'Sir?' Moxley looked at him, a bit confused.
'Every regiment, every battalion, I want them here! Get a message back to General Lee as well. Tell him we've pinpointed the location of Sixth Corps. They are directly in front of us. They are not before Taneytown; they are here!'
Moxley saluted and galloped off, his horse kicking up sprays of mud
Longstreet swung up into the saddle. The rain had closed in hard, dropping visibility to less than a hundred yards, so that for a moment the advancing lines were lost to view. There was no need to see them; one could hear them, the ground, the air vibrating from the steady trample of eighteen thousand men, coming straight at him.
Henry watched the advance, tears in his eyes, knowing that the timing was off, that they should have gone in ten minutes earlier.
Barely able to speak, he grabbed the nearest battery commander. 'Pour it in. Sweep that crest Don't stop!'
The major shook his head. 'Sir, we're out. Just canister and half a dozen rounds of case shot as reserve.'
'Then fire the case shot!'
Even as he spoke, Meade, who had swept past Henry twenty minutes earlier, in response to the word that Sickles was advancing, reined in.
Sedgwick, hat off, came racing up to join Meade.
'Did you order your men in?' Meade shouted.
'No.'
'Then why are they going in? Did we break through?'
Sedgwick hesitated. 'I'm not sure. I sent a courier down to order them to stop, but they are still going forward.'
'They're going in without orders?' Meade cried.
Henry looked at the two, at first mystified, and then overwhelmed with despair.
'I did not yet order the final advance,' Meade gasped.
Henry, all thought of propriety gone, stepped forward between the two. 'Let them go!' Henry shouted, his voice breaking. 'They still might carry it.'
'It's out of control, Hunt,' Meade said, his voice cold and distant. 'Sickles went in without orders; it's too late to stop him; now this, my last reserve other than First Corps.'
Henry wanted to ask him why, if that was the case, had he had Sedgwick move up halfway in support to start with. He sensed that at this moment Meade was losing his nerve, thinking more of a battle lost than a battle that could still be won.
'They can still carry it' Henry offered.
'Those are my men going in without my orders,' Sedgwick announced stiffly.
'Then go in with them now, sir,' Henry replied, his voice filled with rebuke. 'Show them that you can still lead.'
Sedgwick glared at him coldly. 'Goddamn you, sir. I'll have you court-martialed for that'
'Go ahead,' Henry said wearily, shaking his head.
The nearest battery fired, and Meade, startled, looked up.
'I thought you said we were nearly out of ammunition.'
'I'm putting in what we have left' Henry replied, turning away from Sedgwick. 'My God, those men need my support Sir, they are our last hope. Let them go in.'
Meade was silent watching as the Sixth Corps started up the slope, disappearing into the smoke and mist
'Go, John, see what you can still do.' Meade sighed.
Sedgwick glared angrily at Henry for a moment and then, with a vicious jerk of the reins, turned his mount around and raced down the hill.
Henry said nothing, looking up at Meade, who sat astride his horse as if transfixed, not moving, almost like a statue, rain dripping from the brim of his hat
Flashes of light danced along the ridge crest; long seconds later the rumble of a volley rolled across the valley.
'I've lost control of the battle,' Meade whispered, speaking to himself.
Even as he spoke, Henry saw a rider emerging through the drifting clouds of smoke, standing tall in his stirrups, shouting for General Meade. A gunner pointed and the courier turned, seeing the flag of the commander of the army, and raced up, then reined in hard, mud splattering up from his horse.
'Sir, I've come down from Hanover, sir,' the courier gasped. 'Hell of a ride. Damn near got caught twice by Reb cavalry.'
As he spoke the courier fumbled with his breast pocket and finally pulled out a packet It was sealed with wax, several large matches tucked into the edge of the envelope, so that if the courier felt he would be captured he could quickly burn it
'Has anyone else brought this in?' the courier asked.
Meade grabbed the envelope and shook his head.
'I was told three other riders were carrying the same message, sir.'
'Well, Lee is most likely reading those by now.'
Meade tore the envelope open; inside were two memos. Henry, standing by his side, caught a glimpse of one, the letterhead standing out boldly
THE WHITE HOUSE.
Meade read the first memo and then the second one. His shoulders slumped.
'My God,' Meade whispered, and folding the letters from Lincoln and the contradictory one from Halleck back up, he tucked them into his breast pocket
'Useful for my court-martial,' he said, looking at Henry; then, turning slowly, he rode away.
Hancock continued to ride back and forth across the front of the advancing division, shouting for the men to keep moving, to close it up, to close in.
A blast of canister swept across the line, dropping Wright and a dozen or more around him. He could see them now, the final line, the ground before the entrenchment paved with bodies. 'Just a few feet more!'
John Williamson, with Hazner at his side, braced for what was about to hit the right wing of the Union advance lapping over into his division's entrenchments.
Merciful God, when will this ever end? he silently pleaded.
More than one officer, pistol ammunition expended, had picked up a rifle and stood on the firing line. Williamson held his poised, waiting for the order.
'Ready!'
He raised his rifle up, hands trembling, and then brought it straight down. It was hard to pick an individual target; all he could see was a dark blue wall emerging, coming up the slope. Time seemed distorted, the men in front of him moving woodenly, slipping on the wet grass and mud, line weaving as the Union troops stepped around and over bodies. 'Take aim!'
He pointed his rifle downrange, finger curled around the trigger. A rider crossed in front of his sights, turning, sword held high, now coming nearly straight at him.
'Fire!'
He squeezed the trigger, the heavy Springfield rifle recoiling sharply. All was again cloaked in smoke. It was impossible to see, to know, what he had done.
The blow slammed Hancock back in his saddle. At nearly the same instant, his horse reeled, screaming pitifully, half rearing up, blood cascading out of a torn neck, the round then bursting through the pommel of his saddle and into Hancock's upper thigh. For a moment Winfield was filled with a blind panic, terrified that his horse was rolling over.
Hands reached up. Someone was grabbing the reins of the horse, pulling its head down, steadying the dying animal. Others grabbed Winfield, dragging him from the saddle. The shock, the pain, struck him with such intensity
