But beyond that, from the opposite side of the Baltimore Road, clear down to the end of Slocum's divisions, who were opposing Pettigrew, the forward Confederate line fell.
For some this was as far as they felt they could get. They had braved the impact of the first volleys, stormed across the open fields, taken an entrenchment, but above them, three hundred yards above, was the crest
All had been told what to do; officers had gone over it again and yet again. Don't stop, boys. There're two trenches. Don't stop till we're over the top of the ridge. Don't stop!"
"Come on!" The cry echoed along the line, some men, still capable of cold logic, realizing that if they pressed quick enough, right on the heels of the retreating first line, the second might not fire until they were up onto them.
"Come on! Charge, for God's sake, charge!"
The blue wave lurched forward, all semblance of formation gone, men from Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and even Maryland, a few of them having once played and fished along this same creek an eternity ago, pouring over the breastworks and up the slope.
Behind them the second and third waves, which had stopped at midfield and at the base of the slope on the northern side, moved forward again, while Sedgwick's divisions waited for what would develop next
The surviving Confederates from the first trench ran up the hill, arms flapping, some casting away rifles in their haste, a few loading as they ran, turning to fire a defiant shot Their comrades on the crest were up, rifles raised high, the signal that all were loaded and just waiting for the command.
Officers were out in front of the trench, screaming for the survivors to run, to keep running. Behind them the Union charge was gaining momentum, the race now going to the strongest, old battle wisdom telling some that if they could stay on the coattails of the retreating enemy they just might make it into the next line without facing another deadly volley.
The fleetest of the retreating Confederates gained the trench, eager hands pulling them up over the parapet "Hold! Hold your fire!"
The command was shouted by officers and NCOs, the waiting line solid, ranks packed shoulder to shoulder.
Ever since the Union charge had crested the opposite ridge forty minutes ago, they had waited, awed, fearful, defiant angry all in turn, emotions jumbled together. They waited a few seconds more.
The Union wave coming up the slope could see them silhouetted on the crest, rifle barrels poised high, muzzles of cannons depressed, yawning wide. That struck the first fear after the euphoria of sweeping the lower trench. The artillery was not supposed to be there; all had said they'd be swept away.
All knew what a blast of canister could do at two hundred yards, or far worse double canister at seventy-five yards.
Some of the men slowed, particularly those going up toward where Poague's and Cabell's battalions had been. The charge was now less than 150 yards from the crest For a moment there was a strange, almost deathly silence except for the drumming of thousands of men racing up the slope, men gasping for air, a few voices crying out to keep moving.
'Take aim!"
Several hundred Confederates, now caught in front of their own comrades, dived to the ground, hugging the earth, crying out, praying not to be killed by their own men.
"Fire!"
This time it was not three thousand rifles, it was over ten thousand, many of the men in the front rank kneeling down, resting their barrels on the waist-high parapet to steady their aim.
The twenty-seven artillery pieces in place across the front opened up, each gun discharging a round of canister, the smaller three-inch rifles letting loose with a can containing forty to fifty iron balls, the wider, four-and-a-half-inch bore Napoleons firing cans holding eighty to ninety iron balls.
The blast swept down the slope, and it was if the thirty-odd regiments still in the advance had slammed into an invisible wall. In an instant the charge collapsed.
Hundreds dropped or were thrown back down the slope.. Parts of bodies, shattered muskets, busted canteens, fragments of uniform soared up and rained back down twenty, thirty yards to the rear, especially along the front swept by the canister.
Nearly every flag bearer dropped. One of the green flags of the Irish Brigade was swept off its standard, the standard shattered by two canister rounds, the bearer riddled so that his body was a bloody sack.
The men of that famed unit paused for a few brief seconds until they saw Colonel Kelly, their brigade commander, holding aloft the torn green flag of one of his regiments, the 116th Pennsylvania, waving it over his head.
"Ireland!" he screamed, and he started up the slope at a run, green flag fluttering over his head.
The decimated regiments of Erin leapt forward with wild battle cries, racing up the slope straight at the guns on the heights.
It was a race that would be decided in seconds. Rammers didn't bother to sponge, calling for the fixed round of canister and powder bag to be slammed straight into the muzzle. Gunners struggled to roll their pieces forward even as the rammers slapped their loads down to the muzzle, one gun going off prematurely, blowing the rammer, his staff, and the canister out over the Irishmen, gunners working the wheels crushed by the recoil.
Gunnery sergeants fumbled with friction primers, setting them in, hooking on lanyards, shouting for crews to jump clear.
Some of the Irishmen were actually up over the parapet, Kelly on top, waving the flag.
One gun, then seven more, fired in the next few seconds, some of the rounds discharging straight into the faces of men only a few feet away. There seemed to be a horrified pause for the briefest of moments as both sides were staggered by the carnage wrought
At nearly the same instant Kelly dropped, and some claimed that even as he fell, tumbling inside the parapet he clutched the colors to his breast
A wild hysteria seized the few men left of the brigade as they scrambled up onto the parapet screaming for their colonel, dropping as Confederate infantry waded in around the guns to repel the charge. The surge broke at the crest and fell back, leaving a carpet of blue and red and small swatches of green flag in the mud.
Most of the rest of the line did not advance, the first volley having driven them to ground, to halt yet again along that terrible, invisible line that seems to appear on a battlefront a line that not even the bravest will pass, knowing that to take but one more step forward is death.
Some were demoralized, clutching the ground; others, in shock, were cradling wounded, dying, and dead comrades. Most settled down to the grim task at hand. Raising rifles, taking aim up the slope, firing, grounding muskets, reloading and firing again.
In the coldest sense of military logic, this battered line was the shield, the soak off, having taken the first position and now stalling in front of the second. Their job was simply to absorb the blows, to die, to inflict some death upon those dug in until the second and third lines came up, still relatively unscathed, to push the attack closer in.
And so across the next ten minutes they gave everything they had, these volunteers turned professionals, the pride of the Army of die Potomac, the pride of the Republic. Thousands of acts of courage were committed, none to be recorded except in the memories of those who were there, the greatest courage of all simply to stand on the volley line, to fire, to reload, and all die time the litany chant in the background…