The men with the sergeant garnered round, hemming Traveler in, silent looking up at him.
'General Lee!'
He looked back. His staff was coming up, riding hard, obviously frightened that he had slipped from their grasp.
The few hundred who were left of Hood's old Texan Brigade were back into the town as the staff swarmed around Lee, putting themselves between him and the line of fire.
The sergeant who had so defiantly stood against Lee now seemed to shrink as one of the staff angrily shouted for the sergeant to let go of Traveler.
Lee, tears in his eyes, shook his head.
The sergeant let the reins drop and bracing his shoulders looked up at Lee. Their gaze held for a minute, and it shook Lee to the core. The man was true to his word. He expected to be shot for insubordination, an insubordination of trying to save his general from a foolish act. It was one thing to ride along a volley line wreathed in smoke, another to lead a charge into a town. If the sergeant had not intervened, Lee realized, he'd most likely be wounded or dead by now. He looked back up, and the Texans who had turned about were dropping by the dozens as they pushed back into the town.
'Your name, Sergeant?'
'Sgt Lee Robinson, sir, Third Texas '
Lee, in an uncharacteristic gesture, leaned over and extended his hand. The sergeant nervously took it, holding the grasp for just a second before stepping back as if the touch of a god might scorch his hand to the bone.
'I shall pray that you return safely to your family when this is over, Sergeant Robinson. God be with you.'
The sergeant saluted, then lowered his head.
Lee looked back to the west Where was Pickett?
3:10 PM, JULY 3,1863
WEST OF TANEYTOWN
'Virginians! This is our moment! Forward for Virginia!’
Standing in the stirrups, George Pickett raced in front of his advancing line, a battlefront three brigades wide, from left to right half a mile, six thousand rifles flashing and gleaming in the hot, murky, afternoon sun. Four batteries of artillery advanced with him, bronze Napoleons glinting, gunners running alongside their pieces. Red battle flags, the square Saint Andrew's cross of the Army of Northern Virginia, held high, marking the advance.
He wept with joy at the sight of it The chance, at last, to lead a charge across a sunlit field of glory, battlefront sweeping forward relentlessly, marching to the sound of the guns. It might have taken an extra half hour to form everyone into line of battle, but by God, it was worth it for this moment We are ready. We are doing it in style, Pickett thought It was good, so good to be alive on this afternoon in July, the dream of all things possible before him.
3:20 PM, JULY 3,1863
WEST OF TANEYTOWN
'They're coming.' The cry raced down the line. Joshua, intent on strengthening his front, urging the men to dig in, pile up logs and fence rails, anything that could offer shelter on this bare slope, paused and looked to where many were now pointing.
His heart swelled at the sight of it. The flags were visible, held up high, materializing beyond the shallow crest now rifle tips, and men the men. He gasped at the sight of it A division advancing as if on the parade ground, line of butternut and gray, their right flank overlapping the road, the left arcing far beyond his own right
Skirmishers, who had been visible for several minutes, darted forward, coming into long rifle range. From out of the center of the advance, he saw something that he had often read about but never witnessed on the field, a battalion of their artillery advancing with the attack, as in the days of Napoleon, one battery of guns actually galloping ahead of the line and then swinging into position atop the low crest four hundred yards away.
He looked back. The corps artillery was enmeshed in a fight for the town. There was not a single piece here to reply. He knew where that fire would be focused: It would be a cauldron of hot iron against human flesh, and it would be his men who bore the brunt.
Unsheathing his sword, Joshua stepped to the center of the line. He was not one for dramatics but felt that if there was a time for it, it had to be now.
He climbed atop a small boulder that studded up out of the thick pasture grass. 'Men of Maine!' he cried. 'We are the right of the line. We must hold.'
The men looked at him. They were veterans. They did not need the false theatrics that some officers indulged in, and they knew better than to expect it of him.
'The fate of the Republic might rest on what we do now,' he said, with a passionate, heartfelt intensity. 'Let us resolve to stand and, if need be, die for the Union.'
The men were silent, but he could see the glint in their eyes, the nods coming from a few. He stepped back down and turned to face the approaching attack.
Rifles that had been stacked while the men dug in were snatched up, uniform jackets put on, the regiment hunkering down behind the flimsy barrier thrown up in the few precious minutes given to them prior to the attack. The watering party came running up from the creek, twenty men burdened down with the canteens of the regiment Most were still empty, the others covered with mud and green slime. The men grabbed for them anyway.
A lone wagon came up behind Joshua, a welcome sight as half a dozen boxes were offloaded, six thousand more rounds of ammunition. The driver, seeing the rebel advance, lashed his mules, continuing down the line.
The boxes were torn open, packages of cartridges passed down the line, men stuffing the packets of ten into pockets and haversacks.
The first shell screamed in, air bursting just behind the line, shrapnel lashing into the grass. Another shot then another, and in a couple of minutes it was a virtual storm as four batteries concentrated their shot on the Twentieth.
The rebel battlefront came relentlessly in, the center brigade breaking to the south of the batteries, the other brigade to the north. Once sufficiently downslope and below the muzzles of the artillery, they started to edge back in to form a solid front
Joshua watched, impressed by their cool, steady advance, their relentless professionalism. It was obvious the enemy brigade to his right would outflank him by several hundred yards. He looked down his line. There was not much he could do other than refuse die right He passed the word.
The gunners had found the range. Several times he was washed with clods of dirt and scorched grass from shell bursts; men were collapsing, wounded beginning to stagger back.
It was down to two hundred yards, the Confederates now coming down the slope into the shallow valley of death.
Joshua stood up tall, raising his sword high. 'Volley fire present!'
The men stood up, rifles rising up, held high. 'Take aim!'
The three hundred rifles of the Twentieth Maine were lowered. The Confederate advance did not falter, a defiant cry bursting from their ranks.
'Fire!'
The explosion of smoke cloaked the view. To his left the other three regiments were already engaged, tearing volleys ripping across the line.
'Independent fire at will!'
He started to pace the line, crouching down low at times, trying to see what was happening. The charge was still advancing, slowed by the marshy ground but coming on hard. The artillery fire slackened, and he caught a glimpse of men, guns, moving up, coming in closer to extreme canister range.
A volley suddenly tore through his line, men to either side pitching down. The sergeant holding the national colors aloft staggered backward, collapsing, a color guard prying the staff loose from dying hands and hoisting it
