enough of that on this hill, here in Pennsylvania, that they wouldn't back off another inch. Well, if this was a chosen place to die, then so be it, and that thought filled him with a cold and hard-edged resolve to see it through to the end.

"What you do here will mean that this hill holds, that we won't go down to defeat tonight"

Neither of the two spoke. This was not the time for the staged dramatics that some officers favored when the men were watching. This was three comrades, all veterans of the old prewar army, all three knowing what their profession might ultimately demand, and now willing to pay that price.

He started to turn away; then a memory, a grim duty came to him. He walked over to Caesar, lying on his side, breathing raggedly, mouth covered with froth, blood pouring out of the wound that had torn open his breast.

Never get attached to them, he thought, not in this trade. He cocked his revolver and leveled it. Somehow he sensed that Caesar knew what he was doing, why he was doing it and that it was an act of mercy. The eyes looked up at him. He thought again of the rabbit he had shot as a boy, the creature screaming. His hands started to tremble. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Some of the gunners were looking at him, saying nothing. The blood-soaked Confederate flag was draped over the open lid of a caisson, the man who'd taken it standing beside the red flag, eyes wide, vacant, gaze unfocused.

Gen. Henry Hunt, Commander of Artillery, Army of the Potomac, mounted and rode back up the hill to the cemetery.