They had long ago gone to independent fire at will. Most of the men had fired off the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes and were now reaching into haversacks and pants pockets or scavenging in the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded.
Bartlett had left his colonel a few times to pace down the line, detailing off parts of companies to stand back from the fight for a few minutes, to upend canteens into barrels to loosen the gummy powder and swab their barrels clean.
Those without water he ordered to pee down the barrels, a few of the men, in spite of the horror around them, laughing about getting shot in the wrong place while they did as ordered.
Guns were so hot that to touch them with bare skin would blister the flesh off, and men actually laughed as one soldier, following Bartlett's orders, suddenly dropped his gun and began to hop about in agony.
As he reached the right flank of the line he looked for Major Wallace, to report that the colonel was badly wounded and would not last much longer, but Wallace was dead, shot through the forehead.
The line was still holding, but over half the men were down. In sections they were stretched out in nearly a straight row, a gap of a dozen feet in the front, and Bartlett ordered men in to fill the gap, calmly telling them to close the line, center on the flag, and keep firing.
Fifty yards back, down in a shallow depression he saw the surgeon at work, and in spite of the call of duty he ran back, looking around frantically. The surgeon looked up at him, pausing while he bandaged off the arm of a corporal and caught Bartlett's eye, nodding over to his right. His son was helping to drag in a man shot in the face. He nodded and ran over to his son.
'Daddy.' The boy looked up at him wide-eyed and then smiled.
'Not afraid now,' his son gasped. 'Too much to do, but wish I could play the drum.'
He patted his son on the shoulder then bent low and sprinted back to the colonel's side.
Just as he reached the colonel the intensity of fire from the enemy side redoubled, swelled, a shattering volley taking down half the men of the color guard. Miller was still standing, though, keeping the national flag aloft.
Washington looked over at the colonel.
'Reinforcements on their side, another wave. Make sure the boys stay low and keep pouring it back.'
'For God's sake, sir,'- Bartlett shouted, 'then you get down, too.'
'Can't,' the colonel gasped. 'Once I lie down, won't get up.'
He was using his sword now as a cane to keep himself up.
The enemy fire sweeping in was deadly. After the first volley from the reinforcements, it was now aimed independent fire, bullets whistling in low.
Cursing, Miller went down, clutching his arm, another man snatching the colors from him, that man then getting hit, and then another took his place.
'They'll come in hard, all at once,' the colonel said. 'If the flank breaks, we have to pull back. Keep the men together, rally them round the colors and keep them together. Try to get them up on the road to town, if not, then back along the railroad track.'
Bartlett nodded, unable to speak.
10:15 A.M.
Move your battery out to the right,' Hunt shouted. The captain in charge of a battery of Illinois gunners saluted, shouted for his men to hook up their pieces and pull them out of the lunettes. He was changing front now with nearly all his guns, shifting from fire across the river to the pounding of the rebel flanking attack. There was little they could actually shoot at, the smoke was too thick, but the sound of battle to their right was swelling, punctuated now by more rebel yells. Anyone with experience knew a breakthrough was coming, and would roll straight toward them.
He looked back toward town. The reserve limbers, loaded with canister, had yet to appear. He needed that canister, and he sent the last of his couriers off to urge the limbers on.
'They're starting to break,' someone shouted, pointing. On the road below, hundreds of men were emerging out of the smoke, Union troops, white and black mixed together, some running, some giving ground defiantly, clustered around a flag, falling back thirty or forty yards, turning to fire, then falling back again.
In ten minutes the rebs would be on him.
'Texas!'
The men of the Texas Brigade were up on their feet, pushing through Beauregard's men and starting forward. It was not a mad, impetuous charge. They came on low, crouching, standing up to fire, going down low to reload, weaving forward a few dozen feet, standing to fire again. The range was so close that now, at last, Lee Robinson could see his enemies, maybe thirty yards off, shadowy dark figures, down low, firing back. No solid volley line, they were shredded, but the survivors were hanging on, refusing to budge.
It was going to take the bayonet.
10:20 A.M.
A courier came up on foot, crouched over, clutching a hand that had taken a bullet. 'Colonel!' 'Over here!' Bartlett cried.
The courier came up and at the sight of the colonel, still standing erect, he forced himself to rise up and then salute.
'General's compliments, sir. Our right has collapsed. You are ordered to pull back.'
The colonel nodded, oblivious to the rebel infantry, shadowy and yet clearly visible not a hundred feet off, flashes of light winking up and down their line.
'Sir, try and get over the railroad and back toward town. But frankly, sir, I think that way is cut off by rebel troops.' 'To where then?'
'Along the river and the railroad track. There's a railroad cut 'bout half a mile back-'
He collapsed, shot through the head. The colonel looked around.
'Hardest maneuver,' he said trying not to bend over from the pain.
'I'll take care of it, sir.' The colonel nodded.
Bartlett went up to the colors, stood up, and looked around. 'Men, listen to me! We're pulling back. No panic. No panic. I'll shoot the first man that turns and runs.' Men looked over at him. 'Load for volley but don't fire!'
Men began to stand up and the sight of it was pitiful. He did not realize until that moment just how many men were down for good. Of the six hundred who had opened fire, barely two hundred and fifty now stood, clustering in close to their flag.
He could hear the rebel yell resounding to his right and now heading toward the rear.
John Miller was down on his knees, and Washington reached down, pulling him up, John wincing.
'Don't stay behind,' Bartlett shouted.
John nodded.
'Fall back! Keep your formation, men. Don't run, fall back at the walk!'
He grabbed the colonel, who gasped and went double. 'Leave me, Sergeant.' 'Like hell.'
'I'm dying. Now leave me. If you don't, they'll get you, too!'
Washington tried to pull him along. 'Damn it, soldier. An order. Leave me!' The colonel straightened up, looked at him, and then actually smiled.
'Good work, soldier,' he gasped. 'Just take me over to the surgeon. I'll see you later when you come back.'
Tears in his eyes, Bartlett realized he could not lead these men out while burdened with a wounded man who could not walk on his own.
He picked the colonel up and carried him over to the makeshift hospital area down in a gently sloping ravine. A hundred or more were on the ground, the surgeon frantically at work. At the sight of his approach the surgeon came to his feet and ran over.
'I'll take him.'
Together they helped the colonel to lie down. 'Where's my son?' Bartlett asked. 'I don't know.'
