Rodes needed no further orders. He could see where the battered brigades of McLaws and Anderson were beginning to bend under the strain.

Rodes's First Brigade, Daniel's North Carolinians, already deployed in regimental front, leapt forward on the double, while behind them, the brigades of Dole and Ram-seur shook out from column to line by regiment and began to move toward their left Iverson's brigade, so badly shattered in the fight before Gettysburg, was held back for the moment, Rodes having decided to personally lead the unit after Iverson's ghastly, drunken display three days earlier, which had nearly annihilated the entire unit when he let them advance into a trap, while he hid in the rear, bottle in hand.

Lee started to turn, to go in with them, but this time his staff did revolt, pushing their mounts in front of Traveler, shouting for him to stay back. Again the realization hit him, and slightly embarrassed he nodded an assent

Meade, pacing back and forth nervously, turned yet again, raising his field glasses. It was impossible to tell. The smoke was thickening again, the rain increasing, the effect now being to mingle cloud and smoke into one impenetrable haze, all but obscuring the view.

Sedgwick was by his side. "Should I go in?" he asked.

And within Meade, at that moment, there was a terrible indecision. To speak an hour ago of forty thousand men at once sweeping forward was one thing; now he was seeing the result Thousands of men were emerging out of the gloom, streaming back, individually, in groups of two or three, helping a wounded comrade, in several cases entire regiments, or what was left of them, moving slowly, sometimes pausing as if debating their course.

The front of the first trench was still visible in places, easy enough to pick out by the carpet of bodies spread before it

Two entire corps were fought out and now word had just come that Sickles, without orders, had thrown at least another division into the fight advancing onto the open.

If that was true, then Sedgwick was now the only true reserve left that and the small remnant of the devastated First Corps, which had marched up during the night

"Do I go in?" Sedgwick asked yet again.

Meade was silent gazing at the heavy columns of Sedgwick, and the ever-increasing flood of beaten men emerging out of the gloom encasing the opposite ridge.

"Sir, what do you want me to do? Should I go in now or wait?"

"Only if Hancock and Slocum break through," Meade replied.

Meade turned, galloping down the line to see what Sickles was doing, leaving Sedgwick alone.

Longstreet stood with Porter in the shattered bastion built by Cabell and now occupied by Mcintosh's valiant gunners, the Second Rockbridge Artillery posted at the right corner, pouring blast after blast of canister into the smoke, confident that canister would do its work at this distance almost without aiming.

Another of Longstreet's old West Point comrades suddenly went down less than a hundred paces away, John Gibbon struck in the stomach by a canister ball from a Rockbridge gun. John struggled back to his feet clutching the agonizing wound, and continued to scream for his men to press forward.

Another seam in the Confederate line ruptured, as men from half a dozen regiments, all mingled together, pushed up across the road and the ruins of the Shriver house, led by the men of the old Philadelphia Brigade, yet again Irishmen under green flags. The hard-fighting Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania led the way, breaking over the trench, gaining a small inverted V lodgment, bending several companies back to hold either flank. It might have gained momentum, but the Seventy-first, on their right, broke apart only feet away from widening the breech, and began to fall back, their comrades of the Sixty-ninth jeering them before turning back to the fight

Henry, shaking with exhaustion, was at a near hysterical pitch, shouting for his gunners to aim high, to keep pouring it in. He could no longer see what they were shooting at but from the flashes of light through the gloom, and the continual roar of musketry along the crest he knew that the top was almost gained but not yet taken.

Winfield Scott Hancock, hat off, eyes blazing, galloped at full speed down the Baltimore Road, oblivious to Meade's orders to stay back from the fight Those were his boys up there, but that was not where he was heading first

On his right arrayed across the open slope that his divisions had marched down less than an hour before, were the three heavy divisions of Sedgwick, eighteen thousand men… and they were not moving!

Reaching the front of the Sixth Corps, which was deployed at the edge of the flat bottomland, he leapt a ditch, nearly losing his saddle, and then streaked across the field, his mount nervous, shifting and weaving to avoid trampling the dead and wounded.

At last he spotted Horatio Wright commander of the First Division of the Sixth.

"In the name of God, why are you not advancing?" Hancock roared.

"Sir, we've yet to receive orders to go in," Wright replied, stunned by the near hysteria of Hancock. "I was ordered to stay in reserve until a breakthrough had been achieved by your men."

"Goddamn you, sir. Go in! Go in! My boys are dying up there."

"Sir, I was ordered to wait for General Sedgwick to give the final order to advance."

Hancock threw back his head and screamed the foulest of oaths against Sedgwick. Standing in his stirrups, he fixed Wright with a malignant gaze. "Look over there, man!" and he pointed toward the opposite crest "You can see we're almost in. My men are dying up there by the thousands. All that is needed is one more push. Now give your men the order to charge, and I will go with you!"

Wright hesitated, looking to his staff, who were gazing at Hancock as if he were a madman. The seconds dragged out and finally Wright nodded. 'I will follow you, sir."

Hancock swung about drawing sword and holding it high. "On the double, men, on the double!"

Wright's division lurched forward. At the sight of them advancing, the second division in line behind them, Russell's, believing that the order had been given, stepped forward as well, followed a minute later by the third and final division.

Wright's men still had over eight hundred yards to go before coming into effective range; at double time it would take five to seven minutes. If deployed forward, on the opposite side of the valley, it would have only taken one minute.

"Here comes Rodes!" Longstreet cried hoarsely, thrilling at the sight of the brigade-wide front charging the last hundred yards, the Second and Third brigades advancing at the oblique to their own left followed in the rear by the decimated remnants of Iverson's brigade, those men now eager for pay back for the slaughter endured in front of Seminary and Oak Ridges three days before.

The countercharge swept into the thinning volley line of McLaws's two brigades, hitting it like a tidal surge. The units instantly mingled together and now flooded back into their trench, in places continuing straight forward, down the slope, covering the last few paces into the men under Gibbon and Hays.

The charge hit with a vicious momentum, in many places propelling men forward who normally would have hesitated to cross those last ten to twenty feet into actual hand-to-hand combat.

An audible impact of men slamming into men, rifles against rifles, and steel into flesh was heard, the Union line staggering backward like a wall about to burst when hit by a battering ram.

Hundreds fell within seconds, many just tripping, going down in the confusion, men then backing up or pushing forward, stumbling over the fallen and going down as well.

For a moment the battle degenerated into a brawl in which all lashed out, some in rage, others in terror, kicking, stabbing, clubbing, and gouging anyone within reach. More than one man, in his terror, was slammed into by another, and whirling about stabbed a comrade by mistake, sometimes not even realizing what he had done.