Joshua smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck to you."
He stood back up. "Twentieth Maine. Form skirmish line. Guide on me!"
The company officers raced down the narrowing front, passing the word. Several men looked at Joshua, incredulous; one of them stood up, threw aside his rifle, and ran. A sergeant started after him, but Joshua called him back.
"I want volunteers this day!" Joshua cried. " 'The rest of you who have not the stomach for this fight, let him depart'"
The men looked one to the other, several of the more literate grinning at his theft of a good line from Shakespeare.
The men began to spread out into open skirmish order, extending their front as the other regiments gave way.
To either flank, the enemy division surged forward, wild exuberant shouts marking their advance.
Joshua continued to back the line up slowly, men firing, loading as they fell back a dozen paces, firing yet again. The flanks were overlapped, some of the Rebs surging on, particularly along the road that was too far away for him to cover, but in the center, and on the right, the Confederate charge curled in on this last defiant regiment
Several minutes passed, and then a blizzard of shot began to sweep the line as entire regiments fired volleys into this final knot of defiance. He had a moment of grim satisfaction, realizing that in the smoke and confusion shots that were missing his men were slamming into the opposite flank of the enemy.
Joshua, bent low, came up to the flag bearer.
"I don't want our flag captured. Cut it up!" he shouted.
The men nodded, grounding the staff. One pulled out a bowie knife, and tears streaming down his powder-blackened face, he cut the national colors from the staff and with violent slashes began to tear the flag to ribbons. Several of the color guard gathered around protectively, the men tearing off parts of the stripes, cutting away the stars; and then racing down the volley line, they paused by each comrade, slapping a piece of the precious fabric, so proudly borne in battle, into the hands of those who had stood beneath the symbol of all that they fought for.
This action triggered a final, convulsive ringing in, like an animal trapped in a fire, which finally, in its agony, begins to curl up on itself to die. The men came in around the bare staff, fragments of flag passing to outstretched hands, many of which were trembling, covered with blood.
Joshua reached out. The color bearer, weeping unashamedly, handed him a small patch of blue emblazoned with a gold star. Putting the fragment of flag in his breast pocket, then with sword in his left hand, Joshua drew a revolver with his right
He began to dissolve into tears as well. They were down to less than a hundred men, the regiment, now almost in a circle, firing to nearly every point of the compass. Thousands of Confederates swarmed around them, closing in.
He saw an officer coming toward him, sword held high, shouting something, a wall of men behind him, coming on at the double.
Joshua raised his pistol, lowered it to take aim.
The blow staggered him. He slammed the point of his sword into the ground, to act as a crutch. He felt numbed from the waist down, his legs uncontrollable. He dropped the pistol and, reaching out with right hand, grabbed the flag staff. The color bearer stared at him, and a second later the boy silently collapsed, the life gone from his eyes.
That final volley seemed to drop half of those who were left For a moment there was no sound, only the terrible blow against his hip, the fear then of falling, of failing now in front of his men.
"Lawrence!"
It was Tom. Cheek torn open, blood streaming down on to his chest, wrapping an arm around him. "Cease fire! Hold your fire!"
He had not given the order. Incredulous, Joshua looked around.
"Who gave that order!" He tried to speak the words, but they wouldn't come, only a soft groan of terrible anguish from the pain.
An officer was before him, Confederate, with hat jammed strangely down on to the hilt of his sword.
"For God's sake, sir," the Confederate said, "please surrender."
Joshua looked around. They were hemmed in tightly, the few men still standing in a knot around the empty flag staffs. "How much time?" Joshua asked woodenly. "Sir?"
"How much time did I buy?"
"More than enough," the Confederate whispered. "Now let me help you."
The man extended his hand. Joshua tried to reach out, but couldn't The world was growing dim, the rebel officer standing a great and terrible distance away. There was a moment of darkness, and then he was on the ground, looking up.
"Can you help my brother?"
It was Tom, voice that again of a boy.
"My brigade surgeon is one of the best; I'm having an ambulance brought up."
"Thank you," Tom gasped.
Focus returned. He was looking up at someone kneeling by his side. Others were gathered around, his own men and Confederates mixed in.
"You are my prisoner, sir. And, by God, sir, I will see that you survive this." Joshua could only nod. 'Two hundred of you defying a division. My God, I wanted it to stop before you all got killed, but you wouldn't stop!" the Confederate exclaimed. "This damn war! I'm sorry for what we did to you here. You have the soul of a lion, Colonel." Joshua smiled and tried to reach up. The Confederate took his hand. "I don't believe we have been introduced," Joshua whispered. "I am Colonel Chamberlain, Twentieth Maine." "General Lo Armistead at your service, Colonel." "My brother, my men," Joshua whispered, "don't send them to Libby Prison. All that I ask." "You have my word."
Joshua fumbled at his breast pocket, touching the torn fragment of blue and gold.
"Then I can sleep now," Joshua sighed, and he slipped into darkness.
Chapter fifteen
The heat in the room was oppressive as Lincoln came in and nodded an acknowledgment to the men standing; he motioned for all of them to sit down. Directly across the table from him was Stanton, still struggling with his asthma attack, face ashen. By Stanton's side was Secretary of State Seward, on the other side Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy, and finally General Halleck.
Before Lincoln even spoke, Stanton pushed over the latest telegrams, and Lincoln scanned through them.
"This one from General Haupt," Lincoln said. "That confirms it The Confederates have seized our base of supplies at Westminster."
"Yes, sir," Stanton replied.
"I want to see Haupt"
"He's trying to get down here now," Halleck interjected, "but the situation in Baltimore is difficult"
Lincoln nodded, adjusting his glasses as he went through the messages that reported rioting, a wrecked switch blocking the line that might be the act of Confederate cavalry, and now a report from New York that there were threats of a riot over the draft, which had just been instituted.
"I have a delegation of congressmen and senators waiting downstairs," Lincoln finally said. "What am I to tell them?'
'That Meade is reacting in an appropriate manner," Halleck replied. "The military can handle this."
"Can it?" Lincoln asked sharply, fixing Halleck with his gaze. "Do you know, at this moment, what General Meade is doing?"
Halleck's features went flush, and he cleared his throat "Mr. President, you have the same communications that I do."
"And they tell me nothing," Lincoln replied. "So, may I ask how do you know that Meade is acting in, as you say, 'an appropriate manner'?"