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."