His voice trailed off for a moment and he lowered his head.
"My God, Pete. My division. My boys. I think I've lost half my men in this fight. We can't hold much longer. I need support."
"You weren't supposed to do this!" Pete roared. "You were to engage, then withdraw slowly back on your support."
Pickett looked at him wide-eyed, unable to speak.
"You were to fall back, not wreck your division!"
"I'm sorry, sir," George replied, voice breaking. "I felt I could handle them, and I did until they brought up another corps."
"General Hood's been forced to move his lead division farther forward to try and support you!" Pete shouted. "His men have forced-marched over forty miles. You were to fall back, damn it!"
Longstreet looked past Pickett to the volley line, shadowy in the smoke. This was typical of George, focusing on the ground. Ground that had been insignificant a day before, now suddenly so important that a thousand should die holding it, if for no other reason than pride. Now he had bled most of his division out fighting an entire corps. Granted, he had most likely given back as good as he received, but still, the butcher bill was beyond anything he or Lee wanted to pay.
"I want you to prepare to withdraw now," Pete said.
Pickett looked at him, incredulous.
"Sir, my men have paid dearly for this ground."
"It's not the ground I want at this moment," Pete snapped. "General Lee wants Sickles, but not at the price of destroying the only army we have left on this field. Hood's old division even now is deploying behind you, a mile back. You are to fall back."
"I object, sir. Ask Hood to come forward. I think we should hold here. My boys have paid a terrible price for this ground, and to retreat now," he sighed, "it will mean defeat. I cannot see surrendering ground that gallant Southern blood has been spilt upon."
Longstreet looked at him, incredulous. It had been the same at Gettysburg, the first day, General Lee suddenly obsessed with ground purchased by blood, not willing to give it back, not able to see at that moment the broader nature of the fight, the battle, the entire war. Thank God, Lee had realized it in time, and then developed the plan that had created Union Mills. And now Pickett was caught in the same lust.
"Hood's men cannot move another foot. Damn it, follow my orders," Pete snapped. "Obey my orders now or surrender your command to someone who will!"
5.30pm
'That's it, Warren. Go, boys, go!"
Riding at the front of his Second Division, Gouverneur Warren turned, sword raised, offering a salute to Sickles.
Behind Warren a division was deployed on a front a third of a mile wide, coming up out of the swale of Gunpowder River, advancing at the walk, bayonets fixed, rifles held at the "bayonet charge." The vast, terrifying, machinelike line marched into the smoke slowly drifting back from the thundering volley line held by the shattered remnants of the forward divisions, Third Corps and his own division, which he had thrown in an hour ago.
Already some of his men were dropping from sheer exhaustion, the heat most likely hovering at a hundred degrees. Here and there distant, spent rounds were striking men with still enough force to fracture a skull or break an arm. As quickly as men fell, others closed up the ranks.
Knowing that the ritual moment had passed, Warren reined in as they went into the smoke, letting the first wave of five regiments, all of them Vermont boys, press forward. Those closest to him raised kepis in salute and pressed on into the fog of battle.
He swung in behind the first line, in the swirling smoke catching sight of the second wave, tough, hardened veterans of the old First Corps, still carrying their original corps banner though they had been incorporated into his own. He stood tall in the stirrups.
"Old First. Remember Gettysburg! Remember Reynolds. God be with you!"
His salute, a reminder of glory and tragedy past, roused them and a cheer went up.
"The First, the First, the First, remember Reynolds!"
He fell in to their front, riding with them.
The volume of fire ahead increased, deep thunder of artillery adding in, the whirl of spent canister rounds slashing overhead.
The line passed the ground where the first volleys had been fired, crossing over the prone formation of hundreds of dead and dying men, of the Third Corps, their reduced numbers a cold, frightful testament to their courage, their resilience, and discipline, to having stood under the blazing August sun, exchanging volley after volley with Pickett's legion.
Lying on the ground, a few of those wounded looked up, raising clenched fists in salute.
