The loader looked up, startled by the presence of a corps commander gazing down at him.
"Ahh, three case shot, sir. Half a dozen canister."
"Webster, get that damn shell up here!"
The loader, responding to the cries of his sergeant, tried to salute, gave up, and ran back up to the firing line, Hancock following.
He could hear the cry, the rebel yell. Reaching the battery, he reined in. Through holes in the smoke he saw them coming, definitely a brigade, maybe two, heading straight for the east slope of the hill, advance skirmishers already trading fire on the side of the wooded hill that flanked the cemetery.
'"This is where it's going to be decided!"
Henry was by his side, eyes wide with excitement, rivers of sweat streaming down his face. "Got one more battery still coming up!" and he pointed back down the Baltimore Pike.
Struggling up the hill came a battery of six Napoleons, horses covered with foaming sweat, more than one of the mounts all but dead, limp in their traces, oblivious to the whip blows from the drivers.
A thunderclap volley ignited from the north end of the hill. Ames's men, still dug in around Wiedrich's battery, had stood up and fired, the blow staggering the Reb advance, which slowed for a moment then continued on.
"Ammunition?" Hancock shouted, looking over at Hunt
"Unless Jesus Christ Almighty drops a' few limber wagons from the heavens, what we've got here is it. Some of the guns are out of canister; they're shooting solid shot!"
Hancock cast a glance to the western horizon. The sun was blood red, hanging low, soon to slip behind the South Mountains.
A half hour till sunset a half hour. God, it seemed like an eternity.
The Rebs pressed in, battle lines past the flank of the town, spreading out A broken line of skirmishers pressing out from the streets formed a loose screen between the two divisions.
Wiedrich's four guns fired in salvo, entire lines going down under the blasts. Stevens's battery was pouring it on, ignoring the increasing fire from long-range skirmishers pressing up the slope of the wooded hill. The six Napoleons coming up behind Henry were swinging into position, forming to face straight down toward the cemetery gate below, knocking over headstones, shattering monuments.
Once the first gun was unhooked from its caisson and positioned, Henry detailed the drivers to head down to Stewart and rum over their caisson of ammunition to the beleaguered battery. The crew assigned didn't look too pleased at leaving their own battery with orders to ride straight into an inferno, but the men lashed their teams and pushed down the slope.
A steady stream of wounded were coming back from the firing line on the west slope. No breakdown there yet. He noticed only a scattering of unwounded trying to get out. Some of the men, as they reached the crest, paused, gazing to the north and east, taking in the sight of Johnson's advance. Several of them, seeing Hancock, slowed and, in spite of their wounds, fell in on the makeshift final line.
The charge was coming on faster, pushing in. Another blast of canister, this one at point-blank range. Stewart's and Dilger's guns, no longer engaged against Anderson, had swung around, and once again were pouring in enfilade fire to support their comrades on the right
The first line of the charge disappeared, going down, piling atop the dead and wounded from the earlier charge. The second wave, less than fifty yards out slowed-rifles flashing, lowering, firing a sharp, rippling volley-and then, with bayonets lowered, came in at the charge, high wolf yip shrieks sending a corkscrew down Hancock's spine.
The swarm piled up over Wiedrich's guns, tangling in with the gunners, Ames's infantry, all of them a seething, boiling mass, cloaked in a smoky haze.
A lone caisson came out of the inferno, trying to gain the road, upended, throwing the driver as it rolled over, horses shrieking. Another caisson, down in the middle of the confusion, blew, top lid soaring a hundred feet into the air, flinging men in every direction.
The point of the salient broke, men streaming back, pouring up the road and along the flank of the knoll, followed by the charging swarm. Stewart's guns-now caught fully in flank-turned, continuing to fire, even as the breakthrough spread toward them.
The second line-a hodgepodge of regimental fragments from First and Eleventh Corps-dug in around the gatehouse, stood up, trying to fire over the heads of their fleeing comrades, who, ducking low, scrambled up over the barricades for protection, more than one of them caught between the two fires, going down, struck front and back at the same instant.
Johnson's men, smelling victory, pressed forward, the slope behind them carpeted with casualties as the artillery fired with unrelenting power.
The right section of Stewart's battery was swarmed under, the remaining section retreating slowly up the slope, retiring by prolonge, gunners firing, ropes trailing to the caissons pulling the guns back a dozen yards while the crews reloaded, the last of their infantry support clinging around the pieces, bayonets poised.
The charge kept coming. Hancock caught a glimpse to his left; Anderson's men, at least the regiments closest to Johnson's charge, were up, pressing in as well, heartened by the advance to their flank.
He looked back to the west. The sun seemed motionless.
7:00 PM
GETTYSBURG
Ignoring the warnings of his headquarters staff, Lee rode down the middle of the road oblivious to the rain of bullets kicking up geysers of dust in the street, shattering windows, splintering the sides of wooden buildings, and ricocheting off the brick ones.
The head of the charge was up over the forward knoll, pressing up into the smoke that circled the hill, reminding him somehow of an old etching of Mount Sinai, wreathed in eternal storm clouds.
The men, my God, the men, he thought, his stomach knotting. Hundreds of them were down, covering the approaches to the hill. Wounded were coming back up the street, many with uniforms torn and limbs shattered by artillery fire. At the sight of him some held their wounded limbs up, bearing them proudly like holy stigmata.
The gesture was almost frightening to him, a sacrilege. He fixed his gaze on the hill, the bloody hill that seemed to fill the sky ahead.
A glare of light, then a hail of rifle fire exploded in the smoke, followed a couple of seconds later by a storm of bullets sweeping the street. One of his cavalry escorts pitched out of the saddle; another had a horse go down.
"General Lee, you must retire!"
It was Walter Taylor, back from his mission to Johnson, racing out from a side street, moving to place himself between Lee and the rifle fire.
Lee fixed him with an icy gaze. "No. I will not hide at a moment like this."
"Remember Jackson," Walter replied, still moving to take Traveler's reins.
"I do remember Jackson," Lee said fiercely. "If he had been here, this attack would have already taken that hill. Time, Walter, it is always a question of time. We are losing the light."
"Sir, your getting killed will not change any of this now."
"The charge; it looks weak. What is going on?" Lee looked over at Taylor.
'Two brigades only, sir. Johnson claims there's a Union division forming on his left, a couple of miles down the Hanover Road. He's deployed a brigade to contain them. The other brigade is still forming and trying to come up."
Lee motioned him to silence.
The rebel yell!
In the dim light he saw the banners go up over the barricades around what looked to be a gatehouse. Another caisson blew, followed almost instantly by yet another exploding alongside the first.
The yell, the spine-tingling yell. Wounded in the streets paused, looked back, some of them raising their voices, howling. Others stood riveted, watching the charge.
Lee looked around at his staff. All were gazing up at the hill, some shouting. The charge pressed forward, colors dipping, going down, coming back up, going down, then coming back up yet again, still advancing.