Wofford's brigade had fallen in on the left of Barksdale only an hour ago, their line barely traced out The four batteries assigned to McLaws were up, positioned between the two brigades, but short of ammunition after the action in front of Westminster. The Confederate army might have stumbled onto the biggest bonanza of the war in Westminster, but the town was still burning, reports indicating that it was utter chaos, McLaws's remaining two brigades struggling to round up prisoners, sort out some supplies to send up to Union Mills, and fight the fire sweeping the town.
Barksdale came up to Longstreet, white hair hanging limp, covered in sweat from the heat "Should I get the boys formed?"
"Five more minutes."
The minutes slowly ticked by.
Longstreet finally turned and nodded. "Order your men to arms."
Barksdale let out a whoop and took off at a gallop, shouting for his men to form. Bugles echoed, drummers picking up the long roll, and the men of his command eagerly scrambled out of the dusty trench to where weapons and uniform jackets were stacked twenty yards to the rear.
The Yankee line was less than a thousand yards off, and now a second battle line emerged, this one moving on the oblique to the right
Alexander waited quietly by Longstreet's side. The young artilleryman was calm, not begging for orders, knowing that he had to go with what little ammunition he had.
A Union battery crested the hill, six pieces, moving fast, guns skidding around as they swung into line abreast. A second battery came up and then a third. The infantry advance slowed and then halted, standing roughly eight hundred yards off, left flank into the edge of the small village on the other side.
Longstreet nodded to himself. Hancock knew he had to take this place, that he was most likely only facing two brigades. He wasn't going to make the mistake of feeding his men in piecemeal, the way it had been done too often by the Yankees. He would bring up every man and gun he had and then throw it all in at once.
The first gun on the other side fired; six seconds later the shot roared in, plowing up a furrow of earth in front of the First North Carolina Artillery. The gunners from Carolina hooted derisively. Seconds later the other guns of the battery opened, and a minute later another battery joined in.
The Tarheel gunners were soon down on the ground, hugging the earth behind the lunettes, as solid shot plowed in and case shot began to detonate around them.
Barksdale's men, now armed, were back into their shallow trench, some standing to watch the show, others hunkered down to wait out the storm, a few continuing to dig away.
The Yankees soon had five batteries up on the crest, thirty guns banging away, and Longstreet could tell that Alexander was getting edgy, especially when a solid shot hit one of the guns from North Carolina, smashing a wheel, the piece collapsing, a wounded gunner staggering out from behind the lunette, screaming, a jagged splinter the length of his arm transfixing him through the stomach. Several of his comrades came out, ducking low, grabbing the man, who, seconds later, collapsed dead.
The bombardment continued, and off to the left Longstreet saw a third line emerging, this one clearly overlapping Wofford's position.
He reined his mount around and trotted down the line, ignoring the shells winging in. An airburst detonated over the trench to his right, dropping several men. He pushed on, reaching Wofford's line. Looking back over the Union forces, he saw they were preparing to overlap him by at least a quarter mile or more.
There was only one thing to do, and he passed the order for Wofford to extend to the left, doubling the width of front covered by the unit, and sent Alexander galloping back to the North Carolina battery with orders to pull out of then-position and move down to the left flank.
Minutes later the five surviving guns of the battery thundered by at the gallop, dismounted gunners running to keep up.
The Union artillery fire shifted, now dropping down on
Wofford's men, who were spread out along the crest, exposed, lying down in the high grass of the pasture.
Longstreet, ignoring the shot humming in, slowly rode the line, letting the men see him.
"Here they come!"
The cry went up along the line, some of the men standing up to see. Longstreet looked to his right and saw them, the left wing of the Yankee line starting to advance, coming down the sloping hill, the two divisions on their center and left holding their ground.
This was going to get dicey. Hancock wasn't coming straight in; he was trying to stretch the line out, overlap it, pull off Barksdale from the position overlooking the mill, without having to charge straight in. Smart move. Though Hancock had three-to-one odds in his favor, the flat, open ground in the vicinity of the mill would be murder to cross in a direct frontal attack.
Alexander, without waiting for orders, finally unleashed his guns, dropping shell and case shot into the flank of the advancing division. Wofford's men tensed, waiting, as the range closed to six hundred yards, then four hundred, the Yankees hitting the shallow creek, slowing as they stumbled through the marshy ground.
Longstreet watched them, scanning the advancing line with his field glasses. The ground was wet and would soon get churned up. If I get another chance at this, he thought, I should push a line forward, down near the base of the ridge to tear into them when they hit the marshy ground.
The North Carolina battery was in place; and though the range was long, it opened with canister.
The second Yankee division now started forward, a classic attack in echelon, aiming for the center of Wofford's line and the artillery.
Longstreet grabbed a courier, sending him off to Barks-dale, ordering the release of a regiment to extend into Wofford's line and provide close support for the guns.
The range was less than three hundred yards; with the field glasses Longstreet could pick out individual faces. The men were holding formation, sloughing through the marsh grass and damp meadows, the land beginning to slope up under their feet. "Make ready!"
The cry raced down Wofford's line, men standing up, holding rifles high. 'Take aim!"
Longstreet felt a frightful cold chill streak down his spine. It was horrifying to watch and yet beautiful as well, fifteen hundred rifles leveling across a front of four hundred yards, the hot noonday sun sparkling off the barrels.
"Fire!"
The volley roared, tearing across the crest of the ridge. Seconds later fifteen hundred ramrods were withdrawn, men emptying cartridges, pushing down loads, raising their rifles up, cocking, putting on a percussion cap, taking aim, and firing again, a continual roar as fifteen hundred rifles were discharged every twenty seconds.
The smoke eddied and boiled around him. He rode down the line, standing in the stirrups trying to see above the yellow-gray clouds. No one was falling along the line; the Yankees must still be coming on, pushing up the slope.
He reached the battery at the far end of the line, two guns aiming straight ahead, three angled to the left, hitting into a regiment that was beyond their flank and coming up fast. They were less than 150 yards out, charging, bent over low, a regimental flag out front, a mounted officer leading the way.
The small troop of cavalry that had ridden with Longstreet was out on the flank, individuals armed with carbines, a few with revolvers, spreading wider to try and contain the threat
Another blast of canister ripped into the Union charge, dropping the mounted officer and the flag bearer. The men slowed; some came to a stop, raised their rifles, and fired. Longstreet felt something tug at his shoulder, and he turned slightly.