A massive explosion thundered across the field. To his left he caught a glimpse of a battery, a caisson going up in flames, gunners scattering.
They dropped down into a shallow valley, the stream simply a dirty rivulet in the summer heat The land was carpeted with the wounded of both sides, seeking shelter from the storm, desperate for a drop of moisture so that the muddy trickle of water was tinged with pink from the blood of men who had crawled into the cooling bottomland and then died
Imploring hands reached out, men crying out for water, accents of New York, Midwestern twang, and deep Louisiana bayou blended together in one hideous howl of pain and anguish.
The column crested up out of the nightmare dell. They were beyond the town, and there ahead and to his left he could see the main pike, the road from Taneytown back to Emmitsburg. The heavy post-and-rail fences bordering the road were still up in most places, festooned with bodies dangling over the rails. A line of Union infantry crouched behind the fence on the south side of the road, ghostlike in the smoke, shooting at unseen targets beyond.
The men running with Joshua were bent over, chins tucked in against throats, the instinctive pose, it seemed, of troops going into a storm, or a battle. The regiment was beginning to take casualties, fire coming in on their flank as they advanced. A bad moment Troops hated to be caught thus, without a chance to strike back.
Joshua moved from his position on the flank of the column straight up to the front swinging in before the colors, trailing a couple of dozen yards behind the column of the Eighty-third Pennsylvania.
The march at double time continued, running across the fields two hundred yards to the north of the road. He saw Vincent again, stopped now, sword out pointing. The head of the column swerved, swinging down to the road, shifting from march into line of battle. Warren suddenly appeared, as if rising up out of the ground. The road ahead, Joshua realized, dropped down into another creek bed.
Joshua spurred forward, passing around the men of the Eighty-third coming up to join the two.
"It's not good!" Warren announced. "A division down by the bridge, just as I feared."
Vincent looked back at Joshua. "On the right, Chamberlain. We're forming a right angle here to the main line!"
Joshua offered a quick salute, turned about, and, waving his sword, he caught the eye of the lead company, motioning for them to follow.
They swung out from behind the Eighty-third.
The ground ahead sloped down gently into marsh and yet another muddy creek, most likely the same one they had crossed minutes before, Joshua realized.
He spurred up to a swift canter and rode along the bank for a couple of hundred yards. The creek bed curved back, turning from a north-south to an east-west direction.
This was the place, he realized. Chance to refuse the right He watched as the Eighty-third fell in on his left. Good. They were occupying enough of the ground so he could concentrate on the bend here.
The men rapidly fell out from column into line, Joshua directing the company commanders to their places, with A Company and the colors in the center.
The men were near to exhaustion, breathing hard, several obviously on the edge of sunstroke.
Looking around, he wasn't impressed. The shallow valley did drop down forty feet or so, the land open, marshy, obviously a place where cattle would loll on hot summer days. The only animals down there now, though, were several dead horses from yesterday's fight swelling up in the heat
He looked to the opposite side. The ground rose up higher, by at least thirty to forty feet more, about four hundred yards away. Not enough for an infantry advantage, but if they got artillery up there it would be hell.
The land below would be hard to traverse, but that was all. He thought of yesterday, where they were camped, the hill he had climbed shortly before dusk, the position held by Sickles. That was good ground. A regiment could hold up an entire brigade atop that hill. This would be different a damn sight different No great advantage to the defense here.
He turned and looked back at his men, who were now in double line, deployed in a shallow curve following the bend of the creek.
"Dig in! Get fence rails; get some men into that woodlot behind us; drag out anything that will stop a bullet Company commanders, get water details together."
He looked down at the creek and grimaced, blocking out the thought of the bodies piled into it a half mile back.
"Just find a clear spot above the dead horses and do it quick!"
The men sprang to work even as Vincent came up and dismounted.
"Hot day, Lawrence." "Damn hot"
The rare use of a profanity caused Vincent to smile. "Wish you were back at Bowdoin!’
Joshua forced a smile and shook his head.
"Nor I to my law office. Lawrence, you know your position here."
Joshua nodded. "I was at the staff meeting this morning. Sykes said that if need be we would sacrifice this corps, if by so doing we could save the Union."
"Sounds nice as a speech," Joshua offered dryly.
Vincent looked past Joshua and pointed. "You can see them stirring."
Joshua followed his gaze. The low crest ahead blocked the view, but the rising plumes of dust were evidence enough that something was coming.
"They get past you, Chamberlain, the entire corps gets rolled up."
"I know."
Vincent hesitated, and then lowered his head. 'I think this is our place today, Chamberlain. For a while I thought it would be yesterday, back up where we were at Little Round Top. Fate decided differently."
He smiled awkwardly.
"I'll see you at the end of the day, Lawrence." Joshua grasped his hand.
He could feel the nervous tremble, the clammy coolness of Vincent's grip. The man before him outwardly showed no fear, but Joshua could well imagine the turmoil within, for he felt it as well. Not so much the fear for self-he had settled that with God long ago-it was for all the others, the men of the command, the fate of the corps as Vincent now said, not to make a mistake, not to waver, not to doubt That was the thing that was frightening: not death but dishonor was the compelling fear.
"God be with you," Joshua replied. Vincent's hand slipped away. He mounted and was gone.
Joshua turned back, the swirls of dust building on the horizon.
3:00 PM, JULY 3, 1863 TANEYTOWN
'Texans! Are you Hood's Texans?"
General Lee blocked the middle of the road heading south out of Taneytown as a stream of soldiers swarmed toward him. The town was a cauldron of battle, buildings on fire, artillery fired at near point-blank range sending hot blasts of canister down the street, terrified civilians fleeing, the hospital area set up in front of his headquarters at the Antrim, now under direct fire.
The heat, as well, was oppressive, so much so that he felt dizzy, weak, after two hard days with little sleep and the endless stress of this campaign. And now the center of the line was giving way, peeling back, hundreds of exhausted troops staggering from the fight, some without weapons.
The leaderless mob pouring down the road slowed at the sight of Lee advancing toward them. 'Texans? I do not believe this!"
One of the men, a sergeant, a bloody bandage wrapped round his head, stepped in front of Traveler, reaching up to grab the horse's bridle.
"Sir, General Lee! You'll get killed!"
He was near hysteria, voice high-pitched, cracking.
Lee jerked Traveler's reins, his horse shying away from the man.
"Men, my men, you must not run from those people." "Sir, get back!"
As if to add emphasis to the sergeant's words, a corporal by his side doubled over, shot in the back, sprawling into the middle of the road. His death set off a panic, dozens of men breaking into a run.