moment of final reckoning.
Others had marched in the West and had known one bitter defeat after another; others had come from Charleston, where the war had dragged on through days of scorching heat and sweltering nights, all to join this legendary and victorious army.
Lee was right, his cry echoing down the line, home, home was just on the other side of this town.
The charge rolled forward, pushing into the reserve ranks of the lines before them, men exhorting each other on, screaming to go, to go, to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line, tripping and leaping over the bodies of hundreds who had fallen in the initial exchange.
'Come on! Charge!'
The wild enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front. Once twenty-five thousand before dawn, then eighteen thousand, now barely sixteen thousand, they began to race forward, a tidal wave, officers caught up in the maelstrom, flags of regiments mingling together, an ocean of armed men bent on victory.
At the barricades, in the ruined houses facing the charge, in the field west of town, Banks's men, tough fighters all, regardless of their dandy leader, saw it coming. They were nearly all from the West and had never known defeat. Or when defeated, they had believed in their hearts it was but a setback of the moment, and tomorrow would set it right.
This was tomorrow. Stand here and it is over. Run and you might live, but run here and there will be another tomorrow in which you will have to face it again or, worse, live out your life wishing you had stood but a few minutes longer.
Officers, some behind, but many now stepping out in front of the men, shouted and pleaded, 'Hold, boys! You got to hold! Reload, let 'em get close. Reload!'
Several flag bearers stepped out of the ranks, holding tattered standards aloft, shouting for the men to stay with them, to not leave the colors, and the ranks surged forward a few feet to rally round those colors.
Ramrods were worked down fouled barrels, rifles then raised, some fixing bayonets.
'Hold fire, boys. You'll have one good shot. Hold fire!' The wall was a hundred yards off, now breaking into a run, the ground thundering at their approach, men standing wide-eyed, officers shouting, a few throwing down rifles and turning to run, the rest ignoring them. 'Hold now, boys. Hold!' 'McPherson!' 'Hold!'
A few more seconds. 'Take aim!'
Nearly five thousand rifles were leveled, men crowding round each other, those few still in ranks presenting, the second rank leaning in between those in front, in most places just crowds of men behind barricades or individuals leaning out of shattered windows and doorways, the metallic sound of thousands of hammers being cocked back.
Those in the front rank could see it, that strange illusion when a volley line presented directly in front of you and it looked as if every single rifle was aimed at you, so close you could see the open muzzle, the eye squinting down the sight. Some slowed, hesitated, others crouched low, as if bending into a storm, those who tried to slow, now pushed on by the mob surging forward behind them.
'Fire!'
Nearly five thousand one-ounce minie balls snapped across the intervening ground in little more than a tenth of a second. Many went high, but many, so many, came in low, hitting legs, stomachs, chests, arms, heads. For a blessed few there was nothingness, that final split second of sight, of looking at the man about to kill you, or gazing down, seeing grass, a clump of weeds, a flower, or a dreamlike vision of home, of someone waiting, a child running toward you… and then whatever it was that waited beyond the nothingness.
For many there were a few seconds, a tumbling backward, a collapsing forward, a few more pumps of the heart, a chance perhaps to realize that this world was finished, it was goodbye, goodbye to summer evenings, to the touch of a girl's lips, the embrace of a mother, the laughter of friends, the pleasure of a Southern evening under the stars.
For many more it was numbness, a falling down, if blessed, no pain in those first seconds, just a numbness, then a mad tearing at a jacket, knowing you were hit, but not sure where. God, don't let it be the stomach. Take a leg, they would bargain now, I can lose a leg, not the stomach.
And they would feebly tear at their clothes to see where the hole was.
Yet for others there was pain, the terrible grinding agony of a thighbone shattering, collapsing, splinters of bone tearing through flesh and uniform, an arm flying back as if pulled by a giant behind them, the elbow shattered, hand nearly torn off, jawbone shot away.
It wasn't just bullets that did this. A musket stock of the man in front would be blown off and spin into another man's face, breaking his jaw, parts of other men's bodies would punch into the those following, canteens, tin cups, cartridge boxes, twisted rifles, broken swords, pieces of shoes, belt buckles; all these became deadly projectiles as well, showering back into the third, fourth, and fifth ranks.
The entire charge staggered. For so many cheering wildly but seconds before, all thought of cause, of glory, of victory, was gone. The world had focused down to them, to them alone. To the hole in the body they were staring at numbly, to a frantic tearing at a breast pocket to pull out a Bible, the letter of a sweetheart, the daguerreotype of a child, for at such a moment, that was truly all that mattered anymore, all thoughts of rights and wrongs, of what had taken them a thousand miles to this place… forgotten.
And yet, though fifteen hundred or more had fallen, there were over fourteen thousand still surging in.
Regardless of the thrust of those pushing in from behind, it took terrible long seconds for the charge to continue forward. Men had to push around the fallen, the dying, the blinded men screaming, dropping weapons and turning to stagger back, and for nearly every man down there was another in shock, reaching down to support a falling brother, a beloved friend, a favorite officer, or just coming to a numbed stop, their face covered in blood from the man in front of them.
'Come on! Keep moving! Come on!'
The charge surged up over the dead, wounded, shocked, and dying and pushed forward, but those few precious seconds gave the defenders the chance to start to reload. Most of them veterans, they glared defiantly at the rebs pushing in, even as they poured powder, slammed ball down barrel, some now just thrusting ramrods into the ground or against a barricade, cocking the piece, pulling out the percussion cap.
There was no time for orders now, no measured volley. Madness on both sides was taking hold, but several thousand completed the mad race, some now firing so close that the discharges burned the men in front of them. Hardly a shot could miss at this range, some of the rebels absorbing five and six bullets. Those up in the second floor of buildings merely had to aim down into the seething mass.
Thousands more collapsed literally at the edge of town, and then the charge was upon them.
Rebels swarmed over the barricades, screaming insanely, aiming and firing down at their tormentors. Men behind the barricades lashed out with musket butts, some swinging them like clubs, catching their foes across legs and knees, breaking bones, the injured collapsing back.
There were bayonet thrusts, pistol shots, shouts, oaths, curses, hurrahs, men fired into faces not five feet away. None now really knew what he was fighting for, other than the raw primal instinct of survival. All speeches, all talk of causes, of rights, of freedom, of land, of honor, of who had wronged who were forgotten by these nineteen- and twenty-year-old boys swept into a nightmare not of their making, a nightmare that they would enact.
If there was any sense beyond the immediate, it was a vague consciousness that somehow, for some reason, at this moment, what they did would finish it forever, one way or the other, and those not yet into the melee were driven forward by that thought, that and the hysteria that sweeps all men being sucked inexorably into the hurricane of battle.
Jeb Stuart was down, horse riddled by a half dozen bullets, sending him flying forward, a fall that saved his life, for at least a dozen more rounds were aimed straight at him. As he pitched forward one round tore open his left sleeve, another creased his brow, a third struck a uniform button over his stomach at an angle, and painfully drove it in, but barely breaking the flesh.
He lay there semiconscious, troopers dismounting around their beloved 'cavalier.'
Beauregard had stepped back in the last hundred yards, letting the charge sweep past him. Dismounted, he stood silent, watching the slaughter. The fight was now beyond anything he could ever control. If victorious now, he would go in; if defeated, he would fall back to confront Lee.
Farther back, Lee stood silent, head bowed in prayer.
