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."