What is this? he wondered. How? Yet the sight before him, though cloaked with heavy smoke, was clear enough. The bulk of Lee's artillery was deployed here, in the center between the two main roads they were using for their retreat. Was he turning to fight?
The division came up, columns shaking back out into battle lines, men hunching low as they reached the crest and then hesitated, not sure what to do next.
He could not leave this in his center, cutting his advance along the roads. If Lee was retreating, was this a throwaway gesture? Perhaps the guns captured at Union Mills? Or were there infantry in the woods beyond, ready to support?
His own artillery was coming up, but already he could see they would be outnumbered. It would take time to bring them forward, organize them on the reverse slope, then push them all up at once.
Could he take this directly? He calculated the odds. He would never be so foolish as to send men into a frontal assault against gun's. Though he cared little for Henry Hunt, he thought of him at this moment, wished he were here to offer advice.
Birney was by his side, wide-eyed. The faster of the gunners had reloaded, and he noted that it had taken them time, a minute or more. These were not well-practiced men.
"Birney, take your men forward!" Dan shouted. "But for God's sake, don't get into canister range. Stop before then, get your men firing, and sweep those bastards. If Lee wants to give us back our guns, by God, we'll take 'em!"
The battle line swept forward into the valley.
9:15 a.m.
'Up, men, up!" Beauregard shouted, saber drawn, riding across the front of the columns resting under the shade of the trees.
The unmistakable volley of guns from six miles away had come as a dull continual rumble.
General Lee, who had been anxiously looking at his watch every five minutes, and was on the verge of ordering Beauregard in, signal or not, breathed a sigh of relief. The signal meant that Sickles was fully engaged six miles to the southeast. Beauregard was now to slice directly east, rolling up the valley of the Gunpowder River.
The men, eager to begin, raced forward, following narrow woodsman's trails, a country lane, breaking through woods and briars, advancing on the double, unable to be restrained, and he rode with them. Again the joy of battle was filling his soul.
9:45
’That's it! Keep feeding it in, boys, you're breaking them, you're breaking them!" The volley line of the Second Division, Third Corps, fought like the experienced soldiers they were. They had been at it for over half an hour, advancing under terrifying fire to within two hundred and fifty yards of the rebel artillery, down nearly into the bottom of the swale, and there stopped. They had long since gone to independent fire at will, some standing, others kneeling. Orders were for them to take careful aim, to make every shot count.
And the casualties they were taking in turn were terrifying. These men were not getting hit by.58-caliber mini6 balls; what was coming back was solid shot and shells cut to one-second fuses to burst in front of them. Men were not just killed; they were torn to pieces by the frightful solid shot and jagged pieces of metal bursting over and around them
Still there was no infantry support for the rebel guns; they were out there, in the open, pouring in fire, the guns having recoiled in places more than fifty yards, gunners not bothering to drag them back up. The smoke parted for a moment, and he scanned their line; scores, perhaps hundreds of rebels were down. Several pieces were silent, abandoned, surviving crews doubling up. But still they kept at it, and he would not push his men into the murderous swath of canister that would greet them if they closed to under two hundred yards. Occasionally a rebel gun lofted a charge of canister in, but it had little effect at this range; shot scattered wide, though here and there an unlucky man would be cut down. No, they were saving that deadly dose for a final charge that Sickles was not yet ready to commit.
But his men were suffering terribly, the artillery fire improving at times in accuracy, solid shot striking just in front of a file, bounding up, obliterating two men in a rank and then bounding on up the slope. It was in many ways far more unnerving than facing a volley line, and the strain was showing. His men were now cursing, down on the ground, loading, trying to take aim, firing, then rolling over on their backs to pour another measure of powder down the barrel, not daring to stand up.
He rode along the volley line, shouting encouragement. Screaming for them to pour it in. He knew he should have left this sector by now, to check on the advance to either flank, but his attention was focused here. If they could finally overrun these guns, by God, what a victory that would be. Then he could plunge straight up the center and catch the rest of Lee's army in the rear.
A constant stream of couriers came in, many hunched low, frightened by the bombardment, reporting that the Third Division of the Third, supported by the Sixth Corps, was even now pushing around the flank of the guns. Another report from the Fifth Corps, that they were continuing to drive McLaws two miles to the north, asking if a brigade should be detached to catch the guns on the other flank, a request to which he agreed.
"Pour it in!" he continued to scream. "Damn them to hell, pour it, boys!"
9:50am
Back a quarter mile behind the line, reluctantly following the orders given to him by General Lee, Longstreet watched the struggle down in the valley below. Behind him an entire division was concealed-Dole's men, rested and waiting-but he would not spring them yet. The time was not yet right.
Overhead and around him a continual rain of branches, leaves, bits of bark floated down or whirled past, tens of thousands of minie balls, fired high, plunging into the woods.
