Every man had his ritual; some prayed, with pocket Bible out, reading their favorite verses, lips moving silently. Some prayed loudly, calling on God to watch over them, their voices pitched to a near hysteria. If allowed to sit, many would pull out a pencil, find a scrap of paper, and try to pen a farewell sentiment Others would try to show a complete indifference, playing cards, telling jokes, or making ribald jests about others who were praying or crying… though even that was an act
It was the waiting that was wearing. Once it started, then came the rush, the exultation, and, yes, the terror, but at last you were in it It was the waiting that exhausted you and made you wonder, as well, just what in God's name were the generals doing?
And that is what Joshua wondered now: What were they doing?
10:00 AM, JULY 3,1863 HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC IN THE FIELD NEAR LITTLESTOWN
Henry Hunt slowed, head cocked, listening carefully. Artillery, felt more than actually heard, a distant echoing thumping, almost like the sound when a woman at a neighboring farm was beating carpets for spring cleaning.
The long, swaying column of men, filling the road ahead and behind, most not hearing; the "feel" of gunfire was drowned out by the rhythmic tramping of feet, banging of tin cups on canteens, the myriad of sounds of an army on the march.
He pushed up from the road, riding to a low rise, and reined in. Again the thumping. It rose for a moment, dropped away.
Taneytown? Was Fifth Corps going in?
It was silent again, except for the steady rumble of troops passing on the road below. The pike, which ran from Gettysburg to Westminster and Baltimore beyond, was packed with men, an entire army on the march, dust kicking up and hanging over the road in a low, choking cloud, the morning air heavy, humid.
The men were quiet, marching with heads bent, muskets slung over shoulders, the side of the road already littered with blanket rolls and packs shed as the slow, weary miles passed. Stragglers were falling out, collapsing in exhaustion, provost guards trailing to the rear of each brigade checking the men, giving out passes when it was obvious the soldier was played out, prodding back into line with a sword tip those who were malingering.
The sky was hazy, promising a day of stifling heat The village of Littlestown was directly ahead, the column of troops pressing through it and continuing on toward Westminster.
The smoke from the fire ahead was spreading out on the horizon, a dull, dark cloud staining the gray sky. All the men could see it and they figured it out soon enough; the army's main supply depot was burning. More than one of the veterans in the dark, swaying columns were saying it was Second Bull Run all over again.
No, it's worse, Henry thought Far worse. At Second Bull Run only part of the army had been cut off, and if need be the depot at Manassas could indeed be bypassed, with a single day's march bringing the troops back into Washington and its fortifications. Now they were seventy miles out from Washington. Now the enemy was holding ground that he and
Warren had surveyed only two days ago, and he more than anyone else knew how good a spot that was for the defending side.
Henry nudged his mount, weaving around torn-down fences, trampled crops, and empty pastureland. Stuart's men had passed up this road on June 30th, followed then by the Union's Sixth Corps only yesterday, and now four more corps of the Union army were passing down it yet again in the opposite direction. The macadamized paving was disintegrating under the stress; farm wells had been drunk dry. Fences were used as firewood, chickens, pigs, cows, and horses disappearing. The campaign was exhausting the land, "just as the ceaseless marching and countermarching were exhausting the men.
Hunt entered the town, the long column of troops standing still while a mule that had collapsed was cut away from the traces of aa ammunition wagon and dragged to the side of the road. Muskets grounded, the men leaned against their weapons for support. Some looked up as he passed; others stood with heads hung low, leaning against their muskets, too exhausted to note his passing. Nothing was said. He could sense that sullenness, their anger and confusion over this turn of events.
The flag of the army commander hung limp over the entryway of a church just beyond the center of town. Headquarters was always easy enough to spot even without a flag. Staff, couriers, and reporters were always clustered about.
Hunt dismounted and slowly walked up the steps into the cool darkness of the church, ignoring the shouted questions of several reporters who tried to intercept him. They knew a major story was developing and were begging for a comment that they could then chop up as they saw fit. He avoided them as he always did.
Meade was in the cool darkness of the church, leaning against a pew, surrounded by staff, bent over a map spread out on a table dragged into the main aisle of the church. Butterfield, chief of staff, was leaning over the map, drawing a line with a pencil.
General Slocum, commander of Twelfth Corps, which was now passing through the town, stood by Meade's side; Sickles was sitting in a pew with arms folded, gazing off, his body tense with controlled fury and frustration, surrounded by his staff.
Meade looked up at Henry's approach and motioned him to approach.
"What's the situation?" Butterfield asked.
"As. ordered, I stayed behind to ensure the proper withdrawal of artillery," Henry said. "The Artillery Reserve should be getting on the road by now. When I left Gettysburg," he paused, trying to remember the time exactly, "at seven-thirty this morning, Sixth Corps was just starting to file out
'Third Corps," and he looked over at Sickles, "was moving in good order; I passed the head of their column about two miles above the town."
Henry moved to an opening around the table; Meade looked up at him. The map was hand-sketched, and he realized it was based on the survey done by Warren and himself of the Pipe Creek line.
"They're moving into the line," Meade said, "my line, the one I selected."
Henry could detect the hint of weariness and desperation in Meade's voice. Not a good sign.
"Hancock reports Longstreet has taken Union Mills."
"They have Westminster," Butterfield interjected.
"I could see it on the road; that fire could be nothing else but Westminster," Henry replied.
"The situation back in Gettysburg?" Meade asked.
"Still some skirmishing north of town with Stuart. Howard sent a brigade out just after dawn and pushed up to the Lutheran seminary. Ewell is gone."
Henry paused. He had ridden up to take a look before turning about to head south. Union dead carpeted the landscape, many of them the old Iron Brigade, which had made the last-ditch stand around the seminary. The building was a hospital, packed with Union wounded who had been left behind, along with Confederate wounded too critical to move. The air reeked of death and torn flesh.
"I talked with one of our surgeons," Henry continued. "He'd been captured on the first day and then left behind as the Rebs pulled out He said the Confederate army started moving before dawn yesterday, the last of their infantry abandoning the line before midnight. All of them were heading west, and then it looked to be south. He overheard several rebel officers talking about getting around our left"
Henry almost wanted to add that Sickles's assumption had indeed been right, but knew that would only make the situation worse.