Most had slept only four or five hours, the work details for digging in finally told to stand down shortly before midnight if for no other reason than the fact that the men were literally collapsing from exhaustion. Most had simply gone to sleep in the mud. Tents had been left behind long ago. Almost to a man the troops were filthy beyond belief, having marched for days on dusty roads and then labored like madmen for upward of twelve hours digging in. In some cases you literally could not tell who was behind the encrusted dirt.
Still, no time to stop digging and clean up. The fortifications were still not up to his liking. In most places the trenches were only three feet deep, with the dirt piled up forward to form a parapet. The battery positions had been fortified with whatever trees or lumber could be found for additional protection.
The artillery battalion bastions, positioned above the mill and then spaced at intervals of two hundred yards or so down the length of the line, were the strong points, fallback positions for infantry as well if the line broke. These points were fully enclosed on all four sides, with earthen walls four-to-five-feet high, strengthened on the inside with logs and cut lumber.
Unfortunately, there was no reserve line to the rear, nor traverses; not enough time for that. Extra supplies moving up and wounded heading to the rear would have to run the open gauntlet behind the lines.
A forward line, down at the bottom of the slope, was little more than a shallow cutout, able to protect men lying down, but not designed for a hard, stand-up fight There were no covered access ways down to the forward line. The men stationed forward would have to simply hold as long as possible then, if need be, run like hell up the slope to gain the protection of the main line. But if they did their job right they would slow down and break up the coherence of the Union charge. That could be worth everything.
The scattering of trees, saplings, and brush bordering the flat bottomland had been cut down to provide a clear field of fire.
A faint breeze stirred, and he noticed that the steady drumming of the rain had eased, almost come to a stop. Mists still blanketed the valley.
The shadows of the hills to the north, only moments before a dim outline, began to take shape, coming into focus. The men who had been up out of their trenches, gathered round smoky fires, drinking coffee, wolfing down strips of meat with singed fingers, fell silent, all looking to the north.
Now he could see them; all could see them. The crown of the opposite ridge was a raw slash of earth across more than a quarter mile; the guns lining the brow were a dark menace. Another great battery, farther down the slope and to his left, positioned near a farmhouse that had been torn apart during the night, was composed of Napoleons, their bronze barrels dull in the diffused gray light.
Longstreet looked over at Porter. Nothing needed to be said. Porter nodded and then, strangely, he came to formal attention and saluted before mounting up to ride down the line.
Pete took another long sip on his coffee and braced himself for what was to come.
8:50 AM, JULY 4,1863
"Battalions, on my command!"
All up and down the line 120 gun crews stood to attention, battery commanders standing back from their pieces, looking in the direction of Henry Hunt each crew sergeant standing with lanyard taut, layers, rammers, loaders, fuse setters, runners all poised, ready to spring into action.
A shaft of sunlight poked through the clouds for a second, fingers of light illuminating the ground below and the opposite slope. The air was still, not as hot as yesterday, but thick with humidity. He knew that within minutes smoke would obscure the target, and the battery commanders had been given careful orders to ensure that their guns were properly laid after every shot.
He raised a clenched fist heavenward and held it poised for a moment.
All were silent and he felt as if he were on a stage, the culmination of all that he had ever lived and trained for narrowing down to this moment
Dean God, please let this work, he thought and even as he muttered the prayer, he knew the irony, the obscenity of it praying that he could successfully kill hundreds on the opposite slope with what he was about to do.
His arm started to tremble. There was no reason to wait to drag it out Let it begin. He let his arm drop.
"Fire!"
The cry echoed down the line, battery commanders mimicking the downward sweep of his arm. The salvo ripped down the length of the line, 120 guns recoiling, more than three hundred pounds of powder igniting, twelve hundred pounds of solid and case shot splitting the silence apart as the bolts shrieked across the valley.
Henry, ducking low, raced between two pieces, crouching, trying to watch the impact all the shot aimed at three rebel batteries dug in along the crest. Five seconds later, the first bolts hit, thin geysers of earth kicking up, airbursts detonating. He caught a glimpse of at least one rebel piece upending from a direct hit
The valley echoed and reechoed from the concussive blast Dimly, to his right he heard the battery of sixty Napoleon smoothbores firing in unison, their round shot aimed to strike the forward line directly across the valley and only eight hundred yards away. Though he could not hear it he had to assume that the other sixty guns, positioned farther down the line, on Sickles's front had opened as well.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that rammers had already sponged their tubes; loaders stood poised with powder bag and shot.
He stepped back, weaving through the organized dance of gunners at work. A shot screamed overhead, clearing the crest a second, later detonating beyond the slope, high enough that the shrapnel raining down on the vast columns would be relatively harmless.
Gun sergeants were hooking lanyards into friction primers set into the breeches, stepping back, carefully bringing the lanyard taut, raising a left hand indicating their piece was ready, shouting for the rest of their crew to stand clear.
More bolts were beginning to come back across the valley, ripping the air overhead, casting up clods of muddy earth from the front of the parapet
When each unit of six guns was loaded, their commanders raised clenched fists in the air, then brought them down. It was impossible to command 120 guns to fire at once, except on the first shot, too cumbersome and wasteful of precious time. First one battery fired, and within seconds the rest fired as well, guns recoiling violently. A few batteries had managed to pave their gun positions with heavy boards torn off the sides of barns; most were working on the muddy ground, the recoil already tearing into the earth, the men responsible for rolling their pieces forward straining and slipping on the wet ground.
Loaders ran past Henry, bringing up the next charge of powder and bolt while rammers again sponged the bores clean. The thunder of the battery salvos came rolling back across the meadows, seeming to pitch the volume to a higher level. The clap of the rebel guns on the far slope washed over him as well.
There was a flash and then a staggering explosion to Henry's right a caisson going up, bodies tumbling through the air, horses tied to the traces shrieking in agony as splinters, burning powder, and parts of human bodies slammed into them. One poor beast most of its hindquarters gone, screamed pitifully until a gunner ran up with drawn revolver and systematically put a shot into the head of each of the dying animals.
Another well-placed shot came in, this a solid bolt striking the trunion of a three-inch Parrott gun, dismounting the tube, the piece collapsing onto a gunner who died without making a sound.