A clattering stirred him from the peaceful moment and he looked back to the ford. An ambulance was crossing and came to a stop. The driver jumped down, letting the horses drink, and started to fill canteens. At Henry's approach, the driver stood up and saluted.
'From Gettysburg?' Henry asked.
'Yes, sir.'
One of the wounded was painfully climbing out of the back of the ambulance, a lieutenant of cavalry. 'Are you with Buford?'
The man, cradling the stump of an arm, nodded. Henry dismounted, took the man's canteen, and knelt down to fill it.
'What's going on up there?'
'Hell of a fight,' the lieutenant whispered, 'hell of a fight.'
'Who were you facing?'
'I got hit early. Kilmer in there,' and he nodded to the ambulance, 'leg got blown clean off. Mina, he's dead. Died a few minutes ago. Shot in the head; kept calling for his wife.'
Henry handed the canteen back to the battle-shocked lieutenant, who was trembling as if the day was icy cold. 'What were you facing, son?'
'I heard it was Heth, rest of A. P Hill's corps behind him. Quinn, I tried to stop the bleeding, but that damn driver wouldn't pull over. Kilmer just needs a drink, and he'll be alright'
Henry spared a glance into the back of the ambulance. It was obvious that the lieutenant's traveling companions were dead, and the boy wasn't far behind. The tourniquet on his arm had slipped.
Henry called the driver over. The driver looked into the back, sighed, and then guided the lieutenant over to the bank of the stream. Sitting him down, he started to reset the tourniquet the boy feebly struggling to get back up to give a canteen to Kilmer.
'Hospital area's just to the south of town, a few miles back,' Henry offered.
Henry's orderly came up and, mounting, Henry started off, looking back at the lieutenant who was crying like a lost child.
Riding up the slope from the creek bottom, he had to yield the road several times. Ambulances raced past followed by a lone, panic-stricken rider crying out that the Rebs were into Gettysburg and everyone was dead.
Long experience had taught him that the rear of a battle always looked like a battle lost, and this was no exception. The closer he came to Gettysburg, the more disastrous things appeared. Dozens of exhausted soldiers, collapsing in the July heat, lined the sides of the road, lingering with them the men who had simply collapsed morally and were finding anyway possible to get out of the fight
A scattering of men were drifting down the pike, obviously having been in a fight All were dirty, faces looking like they had escaped from a minstrel show, smudged black from tearing open bullet cartridges with their teeth. He caught glimpses of corps badges, the First and the Eleventh. There was no sense in asking them about the fight. These were men who were getting out and their litany would be the same, that the battle was lost Things must still be holding up front because there was only one true sign of a general retreat when the guns fell back.
A dead horse was sprawled in the middle of the road, covered in lathered sweat next to it an overturned supply wagon filled with rations. A couple of small boys were poking around inside, obviously delighted with all the excitement Anxious civilians lined the road, all of them asking for reassurance, news. The healthy-looking young men in civilian garb caused his blood to boil, and when several shouted questions he was tempted to pull over, grab them by the collar, put guns in their hands, and push them forward.
Off to his left he caught glimpses of a high, tree-clad hill flanked by a lower rise, and he almost pulled over to climb it but decided to push straight on. An old woman standing by a crossroads held up a small basket with fresh- baked bread at his approach, and he reined in for a moment grateful for the offering.
'My boy's with the army?' she said, looking at him hopefully. 'Jimmy Davidson, Fifty-third Pennsylvania. Do you know him?'
'No, ma'am, I'm sorry I don't' 'He'll be all right, won't he?' He reached out and touched her arm. 'I lost my youngest at Antietam. You'll see that Jimmy is all right, won't you?'
'I'll see what I can do, ma'am.' She smiled.
'How far to Gettysburg, ma'am?'
'Only two miles or so. The road comes up behind the cemetery where my husband's buried.'
'Thank you, ma'am,' and he rode on, not looking back as she called out for him to take care of her precious boy.
It was strange but the sound of battle had drifted off, and he half wondered if the engagement had ended and it had, in fact, been simply a diversion. Was Lee up to one of his usual tricks? He felt a vague uneasiness. The entire army was streaming toward Gettysburg, and to turn it about now would be a nightmare.
Along a ridge to the left he caught glimpses of some troopers, mounted, a Union guidon fluttering fitfully in the hot afternoon breeze. Stragglers by the dozens were corning over the ridge, most of them wounded, moving woodenly, slowly; helping each other. A man collapsed and several comrades gathered around to try to bring him back to his feet
Henry pushed on, caught sight of a rise ahead crested with a graveyard, and felt his pulse quicken. Some guns were up there, the crews digging in, dirt flying. He urged his mount to a swift canter and came up the slope.
There was no need to ask for General Hancock. It was plain to see where he was, marked by his corps guidon and a knot of orderlies and staff. Winfield was in the middle of the road atop the crest, standing out in silhouette like some ancient god of war, wreathed in billowing smoke. He was one of those naturals, Henry realized. You could not help but like him, listen to him, be ready to follow him, even though he was six years younger and not so long ago inferior in rank. War propelled some men forward, and Winfield was one of them.
At his approach Hancock turned, an orderly pointing back down the road, calling attention to Hunt. Winfield smiled and Henry gave a casual salute.
'Good place for your guns here, Henry,' Winfield announced, nodding to the cemetery to the left of the road. Henry, saying nothing, appraised the ground. The hill was a clear circular slope, with excellent fields of fire, except for a knoll that extended off to the northeast that would be hard to cover. Ring the upper slope with guns, put a battery or two out on the knoll to secure the flank. Typical of cemeteries, the trees were cut back, well trimmed, 'the open area beneath the branches offering clear fields of fire for canister. A cemetery makes a damn good killing ground, he thought. He barely considered the irony of the thought.
'Are things simmering down?' Henry asked.
'Hardly. Storm's about to break any second. The Rebs have Early's division coming down on us from the northeast, I'm told. Rodes's division is to the north, and all of A. P. Hill's corps are hitting us on the far side of that ridge. We had a hell of a fight to the west a couple of hours ago. They drove us back at first; but that's the Iron Brigade up there; and those boys will hold till the bitter end.'
As Hancock spoke, he pointed out the lay of the land, the town below diem, the open fields beyond to the north. Henry could clearly see dense columns of Confederate troops coming down the road from the northeast, deploying into battle lines, moving through lush, green, patchwork-quilt fields, turning them dark, macabre with their presence, which implied approaching death. Smoke wreathed the hill to the west of the town, but there was little firing at the moment
'Is this the place for the fight?' Henry asked. ''This morning I looked at a place ten miles south of here. It's even better than this. Do you think we could pull Lee down, or is this where we should fight?'
Hancock grinned.
'This is good ground right here, as everyone's been saying, Hunt. Buford saw it so did Reynolds. We might hold them on the far side of town; if not we fall back to this crest dig in, and wait for the rest of the army to come up. For once we have the right position. Put enough guns in the cemetery, and you'll cut the Rebs down like ripened wheat.'
Henry nodded. Yes, the guns could do that; the question was, would the infantry support hold?
'Are you in command here, sir?'
Hancock leaned back in the saddle and laughed softly. 'That's what the old snapping turtle back in Taneytown said. You can find Oliver Howard over there,' and Hancock pointed to the east side of the road. Less than two hundred yards away was a knot of officers.
