He rode up through the orchard, its lower branches picked clean even in the middle of a running fight; soldiers of both sides would forage even if the apples were still green.
More men ahead, a ragged combination of columns and lines, white insignia of the Third Corps, Second Division, on their caps. Few if any still had on field packs or blanket rolls. Many, against usual custom, had their bluejackets off in the heat, but they still carried rifles and cartridge boxes, which was all that mattered to him at this moment.
The column was stalled as he rode past. He caught sight of a regimental commander.
'Why are you stopped?' Dan shouted.
'Sir, we just got word from the skirmish line up front that there's trouble ahead.'
'What, damn it?'
'Artillery.'
'Then go forward and take it!' Dan shouted.
He pushed ahead of the column. Looking to his left and right he saw where the entire division was stalled, formation ragged, some still in battle line, some in column by company front, flags hanging limp in the still, humid air.
Ahead he could see a heavy skirmish line atop a low crest, each man several feet apart from comrade to left or right, some standing, others crouching. He rode up to them, men looking back as they heard his approach.
'Keep this line moving, goddamn it! We are going to Baltimore by tonight. Keep it moving!'
‘They’ve slowed Sir, Porter Alexander, at General Longstreet's side, pointed to the low crest six hundred yards away. A Yankee skirmish line was atop the crest having appeared only minutes ago, and the sight that greeted them had undoubtedly caused their coming to a halt.
Twenty-six batteries, a hundred and thirty-five guns, nearly all of them pieces captured at Union Mills, were deployed across a front of more than half a mile. Most of the gunners were new to their tasks, men pressed into the artillery from infantry service, each crew having but one or two veterans to try and train and direct the new hands. But the men were eager, like boys with a new toy. Their morale was good, many gladly proclaiming that if they had known how soft life was in the artillery they would have joined years ago. Then again, none of them had yet to endure a close-in fight, known the terror of mechanically loading while infantry took aim from fifty yards away, or the horror of what happened when a twelve-pound solid shot took the wheel off a gun, flying splinters tearing the crew apart.
Longstreet was silent, watching the opposite crest If the skirmishers were this close, it was evident that the advancing army was not far behind. Even now they would most likely be pushing around the flanks of this position. The feigned retreat was almost over.
'Now, Porter, give it to 'em now. Remember, this is a signal as well!'
Porter grinned and stood up in his stirrups, clenched fist held heavenward.
'Battalions, on my command!' The cry raced down the line. 'Fire!'
Even as Sickles shouted the order for his army to continue the advance, a deep thunder exploded to his front. It started in the middle, several batteries firing simultaneously, and then spread like a string of firecrackers along the entire front, thunderclap building on thunderclap into a continuous roar.
He was a man of courage, and yet instinctively he hunched over when, three seconds later, the blizzard of solid shot and shrapnel swept the crest of the hill. Shells detonated; solid shot skipped and screamed; skirmishers fell flat on their faces, hugging the ground; branches were torn from apple trees, whirling into the air. One of his staff went down, his horse torn nearly in half, screaming horribly as it thrashed about, its legs tangled into its spilled intestines.
The division he had ordered forward was coming up, the men protected by the low rise, but more than one fell from airbursts, from broken branches that drove through the ranks like javelins, thousands of splinters from trees raining down on them.
The division came up, columns shaking back out into battle lines, men hunching low as they reached the crest and then hesitated, not sure what to do next.
He could not leave this in his center, cutting his advance along the roads. If Lee was retreating, was this a throwaway gesture? Perhaps the guns captured at Union Mills? Or were there infantry in the woods beyond, ready to support?
His own artillery was coming up, but already he could see they would be outnumbered. It would take time to bring them forward, organize them on the reverse slope, then push them all up at once.
Could he take this directly? He calculated the odds. He would never be so foolish as to send men into a frontal assault against gun's. Though he cared little for Henry Hunt, he thought of him at this moment, wished he were here to offer advice.
Birney was by his side, wide-eyed. The faster of the gunners had reloaded, and he noted that it had taken them time, a minute or more. These were not well-practiced men.
'Birney, take your men forward!' Dan shouted. 'But for God's sake, don't get into canister range. Stop before then, get your men firing, and sweep those bastards. If Lee wants to give us back our guns, by God, we'll take 'em!'
The battle line swept forward into the valley.
'Up, men, up!' Beauregard shouted, saber drawn, riding across the front of the columns resting under the shade of the trees.
The unmistakable volley of guns from six miles away had come as a dull continual rumble.
General Lee, who had been anxiously looking at his watch every five minutes, and was on the verge of ordering Beauregard in, signal or not, breathed a sigh of relief. The signal meant that Sickles was fully engaged six miles to the southeast. Beauregard was now to slice directly east, rolling up the valley of the Gunpowder River.
The men, eager to begin, raced forward, following narrow woodsman's trails, a country lane, breaking through woods and briars, advancing on the double, unable to be restrained, and he rode with them. Again the joy of battle was filling his soul.
’That's it! Keep feeding it in, boys, you're breaking them, you're breaking them!' The volley line of the Second Division, Third Corps, fought like the experienced soldiers they were. They had been at it for over half an hour, advancing under terrifying fire to within two hundred and fifty yards of the rebel artillery, down nearly into the bottom of the swale, and there stopped. They had long since gone to independent fire at will, some standing, others kneeling. Orders were for them to take careful aim, to make every shot count.
And the casualties they were taking in turn were terrifying. These men were not getting hit by.58-caliber mini6 balls; what was coming back was solid shot and shells cut to one-second fuses to burst in front of them. Men were not just killed; they were torn to pieces by the frightful solid shot and jagged pieces of metal bursting over and around them
Still there was no infantry support for the rebel guns; they were out there, in the open, pouring in fire, the guns having recoiled in places more than fifty yards, gunners not bothering to drag them back up. The smoke parted for a moment, and he scanned their line; scores, perhaps hundreds of rebels were down. Several pieces were silent, abandoned, surviving crews doubling up. But still they kept at it, and he would not push his men into the murderous swath of canister that would greet them if they closed to under two hundred yards. Occasionally a rebel gun lofted a charge of canister in, but it had little effect at this range; shot scattered wide, though here and there an unlucky man would be cut down. No, they were saving that deadly dose for a final charge that Sickles was not yet ready to
