"I am ashamed of you!" Lee cried.
Many of them slowed, looking back, lowering their heads like schoolboys caught by the local preacher in some sinful act
More troops were pouring out of the town, some in rough formation following a regimental standard, others singly, in pairs and small knots of half a dozen, many of them dragging along wounded comrades.
"Rally to me. Form line here!" Lee cried.
The men directly around him looked up, incredulous.
"We're out of ammo, water," the sergeant replied, his voice shaking.
"You must hold, men. Hold just a few minutes more. Pickett's Virginians are coming up."
"Then, General, you go to the rear," the sergeant exclaimed. "We will hold, but only if you go to the rear."
The cry was picked up.
"Lee to the rear. Lee to the rear!"
He felt his heart swell, a momentary flutter that was almost frightening, wondering if something was giving out inside. If so, not now. Please, O God, not now.
The tightness lingered, and he felt as if he just might lose control, dissolve into tears at the sight of these men, and yet there was a fury of the battle within him as well. They had been pushed far beyond what mere mortals could be expected to endure. Five hours of hell, most without ammunition, most with wounds, some of which would prove mortal or crippling: Yet now they started to gamer round, men and boys pushing in front shouting for him to retire.
He looked up. The center of town was only several hundred yards away. Surely they were noticed by now. He saw flashes in the dim smoky light, sharpshooters up in buildings. Another man nearby went down.
He looked to the west The left flank, what was left of Johnson's division, bowing back out of the town, driven from the road. Beyond them, nothing.
Where was Pickett?
A bullet snapped past He felt a cold rush of anger.
"I am with you!" Lee cried. "Now forward. Forward!"
He started to edge up the road, pushing his way toward the town. As if a flood tide had reached its crest and now fell away, so did the rout. By the hundreds men turned, some with a fire in their eyes, many with reluctance, but determined nevertheless. Their throats so parched they could no longer break forth with the eerie shriek of their battle cry, they went back in to the fight
Lee tried to force his way forward, but the sergeant and half a dozen others blocked his path.
"Out of my way."
"No, sir."
"Out of my way. That is an order, Sergeant!" The sergeant held Lee's gaze.
"You can shoot me after this is over, General Lee," the sergeant cried, his voice breaking with emotion. "But I ain't gonna see you killed this day. The boys will hold."
"Out of my way, Sergeant Do it now!"
"Sir, you're the spirit of this army. You die and we lose. I'll die making sure you live to carry on."
The men with the sergeant garnered round, hemming Traveler in, silent looking up at him.
"General Lee!"
He looked back. His staff was coming up, riding hard, obviously frightened that he had slipped from their grasp.
The few hundred who were left of Hood's old Texan Brigade were back into the town as the staff swarmed around Lee, putting themselves between him and the line of fire.
The sergeant who had so defiantly stood against Lee now seemed to shrink as one of the staff angrily shouted for the sergeant to let go of Traveler.
Lee, tears in his eyes, shook his head.
The sergeant let the reins drop and bracing his shoulders looked up at Lee. Their gaze held for a minute, and it shook Lee to the core. The man was true to his word. He expected to be shot for insubordination, an insubordination of trying to save his general from a foolish act. It was one thing to ride along a volley line wreathed in smoke, another to lead a charge into a town. If the sergeant had not intervened, Lee realized, he'd most likely be wounded or dead by now. He looked back up, and the Texans who had turned about were dropping by the dozens as they pushed back into the town.
"Your name, Sergeant?"
"Sgt Lee Robinson, sir, Third Texas "
Lee, in an uncharacteristic gesture, leaned over and extended his hand. The sergeant nervously took it, holding the grasp for just a second before stepping back as if the touch of a god might scorch his hand to the bone.
"I shall pray that you return safely to your family when this is over, Sergeant Robinson. God be with you."
The sergeant saluted, then lowered his head.
Lee looked back to the west Where was Pickett?
3:10 PM, JULY 3,1863 WEST OF TANEYTOWN
"Virginians! This is our moment! Forward for Virginia!’
Standing in the stirrups, George Pickett raced in front of his advancing line, a battlefront three brigades wide, from left to right half a mile, six thousand rifles flashing and gleaming in the hot, murky, afternoon sun. Four batteries of artillery advanced with him, bronze Napoleons glinting, gunners running alongside their pieces. Red battle flags, the square Saint Andrew's cross of the Army of Northern Virginia, held high, marking the advance.
He wept with joy at the sight of it The chance, at last, to lead a charge across a sunlit field of glory, battlefront sweeping forward relentlessly, marching to the sound of the guns. It might have taken an extra half hour to form everyone into line of battle, but by God, it was worth it for this moment We are ready. We are doing it in style, Pickett thought It was good, so good to be alive on this afternoon in July, the dream of all things possible before him.
3:20 PM, JULY 3,1863 WEST OF TANEYTOWN
"They're coming." The cry raced down the line. Joshua, intent on strengthening his front, urging the men to dig in, pile up logs and fence rails, anything that could offer shelter on this bare slope, paused and looked to where many were now pointing.
His heart swelled at the sight of it. The flags were visible, held up high, materializing beyond the shallow crest now rifle tips, and men the men. He gasped at the sight of it A division advancing as if on the parade ground, line of butternut and gray, their right flank overlapping the road, the left arcing far beyond his own right
Skirmishers, who had been visible for several minutes, darted forward, coming into long rifle range. From out of the center of the advance, he saw something that he had often read about but never witnessed on the field, a battalion of their artillery advancing with the attack, as in the days of Napoleon, one battery of guns actually galloping ahead of the line and then swinging into position atop the low crest four hundred yards away.
He looked back. The corps artillery was enmeshed in a fight for the town. There was not a single piece here to reply. He knew where that fire would be focused: It would be a cauldron of hot iron against human flesh, and it would be his men who bore the brunt.
Unsheathing his sword, Joshua stepped to the center of the line. He was not one for dramatics but felt that if there was a time for it, it had to be now.
He climbed atop a small boulder that studded up out of the thick pasture grass. "Men of Maine!" he cried. "We are the right of the line. We must hold."
The men looked at him. They were veterans. They did not need the false theatrics that some officers indulged in, and they knew better than to expect it of him.
"The fate of the Republic might rest on what we do now," he said, with a passionate, heartfelt intensity. "Let us resolve to stand and, if need be, die for the Union."
The men were silent, but he could see the glint in their eyes, the nods coming from a few. He stepped back down and turned to face the approaching attack.