"You're hit!" It was Wofford, on horseback, coming up to Longstreet's side.
He looked down and saw the torn fabric, but there was no pain.
He looked at Wofford and forced a grin, though his heart was now thumping hard, shaking his head.
‘I’ll hold them here, sir," Wofford cried. ‘I’d prefer it if you got back a bit, sir."
Longstreet nodded. There was no telling what was going on at the center or right He was the commander of a corps, not a brigade. Wofford was ambitious as all hell and could control things well enough.
He turned, another bullet clipping the mane of his horse so that it danced for several seconds on the edge of bolting until he reined in hard. He finally eased up and rode at a swift canter down the length of the line. It was hard to see with the smoke, but the line appeared to be holding. Men were dropping, indicating that the charge had come to a stop, the Union forces firing back rather than advancing.
Now it would be a question of volley against volley. Hitting men on a crest was far more difficult than troops deployed in the open and downslope. Once the troops out in the open stopped their charge and began standing and firing, they were sapping the momentum of their attack by the minute. The longer they reloaded and fired, the less likely they were to ever again be able to move forward. The ground might negate the three-to-one odds, but then again a determined charge just might break through. However, with this kind of firing, a new charge was less and less likely.
Reaching Alexander, he slowed for a moment. A fair amount of rifle fire was coming in on the guns, the Union artillery continuing to hit the position as well. Gunners worked their pieces, drenched in sweat each discharge cloaking the field in smoke.
He heard a tearing volley from the right, Barksdale's men. So Hancock was wagering it all, hitting along the entire line.
Riding to the right of center, he saw the mill, blue coats swarming around it Yankees hiding around the building and in the miller's house. A column of troops was storming across the bridge, ignoring the horrific casualties from the canister sweeping down from the heights, coming on at the double.
The charge continued on the road, a couple of regiments, running hard, colors bobbing up and down, men dropping. One of Barksdale's regiments stopped firing, waiting, men loading and holding rifles at the ready. The charge was coming up the slope, and he felt a surge of pride for those men. They had guts.
The range was less than a hundred yards, and still Barks-dale held, another regiment falling silent, loading and waiting.
The range was at seventy-five yards, and the cry went up.
'Take aim!"
Five hundred rifles aimed downslope. The seconds dragged out, the hoarse cries of the Union troops rising up. ‘Fire!"
He watched, features fixed, trying not to feel anything as the charge disintegrated, dozens of men going down, collapsing, their cries clearly heard.
Twenty seconds later another volley tore in and the charge broke apart, the men running back, a taunting yell rising from the Confederate lines, some of the men coming up out of their shallow trench, beginning to charge, officers screaming for them to stand in place.
And then it was over, like the passing of a summer storm that in one minute had been blinding in its intensity and now began to drift away to distant thunder and clearing skies. The smoke slowly lifted, drifting in great dark clouds, stirring and parting as the occasional hot breath of wind wafted across the crest
The land below was littered with hundreds of bodies, some still, others crawling or twisting about in agony, their comrades falling back into the marshy ground, bugles calling for the retreat
He watched it curious, for a moment. They had pulled back without a real fight, not pushing in hard. That wasn't like Second Corps, which had stood defiant for hours, charging again and again at Fredericksburg.
No, that was Hancock. He's doing what I would do. Make a stab at it, hope you can break through in one quick rush; but if you can't, don't bleed yourself out He might very well have been able to take this ridge, but his corps would be a shambles by the time they were atop it Hancock could see that. And as always, there was the element of doubt Hancock did not know what I might have or not have concealed just beyond this ridge. Take the crest with nothing left in reserve and then get torn apart by a counterattack.
Pete smiled.
He'll maneuver now, most likely to our left and come in again on ground he hopes is clear. And he will soon have a lot of friends to help him if the rest of the Union army is now on the way to recapture Westminster and re-establish a line of communication with Washington. This was only the first bloody probe of what could be a long couple of days. The rest of our army had better get here if we are to hold this line against the entire Union army.
Several of the men were up and out of the trench, one of them waving a dirty handkerchief in one hand, a canteen in the other, heading down to help the tangle of bleeding men in the road.
We kill each other and then turn right around and risk our lives to save each other. A strange war, Pete thought
The Yankees in the mill began to fire, not at the good Samaritans, but aiming to the crest, at Longstreet and the men around him.
He raised his glasses and for a moment thought he caught a glimpse of Hancock on the other side of the bridge.
You'll be back, Pete thought, next time on my flank and with more guns. Always you'll have more guns than we do. So we dig in and pray for reinforcements.
He looked to the west. Hill's divisions were still not in view, and beyond, from over by Taneytown, the gunfire echoed.
Chapter fourteen
Herman Haupt set the brake on the engine and wearily leaned over a moment, head resting on the side of the cab. He looked back at Major Beveridge, who was slumped over in the wood tender, cradling his wounded arm.
"Major, could you please see to the wounded aboard? Roust someone out at the station to get ambulances."
Beveridge nodded.
"And take care of my friend there," Haupt added, nodding toward the body of die engineer. The man had died only minutes before, his last moments unnerving as he lapsed into delirium and kept calling for his wife.
His legs shaky, Haupt stepped down from the cab and started across the rail yard toward the signal station. All around him was chaos. The engines he had sent back down from Westminster were parked in a row, some with wounded still on board, a sight that angered him since they had most likely been here for at least a half hour. A dozen more engines were lined up, loaded down with supplies, barrels of rations, crates of ammunition, half a dozen guns on flatcars, and now with no place to go. Men of his command, spotting their leader, came running up, shouting questions, asking for orders, and he waved them aside, the men falling in behind him, trailing along as he stepped into the signal office, the lone telegrapher hunched over, writing down a message as it came in. Herman waited patiently. There was nothing ruder than to start talking to a telegrapher at work; it was a protocol that anyone in the railroad business learned rather quickly. You might be the president of the company, or a general; but when a message was coming in, you were silent
The key stopped clattering, and the operator looked- up. "Thank God you are here, sir," the boy gasped. "I've been getting queries from the War Office every fifteen minutes demanding to know where you are."
"Clear the line for a priority " Haupt said.
The telegrapher rested his fingers on the keys and started to tap out the signal ordering all other operators to stay off the line.
A moment later he looked up at Haupt and nodded. Haupt was already writing the message down, and he handed the sheet over.