Reluctantly he scrambled up over the side of the parapet motioning for Porter to follow, blocking out the stares of the gunners watching him leave, hoping they did not see it as cowardice that he was leaving them to stand the hurricane alone.
Porter moved slowly, favoring his arm. "Can you stay in command?" Pete asked. "Yes, sir, I can manage. They will not drive me off this battlefield."
The curtain of smoke on the opposite slope began to part again, and seconds later more shots came screaming in.
"He's measuring it out now," Pete announced "They must be running low on ammunition. We have their supplies, and it is beginning to limit their rate of fire."
He stood silent for a moment, staff that had been trailing the two trying to act poised, but obviously nervous as a solid bolt came far too close to the group, killing the horse of a courier, who jumped off as the dying creature reared up screaming and then went down on its side.
Suppose they don't come in? he thought Then what?
"Porter, how is the ammunition supply?"
"More man enough left sir. I have more than a hundred rounds per gun stockpiled back there," and Porter gestured toward the rear area, where the park of limber wagons was clearly visible and safely out of range. "And then there are the additional supplies at Westminster. The Union army has provided for all our ammunition needs."
The group ducked as yet another salvo impacted dirt flying. Another secondary explosion ignited from within Cabell's position. Part of a broken wheel came spiraling out of the battery position and plowed into Longstreet's staff.
A staff officer was down, trying to stifle a scream, leg torn off below the knee; another man had been hit in the chest by a wooden splinter as thick around as a man's wrist blood washing over him.
Pete, stunned came up to the first man's side, grabbing him by the shoulders, holding him as someone struggled to wrap a tourniquet around the knee.
Stretcher bearers came running up, lifting the wounded captain up, and then turning to run off. Longstreet stood up, trying to wipe the blood off on his trouser legs.
He looked around at the carnage and destruction. Porter was right Cabell's men, and beyond him the redoubt held by Poague's battalion, were played out shattered by the thousands of shells that had poured in on them.
"Order Cabell to pull out now, also Poague's battalion. Have them retire to the rear."
"Sir?"
"Order them to retire now!" Longstreet shouted.
"And bring up the reserve?" Pete shook his head. "No."
He turned away, catching the eye of Wofford, the brigade commander holding the heights above the mill. "Come here, Wofford."
Wofford, as ever, stepped smartly forward and saluted, looking a bit absurd since his uniform, which had been all brightness and shiny trim the day before, was completely soaked in half-dry mud.
Wofford stared at Longstreet as the order was given.
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Just do it," Longstreet snapped. "Do it now."
11:15 AM, JULY 4,1863
"Are you seeing this?" Meade asked, riding up to where Henry stood at the center of his grand battery.
Henry nodded, lowering his glasses. The rebels were abandoning their two main bastions facing the ground over which Second and Twelfth Corps were supposed to advance.
"Are they pulling back, Hunt?"
"I can't tell yet, sir."
Now he could see infantry getting out of the trenches, not many, but still a significant number, breaking, heading to the rear. His ears were ringing; sound was distorted. It was hard to see, not because of the smoke, but because of his own eyes, which were red, stinging, tears clouding them.
He looked at Meade.
"Hunt, have you done it?"
"Sir," and he paused to rub his eyes with blackened hands, "Sir, I can't tell you that. I see two battalions of their guns withdrawing. Some infantry breaking. I know we gave them a rough going-over, but I can't speak for anything beyond that"
Even as they spoke, Hancock came up, followed only a minute or so later by Slocum and Sickles riding side by side. "Are they breaking, Hunt?" Hancock cried.
Henry felt his chest tighten. He knew that here, now at this moment, whether he wanted to or not, the decision was devolving into his hands. If he said no, if he told Meade flat out that the sustained bombardment by every gun of the Army of the Potomac had failed, perhaps this assault would be called off.
And then what? Follow Sickles's wild scheme? Meade would never do that. Fall back on Harrisburg? Impossible. Just as impossible as trying to flank to the left Washington would hang all of them because surely Lee would finally move toward the capital, even if just to occupy the outskirts, to bring the place under siege and trigger a panic.
No. Fate was drawing them in. The web, whether created by us, by Lee, or ordained long ago, had come to this moment He looked back at the long lines of troops. Some were standing up, many of them looking straight at this knot of officers, obviously the high command of the Army of the Potomac, who were about to make the decision.
A light shower opened up, the cool rain drifting down.
"If you are going to do it sir," Henry replied, voice trembling, near to breaking, "then do it now. I have to break off this barrage to keep enough rounds left to provide minimal cover once you go in. Once the columns are into the valley, I'll open back up with measured support"
Meade said nothing; the corps commanders were silent; Hancock was stock-still, gazing across the open ground.
"Now is the time, gentlemen," Meade announced, voice steady. "To your posts. Remember my orders. No corps commanders are to go forward. My headquarters is here, and I expect you to report back here. Hunt in ten minutes, fire one salvo from all your guns; that will be the signal to go in."
Henry nodded, unable to respond.
"God save our Republic," Sickles whispered, taking off his hat and lowering his head.
Henry, startled, looked up at the normally profane general.
The corps commanders rode off at a gallop; the sight of them moving thus, followed by their flag bearers, set up a rippling cheer from the tens of thousands assembled behind the ridge. Drums began to roll, bugles echoing, calling the men to arms.
Henry lowered his head and prayed, letting the minutes slowly tick out.
He finally looked back up and saw Hancock, dismounted, kneeling in the wet grass with Kelly's Irishmen, a priest standing atop a small boulder, making the sign of the cross. Battle flags were uncased; a hundred or more American flags, each one marking a regiment, were held up, a faint breeze stirring them to life.
The sight of them made his heart constrict, his throat going tight, tears coming to his eyes. Today is the Fourth of July, he thought yet again. Dear God, let there be reason to celebrate another come next year.
Kelly's Irishmen were back on their feet, their battle chant beginning to echo, "Erin go bragh."
Other regiments began to cry out as well, "The Union, the Union, the Union!"
His gunners were poised, at their pieces, looking toward Henry!
Hat still off, he looked straight up, letting the light rain wash his face for a moment.
Henry raised his hat up over his head, and cleared his throat "Battalions, at my command!"
The cry was picked up, racing down the line yet again.
He looked across the field, gaze fixed on a small knot of mounted officers atop the distant crest He closed his eyes and slapped his arm down. "Fire!"