back up.
His men were down now, crouched behind their cover. Shooting, tearing cartridge, kneeling up to pour the powder in and push the bullet down into the muzzle, charge rammed down, then sliding behind their cover again while capping the nipple, taking aim, and firing.
Flash moments stood out, a man endlessly chanting the first line of the Lord's Prayer while loading and firing, a young soldier screaming hysterically while cradling the body of his brother, an older sergeant laughing, cursing as he coolly loaded and took careful aim, all wreathed in smoke, fire, sections of piled-up fence rails disintegrating, the men behind torn apart with splinters as a solid shot smashed in.
The smoke eddied and swirled, parting momentarily to reveal a surge of rebel troops coming up the slope, stopping and firing a single volley, men in gray and butternut dropping, then slowly falling back… and then surging forward again.
He heard wild shouting, looked to his left and saw a red flag right in the midst of the Eighty-third, a mad melee of clubbed muskets, men clawing at each other, the charge falling back.
To his right the enemy attack had already overlapped, a couple of regiments across the creek angling up the slope into his rear. Grabbing Tom, he sent him down to the end of the line, ordering him to refuse the right yet again, to turn a thin line back at a right angle. He lost sight of his brother.
How long it had gone on it was hard to tell. The sun shone red, dimly through the smoke. Men were standing up, pouring precious water from their canteens down their barrels, the water hissing, boiling, then running a quick swab through in a vain effort to clean out the bore enough so they could continue to fight. Some were tossing aside their rifles, clogged with burnt powder, picking up the weapons of the fallen.
The Confederate artillery relentlessly pounded away. In several places the dry pasture grass was burning, adding to the smoke.
'Chamberlain!' He looked up. To his amazement it was Sykes in plain view, his mount bleeding from several wounds.
'Are you Chamberlain?'
Joshua instinctively saluted. 'Yes, sir.'
'I'm retiring the corps!' Sykes shouted, voice drowned out for a moment as a shell exploded directly above them.
For a second he thought Sykes had been hit; the man seemed to reel from the shock and then recovered.
'Chamberlain,' and Sykes's voice was low-pitched, the general leaning over, staring straight into Joshua's eyes.
'Sir.'
'I need twenty minutes, Colonel. Your regiment is staying behind.' 'Sir?'
'The corps is flanked here. They're counterattacking in the town. The Fifth is fought out I have to save what is left, Colonel. As this brigade begins to fall back, you are to retire, slowly forming a defensive line. Then, sir, you must hold. You must give me twenty minutes to save what is left'
Joshua nodded. The world seemed to be floating. He felt a strange distant detachment from it all. This man was ordering the annihilation of his regiment and all he could do was nod in agreement
'You understand what I am ordering, Chamberlain. No retreat. You stand until overrun. You must stop this charge.'
'Yes, sir.'
Sykes sat back up in the saddle, his staff gathered nervously around him, ducking low as a shot screamed past
'Strong is dead, Chamberlain. So are Barnes and Crawford.'
The words seemed to float through him. He knew he should feel remorse, anguish over the death of a trusted comrade. But he found himself still trying to fully comprehend Sykes's order.
Sykes extended his hand, and Joshua took it
'God be with you. I hope we meet again someday.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Sykes spurred his mount and galloped off.
Joshua dwelled for a moment on the absurdity. That man had just ordered him to near certain death, and he had thanked him for it The madness of war.
'Company officers!'
The men came in, only half a dozen; the rest were down, or did not hear the order. One of them, thank God, was Tom.
He squatted down, the men crouching around him. 'The Eighty-third is falling back!' one of them cried, half standing and pointing. 'I know; that doesn't matter.'
They looked at him, focused, some already sensing what their corps commander had just ordered.
'We're staying behind. The corps is pulling back. We're the sacrifice to buy time.'
'Goddamn!'
Joshua fixed the swearing captain with a sharp gaze. Embarrassed, the man lowered his head.
'We start to fall back, slowly, spreading out to fill the line and try to draw that entire division in on us. Don't lie to the men. Tell them what we must do. We hold until overrun. I'm not ordering any of you to die. You feel you can't hold anymore, that it is meaningless, then try and get out with what you can.'
'Lawrence, you're staying, though?' Tom asked. Joshua nodded.
'Begging your pardon, sir, but I'll be goddamned if I run,' the profane officer announced.
Joshua smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. 'Good luck to you.'
He stood back up. 'Twentieth Maine. Form skirmish line. Guide on me!'
The company officers raced down the narrowing front, passing the word. Several men looked at Joshua, incredulous; one of them stood up, threw aside his rifle, and ran. A sergeant started after him, but Joshua called him back.
'I want volunteers this day!' Joshua cried. ' 'The rest of you who have not the stomach for this fight, let him depart''
The men looked one to the other, several of the more literate grinning at his theft of a good line from Shakespeare.
The men began to spread out into open skirmish order, extending their front as the other regiments gave way.
To either flank, the enemy division surged forward, wild exuberant shouts marking their advance.
Joshua continued to back the line up slowly, men firing, loading as they fell back a dozen paces, firing yet again. The flanks were overlapped, some of the Rebs surging on, particularly along the road that was too far away for him to cover, but in the center, and on the right, the Confederate charge curled in on this last defiant regiment
Several minutes passed, and then a blizzard of shot began to sweep the line as entire regiments fired volleys into this final knot of defiance. He had a moment of grim satisfaction, realizing that in the smoke and confusion shots that were missing his men were slamming into the opposite flank of the enemy.
Joshua, bent low, came up to the flag bearer.
'I don't want our flag captured. Cut it up!' he shouted.
The men nodded, grounding the staff. One pulled out a bowie knife, and tears streaming down his powder- blackened face, he cut the national colors from the staff and with violent slashes began to tear the flag to ribbons. Several of the color guard gathered around protectively, the men tearing off parts of the stripes, cutting away the stars; and then racing down the volley line, they paused by each comrade, slapping a piece of the precious fabric, so proudly borne in battle, into the hands of those who had stood beneath the symbol of all that they fought for.
This action triggered a final, convulsive ringing in, like an animal trapped in a fire, which finally, in its agony, begins to curl up on itself to die. The men came in around the bare staff, fragments of flag passing to outstretched hands, many of which were trembling, covered with blood.
Joshua reached out. The color bearer, weeping unashamedly, handed him a small patch of blue emblazoned with a gold star. Putting the fragment of flag in his breast pocket, then with sword in his left hand, Joshua drew a