"General Longstreet!" It was Venable. "I've just come from General Lee, sir. He wishes to inform you that the advance of Beauregard has begun. Do not engage until it is clearly evident that the Yankees are in retreat"
"Thank you, son. How are you?"
Venable grinned.
"Turning into one hell of a fight, isn't it?"
"And he's taken the bait," Longstreet replied, pointing to the battered line out in the middle of the field. "Hell, I might of taken it as well, the chance to capture so many guns unsupported by infantry. Masterful by General Lee. Now let's hope Beauregard pushes it!"
10:00 am
‘General Sickles!" Dan looked to his left; a courier, the Maltese Cross of the Fifth Corps on his cap, was riding down the line at a gallop. The courier, a captain, reined in.
"From General Sykes, sir!" He handed over a folded piece of paper.
To the General Commanding
9:25 AM August 20
Sir,
I've observed a large formation of Rebel infantry upon my right, coming out of the woods to my west two miles away. They are formed for battle and advancing on the double towards my rear. Sir, I must stop my advance and turn to face them. I recommend that you come yourself to observe. Flags indicate they are South Carolina, perhaps of Beauregard's corps. Please come at once.
(Signed) Sykes Fifth Corps
Dan crumpled the paper in his hand.
Goddamn! Was he being flanked?
He looked forward. Still no sign of their infantry. Was this the bait of a trap, so many guns that he would of course stop, engage, try to flank, commit his reserves? And now another whole corps appeared on his flank and rear?
He felt a shiver of fear. My God, am I being flanked? Did Lee just trick me, knowing I would pursue what I thought was a retreating army?
"How long ago?" Dan shouted, looking at the captain.
"About a half hour, maybe forty minutes, sir."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes, sir. I was with General Sykes. Division front at least, thousands of them, coming on fast, cavalry skirmishers to their fore."
"Did no one look toward those woods?" Dan asked.
"No, sir, our cavalry patrols were pushed back throughout the night. And, sir, our orders said to follow down the road in pursuit."
"Goddamn you, I know what my order
s said!" Dan shouted. "But your flank, man, your flank, didn't anyone look?"
The captain did not reply.
"Birney!"
"Here, sir!"
"Birney, I'm going up to the Fifth Corps. It might be Beauregard on our flank up there. Press the action here in the center. Keep pressing…"
His words were cut off.
The solid shot screamed in, brushing the flank of his horse and then striking his right leg just below the knee. In the split second it took to pass, the twelve-pound ball, moving at just under seven hundred feet a second, struck with frightful energy. It tore the bone of his lower leg out of the joint of his knee, severing ligaments, arteries, tearing cartilage, whipping the lower leg back at a ninety-degree angle, popping it out of the stirrup.
The angle of the shot carried the ball into the right rear quarter of his horse, shattering its hip, exploding out the back of the tortured animal in a spray of commingled blood, muscle, and bone both from horse and rider.
He gasped in surprise. There was no pain, just a terrible shock. All feeling, sound, sensation, thought were blanked out for a second. Instinct drove him to pull the reins of his mount, which was rearing back and then beginning to collapse onto its right side.
Though he did not see it, the courier from Sykes, who had actually felt the brush of the ball, was already leaning out, grabbing the horse's reins. Birney, on the other side, did the same, his shoulder getting dislocated as the horse pitched and fought
More men came up, struggling to keep the horse upright General Sickles, blood now draining from his face, numb, remained stock-still, frozen in part by fear, in part by the realization that his body would not react that he could not control the struggling animal beneath him.
Hands reached up, grabbing him on the left side.
"Get him down, gently, get him down!"
He started to collapse, sagging. He thought he should pull his right foot from the stirrup. He actually thought he had done so. Somehow they were dragging him up over the saddle, then lowering him to the ground.
He caught a glimpse of the courier, still holding the reins of his horse with one hand, pistol in the other. The man cocked his pistol. He wanted to shout a protest It was a good horse, a damn good horse, a gift from the governor.
The man pushed the pistol against the ear of the dying animal and fired, the poor thing collapsing in a heap.
He looked around. Men were kneeling by his side, Birney, arm hanging limp, struggling to dismount; a private was gazing down at him, wide-eyed, frightened.
The fear came into him, and like all wounded men he tried to sit up. He still wasn't sure where he was hit.
Please, God, not my stomach, not that. I'll lose an arm, a leg, but not in my gut. Seen too many die. He tried to tear at his jacket, to open it up, but hands were restraining him.
"Let me up!" he gasped, and they released him.
His body was still numb; he couldn't tell where he was hit, how bad.
He sat up and looked down at his body.
It was the leg and when he saw it was when the pain hit.
Strange how that worked, he thought His right leg was dangling off at an angle, shreds of muscle and ligaments all that was holding it to his body. A pool of blood was spreading out from the torn stump.
He took a deep breath.
'Tourniquet!"
