Rifles that had been stacked while the men dug in were snatched up, uniform jackets put on, the regiment hunkering down behind the flimsy barrier thrown up in the few precious minutes given to them prior to the attack. The watering party came running up from the creek, twenty men burdened down with the canteens of the regiment Most were still empty, the others covered with mud and green slime. The men grabbed for them anyway.
A lone wagon came up behind Joshua, a welcome sight as half a dozen boxes were offloaded, six thousand more rounds of ammunition. The driver, seeing the rebel advance, lashed his mules, continuing down the line.
The boxes were torn open, packages of cartridges passed down the line, men stuffing the packets of ten into pockets and haversacks.
The first shell screamed in, air bursting just behind the line, shrapnel lashing into the grass. Another shot then another, and in a couple of minutes it was a virtual storm as four batteries concentrated their shot on the Twentieth.
The rebel battlefront came relentlessly in, the center brigade breaking to the south of the batteries, the other brigade to the north. Once sufficiently downslope and below the muzzles of the artillery, they started to edge back in to form a solid front
Joshua watched, impressed by their cool, steady advance, their relentless professionalism. It was obvious the enemy brigade to his right would outflank him by several hundred yards. He looked down his line. There was not much he could do other than refuse die right He passed the word.
The gunners had found the range. Several times he was washed with clods of dirt and scorched grass from shell bursts; men were collapsing, wounded beginning to stagger back.
It was down to two hundred yards, the Confederates now coming down the slope into the shallow valley of death.
Joshua stood up tall, raising his sword high. "Volley fire present!"
The men stood up, rifles rising up, held high. "Take aim!"
The three hundred rifles of the Twentieth Maine were lowered. The Confederate advance did not falter, a defiant cry bursting from their ranks.
"Fire!"
The explosion of smoke cloaked the view. To his left the other three regiments were already engaged, tearing volleys ripping across the line.
"Independent fire at will!"
He started to pace the line, crouching down low at times, trying to see what was happening. The charge was still advancing, slowed by the marshy ground but coming on hard. The artillery fire slackened, and he caught a glimpse of men, guns, moving up, coming in closer to extreme canister range.
A volley suddenly tore through his line, men to either side pitching down. The sergeant holding the national colors aloft staggered backward, collapsing, a color guard prying the staff loose from dying hands and hoisting it back up.
His men were down now, crouched behind their cover. Shooting, tearing cartridge, kneeling up to pour the powder in and push the bullet down into the muzzle, charge rammed down, then sliding behind their cover again while capping the nipple, taking aim, and firing.
Flash moments stood out, a man endlessly chanting the first line of the Lord's Prayer while loading and firing, a young soldier screaming hysterically while cradling the body of his brother, an older sergeant laughing, cursing as he coolly loaded and took careful aim, all wreathed in smoke, fire, sections of piled-up fence rails disintegrating, the men behind torn apart with splinters as a solid shot smashed in.
The smoke eddied and swirled, parting momentarily to reveal a surge of rebel troops coming up the slope, stopping and firing a single volley, men in gray and butternut dropping, then slowly falling back… and then surging forward again.
He heard wild shouting, looked to his left and saw a red flag right in the midst of the Eighty-third, a mad melee of clubbed muskets, men clawing at each other, the charge falling back.
To his right the enemy attack had already overlapped, a couple of regiments across the creek angling up the slope into his rear. Grabbing Tom, he sent him down to the end of the line, ordering him to refuse the right yet again, to turn a thin line back at a right angle. He lost sight of his brother.
How long it had gone on it was hard to tell. The sun shone red, dimly through the smoke. Men were standing up, pouring precious water from their canteens down their barrels, the water hissing, boiling, then running a quick swab through in a vain effort to clean out the bore enough so they could continue to fight. Some were tossing aside their rifles, clogged with burnt powder, picking up the weapons of the fallen.
The Confederate artillery relentlessly pounded away. In several places the dry pasture grass was burning, adding to the smoke.
"Chamberlain!" He looked up. To his amazement it was Sykes in plain view, his mount bleeding from several wounds.
"Are you Chamberlain?"
Joshua instinctively saluted. "Yes, sir."
"I'm retiring the corps!" Sykes shouted, voice drowned out for a moment as a shell exploded directly above them.
For a second he thought Sykes had been hit; the man seemed to reel from the shock and then recovered.
"Chamberlain," and Sykes's voice was low-pitched, the general leaning over, staring straight into Joshua's eyes.
"Sir."
"I need twenty minutes, Colonel. Your regiment is staying behind." "Sir?"
"The corps is flanked here. They're counterattacking in the town. The Fifth is fought out I have to save what is left, Colonel. As this brigade begins to fall back, you are to retire, slowly forming a defensive line. Then, sir, you must hold. You must give me twenty minutes to save what is left"
Joshua nodded. The world seemed to be floating. He felt a strange distant detachment from it all. This man was ordering the annihilation of his regiment and all he could do was nod in agreement
"You understand what I am ordering, Chamberlain. No retreat. You stand until overrun. You must stop this charge."
"Yes, sir."
Sykes sat back up in the saddle, his staff gathered nervously around him, ducking low as a shot screamed past
"Strong is dead, Chamberlain. So are Barnes and Crawford."
The words seemed to float through him. He knew he should feel remorse, anguish over the death of a trusted comrade. But he found himself still trying to fully comprehend Sykes's order.
Sykes extended his hand, and Joshua took it
"God be with you. I hope we meet again someday."
"Thank you, sir."
Sykes spurred his mount and galloped off.
Joshua dwelled for a moment on the absurdity. That man had just ordered him to near certain death, and he had thanked him for it The madness of war.
"Company officers!"
The men came in, only half a dozen; the rest were down, or did not hear the order. One of them, thank God, was Tom.
He squatted down, the men crouching around him. "The Eighty-third is falling back!" one of them cried, half standing and pointing. "I know; that doesn't matter."
They looked at him, focused, some already sensing what their corps commander had just ordered.
"We're staying behind. The corps is pulling back. We're the sacrifice to buy time."
"Goddamn!"
Joshua fixed the swearing captain with a sharp gaze. Embarrassed, the man lowered his head.
"We start to fall back, slowly, spreading out to fill the line and try to draw that entire division in on us. Don't lie to the men. Tell them what we must do. We hold until overrun. I'm not ordering any of you to die. You feel you can't hold anymore, that it is meaningless, then try and get out with what you can."
"Lawrence, you're staying, though?" Tom asked. Joshua nodded.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'll be goddamned if I run," the profane officer announced.