"Give 'em hell, boys, give it to them!" the cry echoed. More than one of the advancing line stripped off a precious canteen and tossed it to the fallen; hands touched hands, the fallen and those still to fall.
These men of the old First knew, they knew far more than perhaps any veterans of the war, what was to come. These were the men that had held Seminary Ridge at Gettysburg, losing seventy percent of their numbers. These were the men who had gone in at Fredericksburg, charged the Cornfield at Antietam, and stood in volley line against the Stonewall Division at Groveton. The humiliation of Union Mills burned in their souls, and it was time to right that, to restore pride, even if it meant dying in the act of succeeding. They were the inner heart, the steel soul of the republic.
Here they come!" Lo Armistead looked up, torn away from the side of a dying comrade who was whispering a final farewell, a wish to be buried alongside his wife in Stanton. He could see nothing for a moment. His eyes stung, watered, and with a blood-soaked hand he tried to wipe them clear.
Yes, my God, he could see them, a solid, blue-black wall emerging out of the smoke.
"Oh, my God, here they come!"
The cry went up and down the line. Exhausted men coming back to their feet. With a final burst of draining energy, men struggled to ram another charge down fouled barrels. Where a thick, solid double line had stood two and a half hours ago, now there was little more than a skirmish line, here and there half a dozen feet between men, thicker clusters around shot, shredded battle flags.
Lo wept unashamedly at the sight of it, tears streaming down his blackened face. Victory or defeat, never had he known such pride as he did at this moment, his men still not giving back, still standing defiant. And yes, pride in his foe as well, who he knew had suffered as grievously as his own brigade, and yet were still coming on.
"Volley fire." His words came out as an inaudible croak.
He turned to one of the few of his staff still standing; the man, knowing what he wanted, handed over his canteen. Lo took a deep drink, then another, hawked, and spit, clearing his parched throat
"Volley fire. Virginians! Volley fire!"
His desperate cry was echoed and picked up.
"Lo!"
It was Pickett and, to his amazement, Longstreet at his side, oblivious it seemed to the wall of Yankees coming at them.
"Fire and withdraw!" Pete shouted. 'Try and keep formation; don't let your men break!"
The two galloped off before Lo could respond in outrage to the order. He would be damned if his men would ever break.
The Yankee line was closer, a hundred and fifty yards out. "Volley fire, then withdraw fifty paces on my command!" Lo shouted.
"Virginians, take aim!"
Where once more than twenty-five hundred rifles would have been lowered in response, now barely a thousand remained.
'Take aim!"
Again the reassuring and yet frightful sound of hammers being pulled back. "Fire!"
A wall of fire erupted. Not coordinated, starting at the center, then rippling down the line to either flank. "Virginians. Back fifty paces!"
His men seemed to hesitate. Heartbreakingly, he saw one of his men directly to his front lean over, an elderly man, beard gray, kissing a fallen boy on the forehead, laying a Bible on his breast.
The battle line started to fall back, the few surviving officers shouting for the men to hold ste
ady. The elderly man was by Lo's side and Lo reached out, touching his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Lo whispered.
"My only boy," the man replied and then lowered his head.
5.45pm
'They're breaking!"
Warren pushed his mount to a canter, coming up behind the line of the Vermont regiments. They were across an open, marshy stretch of pasture, leaving behind the exhausted men of the Third Corps and his own first division. The sight had been horrific. Here had been a fight like Groveton, the Cornfield, a stand-up, knock-down volley fight at two hundred yards that had endured for hours, neither side willing to give back, neither side able to advance under the withering fire delivered by their opponents. In places, the dead and wounded of the Third Corps were heaped two and three deep, the survivors hunkered down behind the Mien.
The marsh was actually stained pink with blood, as hundreds of wounded from both sides had crawled down to the water, desperate for anything to drink. The formation of the
Vermonters broke repeatedly and re-formed as they swung around clusters of the fallen. They pushed up the slope, and a volley hit. In the seconds before it slashed in, he saw what they were facing, a thin line, looking to be nothing more than skirmishers, which disappeared behind the smoke. But their fire was still deadly, dozens of boys from Barrington, Bennington, and Stowe dropping.