Already a doctor from his headquarters staff was up by his side, leather bag opened, hands trembling. "Get a tourniquet on that, damn you," he gasped. "I am, sir."
The man wrapped the strap around his leg above the knee and started to turn the screw that would tighten it He felt the strap bite in, dig deeper; he gasped. Damn it. It hurt almost as much as the wound. Still deeper. His fingers dug into the ground, he gritted his teeth, eyes focused on his life blood still pouring out. The pulsing stream lowered, dribbled, became a slow, oozing flow.
He looked over at the doctor.
"Sir, I've stopped it for the moment, but I've got to get you back, tie off the arteries." "And my leg?"
The doctor looked down at the torn remnant and then back at Dan, shaking his head.
'Take it off now, damn it. There doesn't seem to be much left to it anyhow."
"Would you want me to give you ether first, sir?"
Dan looked up at the ever-growing crowd gathered around him, hearing distant shouts that "the general" was down.
No, he was Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac. As he looked at his men, he knew that for them, there was still one more duty to perform this day, whether this day would be one of victory or defeat. He would do it with the style he had always shown.
"Anyone got a good cigar?" he gasped.
The private who was closest to him fished into his breast pocket and with a trembling hand drew out a thick Havana. A shot screamed in, bursting overhead. All ducked for a second, but no one was hit. The private pulled out a match. Dan bit off the end of the cigar, spat out the stub, and nodded. The private struck the match and Dan puffed the cigar to life. "Who are you, Private?"
"Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir."
"Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours."
Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.
"That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day." Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. "Cut away and be quick about it." "The ether?"
"I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!"
Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.
"Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!"
"My ambulance!" the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.
Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.
He knew he should think, should pass orders as to what must be done next. Shock was taking hold, he had to focus, and his focus was now on but one more gesture.
Hawkinson and the doctor came back, carrying the stretcher. Eager hands reached out, lifting him off the ground, bringing him up, turning to head for the ambulance.
"No, damn it, stop!"
"I'm taking you back to the rear, General," the surgeon shouted, ducking low as yet another shot winged overhead. "No. Now up on your shoulders, boys, on your shoulders."
"General, are you mad?"
It was Birney, dislocated arm cradled against his side.
"Eight of you, on your shoulders with the stretcher. I want the boys to see me this day!"
The surgeon started to cry out in protest, but Hawkinson shouldered him aside.
"Goddamn it, you heard the general, now who's with me!"
Men pushed in, shouting, eager for this moment, and together they hoisted Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac, up high, struts of the stretcher resting on their shoulders, the general above them, cigar clenched between his teeth, sitting up, stump of his leg held high. At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up.
"Now down the volley line!" Dan cried. "Walk me down the volley line."
The strange procession set off, moving in behind the fighting men of his old Second Division, and at the sight of his approach the men looked up, fell silent, those on the ground coming to their feet; hats came off, men began to shout.
"Give it to 'em, boys!" he screamed hysterically. "Remember you're the Army of the Potomac! Now charge and give it to 'em! Remember you are the Army of the Potomac …"
"General Sickles, your orders!"
It was Birney, nursing his dislocated arm, running alongside the stretcher. Dan looked down at him but his eyes were wild, filled with battle lust, this final march of a warrior
to some Valhalla, like departure from the world of mere mortals.
Birney fell back, watching as his old general was carried off, disappearing into the smoke. Around him men were on their feet, shouting madly, clenched rifles raised, and then, incredibly, they started down the slope, heading toward the enemy guns.
"For God's sake, General, who is in charge here now?" Birney saw that it was Ely Parker by his side. "Colonel?"
"I heard that report. You are being flanked. You must get this army out. Who is in charge here now?"
Birney drew his sword with his one good hand.
"I don't know, Colonel," he gasped. "I don't know. But I can tell you this: when it's over, tell General Grant we died game. We set the stage for what he will do after we're gone. Now, Colonel, get the hell out of here."
Birney, sword raised high, disappeared into the smoke, following his men.
On the Banks of Chesapeake Bay,
near Gunpowder, Maryland
August 20,1863 3:30 p.m.
“The Chesapeake Bay, sir," Walter Taylor announced.
Lee nodded, lowering his head. Numbed by exhaustion, he struggled to get his right foot out of the stirrup. Traveler, trembling and lathered in sweat, remained still. An orderly ran over and ever so gently helped Lee to swing his leg up over the saddle and dismount.
For a moment he had no feeling in his legs, the sensation frightening. Forgetting all sense of protocol and decorum, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and, when the first cooling breath of air hit his sweat-soaked body, he almost staggered, head light, nausea taking him. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away, the world spinning as he doubled over and vomited.
Walter was by his side, holding him by the shoulder, shouting for someone to fetch towels, something cool to drink. He tried to wave them off. He slowly righted himself.
"War is for young men, Walter. I'm getting rather old for this."
"Sir, many a man half your age has collapsed today," Walter offered.
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