For over eighty thousand men, Union or Confederate, it was a moment unlike any seen before, a moment all would carry to their dying hour, whether that was but minutes away or destined to be four score years into the future.
Hancock, tears streaming down his face, saluted as the Irish Brigade started up the slope, falling in to ride by their side.
Sickles, not yet back into his own lines, turned, mesmerized by the sight of two full corps, the 22,000 men of the first waves, going up the slope, line after line, flags held high, a breeze snapping them out
Henry, arms at his side, turned, watching the vast phalanx approach. As the first battle line drew near, he shouted for his gunners to stand clear, trace riders to hold their teams. Many of the gunners came to attention, saluting; others cheered, their cry picking up, echoing down the lines…
"The Union!"
For most of the men, there was no grand sight If in the first line, just the slope of the ground ahead, dead horses littering the field, dead artillerymen, now the guns coming into view, gunners blackened standing, saluting, some cheering.
For those in the second rank, the third rank, or those with Sedgwick's corps moving forward to occupy the ground just vacated, all that could be seen was the man in front haversack and canteen over left hip, sky blue trousers caked with mud, trampled grass, occasional stains of blood, and bodies where those caught in the barrage had stayed behind. File closers kept shouting the same litany, "Close it up. Guide on the colors, boys. Close it up."
Some prayed; some, caught in the grandeur of the moment stared about Men with the Twentieth Massachusetts, Hall's brigade, of Gibbon's division of the Second Corps, led by a grandson of Paul Revere, heard an officer reciting from Henry V. Some scoffed; more than a few recited along, knowing the words by heart…" 'we few, we happy few, we band of brothers… "'
Along the far slope, twelve hundred yards away, men were up and out of the trench. A teenage boy from North Carolina, one of the "pets" of the company, disemboweled by a fragment, was surrounded by weeping comrades as he penned a farewell note to his mother with trembling hand, then accepted the draught of morphine from a doctor who knew the amount he was giving to him was not murder, but a merciful blessing.
Others stood silent, voices whispering in awe, "Here they come; my God, here they come."
John Williamson, with Sergeant Hazner by his side, was silent, watching as first the tips of flags, then muskets, appeared along the crest of the ridge; and then, finally, the first rank was in view, a solid wall half a mile across, followed by another rank, and then another.
It was terrifying, and yet it held him with its frightful grandeur, its pageantry, the sheer power of what was unfolding before him, coming straight at him.
John looked over nervously at Hazner, who gave him a tight-lipped grin. Standing to the rear of the trench, they slowly paced the line together. The regiment had taken a couple of dozen casualties so far, one shell detonating inside the trench, killing several men and horribly wounding half a dozen more. The wounded were being carried to the rear in the lull, the dead pulled out of the trench. John stepped around one of the bodies, swallowing hard as he looked down. It was Mark Arnson, one of the boys from home, a cousin to Elizabeth. Same hair, pale blond. He looked away.
One of the men had a Bible out and was standing, reading it aloud.
"'A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee
He felt cold, empty, the words bringing no comfort. Thousands would fall in the next few minutes. If all of them pray this same prayer, then whose trust will be betrayed?
If only I could believe, take comfort in that. As he paced the line, he looked at the men, their expressions, wondering who would still be alive an hour from now, who would be silenced forever.
The vast, undulating line of blue was atop the opposite crest, coming on relentlessly.
"My God," Hazner whispered, "I'm glad it's them rather than us."
John said nothing. Hand absently slipping into his haversack, touching the leather volume, wondering if he would ever write in it again.
General Longstreet stood with arms folded and for a moment he felt doubt, hesitation. Such power, line after line cresting that distant ridge, coming on as if they would never stop, feeling as if behind them came a million more. Can I hold them now? Even if we do stop them today, can we hold them?
A cheer began, rippling down his line, building in intensity, the rebel yell. He sensed, though, that it was not given in the lust of battle, as his men so often did when going into a charge. It was a salute, an acknowledgment that those coming toward them had created a moment never to be forgotten, a moment that, win or lose, would be remembered across history.
They most likely would have given the same cheer for us, Pete thought
Drums rolled, calling the men to the ranks, forming up along the length of the trench. From out in the field, the men of Wofford's command who had feigned retreat now came about, running at the double, piling back into their trench, while from a mile back ten batteries, the replacements for Cabell and Poague, came forward at the gallop.
The trap had been sprung. Now, now it was simply a question of holding on against what he knew would be the most vicious assault of the war. Meade might have gotten it all wrong these last four days, but at least in this he was getting it right No hesitation. If it was necessary to go in frontally, throw every man in at the same time and come on relentlessly, regardless of loss.
"It's General Lee, sir."
Longstreet saw Lee coming up, several staff following, one bearing the guidon of the headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia.
Longstreet saluted as Lee reined in. He could see that his general was awed as well. Lee was silent for a moment eyes bright as he scanned the distant lines now sweeping down the slope.
" 'As terrible as an army with banners,'" Lee whispered.
Chapter Seventeen.
The first shots came from the skirmishers who had watched the barrage in relative safety, crouched down in the marsh grass lining the banks of Pipe Creek. They had gone out shortly after midnight, sent to act as an alarm if the Union should attempt a night assault or come in through the fog at first light
More than one man, once the barrage started, had laid back, watching the shells arc overhead. An informal truce was declared between them and the Union skirmishers deployed in the pastures on the north side of the creek, men on both sides standing up, leaning on muskets, watching the grand fireworks show.
Now that the infantry battle was on again, the logic that had stilled the slaughter down along the banks of Pipe Creek was null and void. Some of the men, unable to resist the sheer size of the target coming toward them, raised their rear sights to four hundred yards, aimed even higher, and lobbed a scattering of rifle balls into the lines. This triggered a quick response from the Union skirmishers, who were far closer, and men began to fall on both sides. The Confederate skirmish line retreated, men running low through the high grass, stumbling, ducking down for a moment coming back up again, zigzagging across die field and then clambering over the sides of the earthen embankment that was dug in just above the flood plain.
The forward line of the advance-the brigades of Kelly, Cross, Zook, and Brooke on the left; men of the old solid Second Corps, including McDougall; and Ruger of the Twelfth Corps on the right-were halfway down the slope. A hundred yards behind them came the Third Division of the Second Corps on the left and the Second Division of the Twelfth Corps on the right, with Lockwood's brigade as the third wave. The Second Division of the Second Corps, which had borne the brunt of the previous day's fighting, was the third wave coming in on the left as well.