Without orders from him, the cry went up for advance on the double, drummers increasing the cadence, men now leaning forward, picking up the pace of their advance. Behind him he could hear the third brigade shouting, surging forward, crying Reynolds's name.
A second volley hit, not as effective as the first but dropping more nevertheless, and then there was a shadow across the crest, and for a second he hesitated. It looked as if a solid line was down on the ground, waiting now to stand up and deliver a scathing volley at point-blank range.
But these were men who would never stand again. The dead were piled thick, the ground behind them carpeted with wounded crawling back. The attack slowed for a second, as soldiers stepped gingerly over the enemy fallen, then pressed forward yet again, only to encounter a second line of fallen a hundred yards farther back, atop the low crest of a hill.
"Forward, keep moving! Forward!"
As they crested the hill, they began to emerge out of the valley of smoke and death.
He could see them now, a broken, pitiful-looking remnant, not a line really, just clusters of men clumped under blue flags of Virginia and the red St. Andrew's crosses of the Army of Northern Virginia, falling back on the double, men struggling to reload, groups of them turning to fire, then falling back yet again.
The Vermont regiments halted, again without his orders. He would have just pushed. But the men were too exercised now that their foe was finally in sight.
'Take aim!"
A thousand muskets were leveled.
"Fire!"
The volley swept the front; in the split second before smoke obscured everything, he saw rebels dropping by the dozens.
"Reload!"
Ramrods were drawn, charges pushed home in gun barrels that were still clean, the metallic rattle of ramrods in barrels echoing along the line.
"Hold boys, now hold!"
Rifles came up, were shouldered.
"Charge bayonets!"
With a wild shout, a thousand rifles were brought down from shoulder arms, poised now level at the waist, bayonet points gleaming in the late-afternoon sun.
"On the double, quick! Charge!"
A wild, hysterical shout rose up. The line surged forward, men screaming incoherently, the lust of battle upon them, the lust of revenge, of pent-up rage, of all that they had suffered and endured; a chance to restore the honor of the Army of the Potomac was here at last.
5.55pm
Any hope of controlling his brigade was gone, and for the first time in his life on a battlefield, Lo Armistead ran for his life. He did not know where he could gain one more ounce of reserve to move one step farther. He weaved like a drunken man.
The old man who had lost his son was down, shot in the back of his head, his brains staining Lo's jacket, the impact of that round nearly pushing Lo into panic.
He wanted to shout for his men to hold, to rally, but he could no longer find voice for it.
Out of the smoke of the battle line he could see the survivors of Pickett's division streaming back, running across meadows, pushing through cornfields, climbing over fences, men collapsing from exhaustion and wounds. A knot of men were gathered around a barn, leaning against the building, which was beginning to burn. They fired away, then turned to run.
He caught a glimpse of Pickett, staff trailing, riding across the front of the retreat, waving his sword, crying for the men to hold fast. But after more than three hours they had been pushed beyond all endurance. Longstreet was nowhere to be seen. Beyond all caring, Armistead staggered up to an abandoned farmhouse. Wounded were sprawled on the porch. From a shattered ground-floor window, he saw several men peering out, one of them raising his rifle to fire. A man came bursting out the front door and then just collapsed, shot in the back.
Lo looked back. The Yankees were charging less than a hundred yards away, bayonets flashing, a terrifying wall, coming on remorselessly, overrunning a battery position, the gunners breaking away from their pieces and fleeing before them.
"Come on, General, let's get the hell out of here!" An arm came under his shoulder, a burly corporal, a giant of a man at over six feet by his side, lifting him up. "Come on, sir, time we got the hell out of here." "I’m all right, leave me." The corporal laughed.
"Can't say I left my brigadier behind. Just promote me to captain when this is over. Now let's get the hell out of here!"
6:05 p.m.
