Lee felt his features flush. He could see the look in Walter's eyes, the boy edging forward, trying to intervene, to head off the confrontation. An icy glance told him to back off. Lee turned his attention straight at Ewell and those gathered around him. "Sir, I want that hill taken!"
He pointed south, arm stiff, his voice ringing so that for an instant it seemed as if everyone tangled up in the confusion-filled square had fallen silent.
"No excuses. I have tolerated such excuses too often in the past when we had the chance to smash them, and always they got away.
"I am not advising you gentlemen; I am ordering you. I want that hill taken before dark." His voice echoed. All stood silent, stunned by the outburst.
"Where is Johnson? Why is he not going in?"
"He will any minute now" Ewell replied nervously, obviously startled by the outburst "l sent another courier to urge him to move. One of his brigades somehow took the wrong road and started eastward; he is waiting for them to come about and form. Johnson also reported that Union infantry, coming up from the east and south, are threatening his left flank. He reports it is Twelfth Corps."
"Now! I want the attack now!" Lee shouted, cutting him off. "Anderson is committed. Johnson must press straight in with everything he has and worry about his flank later."
The roar of musketry from the hill was rising in volume.
"Both flanks of the hill attacked at the same time, so they are forced to split their fire. That is what I wanted. We can still do it."
"Sir, we've fought a long fight today," Ewell offered, "trying to coordinate an assault from both wings on the run. It's not easy, sir."
"I know it's not easy!" Lee snapped. "Victory is never easy; only defeat is easy. We have a chance to smash them, sir. Smash them! I will not let it slip out of our grasp. I am sick of wasting lives in battles that do not bring final victory. No more waste. Not this time."
His voice pitched up as he said the last words, half standing in his stirrups.
Inwardly he was furious with himself for the outburst, the dramatic display, allowing passion to take control. Jackson had been known for such moments. Longstreet was feared for his famed explosions of rage. That was never me though. I've spent a lifetime learning mastery of myself. The realization of it made him even angrier.
"You are to go directly to Johnson and order him to go in with what he has. Do it now!" Lee announced, his voice set at an icy pitch.
He hesitated for a second. "Walter, go with him."
Ewell, obviously startled by Lee's tone, and the none too subtle insult of having Lee's staff officer go along to make sure the order was carried out, simply saluted.
Ewell's driver mounted-wide-eyed in the presence of Lee and the display of temper-grabbed the reins, and swung the carriage around. Lee wanted to shout with exasperation at the sight of Ewell's carriage trying to inch its way through the mad jumble of confusion that filled the square. Wooden leg or hot, Ewell should be mounted, not riding around town in a carriage.
Walter, showing initiative, simply left him and disappeared behind a jumble of ambulances abandoned at the east end of the square.
Early was looking up at him, silent, dark eyes penetrating.
"Do you wish to say something, General?" Lee asked.
Early nodded.
"Go ahead then."
"Malvern Hill, sir."
"What?"
"That's Malvern Hill up there, sir. It might look easy from a distance, us having them on the run as we did. But they've got artillery up there, lots of it A year ago today, sir, we fought at Malvern Hill, and you saw what their artillery did to us there."
"We could have swept them off that hill an hour ago," Lee replied heatedly. "We should have done it"
"We didn't."
Early fell silent as if judging his words carefully.
"Go ahead," Lee said, trying to keep his voice calm.
"Your blood is up, sir. That's all I'll say, sir. Your blood is
up." -
Startled, Lee said nothing. Looking away, gaze fixed on that bloody hill, that damn bloody hill.
6:40 PM
His guidon bearer grunted from the impact of the bullet. Hancock reached out, grabbing the boy by the shoulder as he leaned drunkenly from the saddle, half falling, guidon dropping.
The guidon had to stay up. The men had to see it, but he would not let go of the boy.
"I'm sorry, sir, sorry," the boy gasped.
Someone on foot was beside him, reaching tip, grabbing the boy, easing him out of the saddle, the youth gasping, clutching his stomach.
Shot in the gut, as good as dead, Hancock thought, trying to stay detached, looking away. A staff officer dismounted, picked up the guidon, and remounted, holding it aloft
Another volley tore across the western slope of the hill, a rebel yell echoing up. They were charging again, coming up over the fences lining the Emmitsburg Road. Behind them a battery of four guns was cutting across a field, caissons bouncing, the first gun sluicing around to a stop, preparing to unlimber at murderously close range.
Henry's gunners, following orders, were ignoring it for the moment concentrating everything they had on the advancing infantry.
A blast of canister, aimed low, tore into a section of fence, which exploded for fifty feet of length into tumbling rails, splinters, and bodies. The charge pressed forward, coming up the slope into the face of forty guns ringing the crest of the hilltop. Gunners, working feverishly, were not even bothering to roll the pieces back into place, simply loading and firing. Some of the crews had even stopped swabbing, running the risk of a hot bore or spark triggering a premature blast in order to save an additional ten seconds.
Shimmers of heat radiated off the guns directly in front of Hancock. Even as he watched, a loader slammed a canister round into the open bore. The rammer pushed him aside, started to drive the round in, and then was flung backward as the powder bag hit a hot spark, seven-foot ramrod staff screaming downrange, rammer writhing on the ground, right hand blown off, shoulder broken, face scorched black.
His comrades pulled him back behind the firing line, the gun sergeant screaming for a replacement ramrod, running back toward a limber wagon.
The Rebs were pushing closer, not coming on in a wild heads-down charge but advancing slowly, pouring in a fierce fire, trying to break up the batteries before pressing the final hundred yards.
Bullets sang around Hancock's ears, his staff ducking and bobbing in their saddles. He rode the length of the line, voice too hoarse to continue shouting. Henry came past, waving his hat, three limber wagons, two chests of ammunition strapped to each, bouncing behind him. He waved them into place, one wagon per battery.
The crest of the hill was crowded with limber wagons and caissons, each with six horses, all of them pressed nearly side to side. Hancock could almost pity the trace riders for the caissons. Regulations stated that when in action the mounted rider of the six-horse team had to remain in the saddle, ready to guide the caisson around if the guns needed to be moved quickly.
It was a ghastly job in the middle of a fight. A man was expected to sit with his back to the enemy, all hell breaking loose, arid just wait It was a type of courage he wondered if he could ever muster… to do nothing but wait.
He reached the south end of the battle line, where a low stone wall jutted out to the west for fifty yards, a small grove of trees behind the wall. Buford's skirmishers crouched behind the wall; Calef's hard-fought battery of mounted artillery occupied the angle, pouring shot into the enemy flank. The four Reb guns deployed on the far side of the road opened on Calef, but he ignored them, his men simply ducking as a shell screamed in, then returning to their work of laying down case shot on the road.