‘Form here!" Longstreet roared. "God damn it get into line here!" General Robertson, leading Hood's old division, saluted and galloped off along the edge of the woodlot. A battery of guns, Rowan's North Carolina, were already into the woods, barrels of their pieces projecting out over the low split-rail fence, infantry swarming in to either side of the guns.
Behind him he could hear hundreds of men running through the woods, pouring off the main road coming up from Baltimore, shaking out from column to line, the men panting with exhaustion, officers shouting for men to load, to get ready, to keep inside the woods.
Already the first of Pickett's division were coming in, staggering out of the cornfield to their front, their passage marked by the swaying of the head-high corn. Raising his field glasses, he could see to the far side of the cornfield a quarter mile away, where the relentless advance of the Army of the Potomac was pushing forward, driving the stragglers of Pickett before them.
Pickett's boys had been routed by this last charge, but he could not blame them. They had faced off against a corps and a half for three hours under a killing sun, inflicted thousands of casualties, and had baited the trap, which was beginning to unfold. But it would only be a trap if their panic did not envelop the exhausted reinforcements now coming up.
Robertson's division was filing into position. Behind them, a mile away, Hood's entire corps was advancing and deploying out as well. It was possible, just possible, that after more than forty miles of marching with thousands- perhaps ten thousand or more stragglers dropping out on the road, the rumors sweeping back of defeat-even these hardened men might break and run. On such things, on such moments, battles often turned.
He rode along the edge of the woods, eyes blazing, watching intently as division broke into brigades, brigades into regiments, regiments into companies, falling in along the fence at the edge of the woods, men hunkering down, loading, sliding rifles over the top of fence rails, staring blindly now into a cornfield where the enemy would not be visible until he was only thirty feet away.
Robertson's division waited for the impact of the charge.
6.10pm
‘Hold them back!" Warren shouted.
The Vermonters were already into the cornfield. The men
were panting from the heat, the pursuit of the last mile that had carried them across pastures, fields
of winter wheat, corn, orchards, and farm lanes. They had swept up hundreds of prisoners, all Confederate resistance collapsing. But in the cornfield ahead, there was something that was triggering in him a sense of foreboding. "Holdback!"
His cry went unanswered. He turned, riding across the front of the reserve brigade, the boys from the First Corps, shouting for them to halt, but only those directly to his front followed orders. The battle front was nearly a half mile wide, and one lone voice at such a moment could not be heard.
The charge plunged into the cornfield, trampling the crop under as it advanced.
He caught a glimpse of Sickles coming up, army commander banner held high, staff trailing behind him. Warren raced back.
Sickles was exulting, swept up in the moment of glory, of victory.
"Call it off!" Warren cried. Sickles slowed, looked at him.
"For God's sake, we've driven them. It's enough for now."
"I know. God damn them, we're driving them. Your boys are magnificent!" Sickles cried.
"No, sir. Halt now!"
Sickles looked at him, incredulous.
Warren gasped. "We don't know what's waiting ahead. Stop this charge!"
Sickles, eyes blazing, said nothing, and then rode past, following the charge; Warren, knowing not where to go at this moment, falling in behind him.
6:15 p.m.
‘Hold your fire, boys, hold it!"
Longstreet rode back along the line concealed in the woods. Hundreds of Pickett's men were still passing through. He caught a glimpse of Pickett, face ashen, riding past, then Lo Armistead, limping, helped along by a huge enlisted man who pushed him up over the fence, the two collapsing on the other side. "Steady!"
From the slight rise within the woods he could see them coming, a relentless wall, corn being knocked down by their advance, bayonet points sticking up, flags rising above the corn. To his left a volley erupted where one of Robertson's brigades, on the far side of the woods, was engaging. In the woods all was strangely quiet for a moment, officers hissing commands, a gunner screwing up the rear screw of a field piece, dropping the muzzle lower, loaders already standing ready with double canister alongside the muzzles of the guns, a few officers looking north, a man up in a tree shouting that the Yankees were only fifty yards off, then jumping down. Rifles were leveled over the fence, hammers back, here and there a man firing, foul oaths shouted at the nervous to hold fire, hold fire, hold fire!
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