7.30 AM, JULY 4,1863 UNION MILLS

Exasperated, Winfield Scott Hancock looked to the heavens. It seemed as if the rain was easing slightly, the uniform flat dull gray beginning to shift, a cloud parting for a second, revealing a gunmetal blue patch of sky before closing over again. Occasional spits of rain fell for a few minutes then drifted away.

His men, deployed out in the open fields behind Union Mills, sat on the ground, hunched over, heads bowed. They had begun to file into position at dawn. There was no enthusiasm, but then again these were veterans, not green boys excited about going to see "The Elephant" for the first time. They knew what was coming, what to expect.

The two-division front stretched for nearly half a mile, Caldwell's men forming the first wave on the left, a division of Twelfth Corps to his right, then Hays's the second wave, and Gibbon's-whose boys had taken the brunt of yesterday's assault-the third.

He rode slowly along the line, motioning for the men not to stand up, offering words of encouragement, trying above all else not to reveal the heavy sickness in his heart as he looked at them, his men, his boys.

Most of the men of Kelly's brigade were saying the rosary, kneeling together in a semicircle, prayer beads out, Chanting together… "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…"

He had been their division commander from the banks of Antietam Creek to Chancellorsville and knew many of them by name, never forgetting the sight of them going up the slope at Fredericksburg chanting "Erin go bragh!"

He respectfully edged around the circle, not wishing to disturb them, taking off his hat as he passed

He looked up the slope to where scores of limber wagons were parked What had been dull shadows only minutes before were now visible, wisps of steam rising off the backs of horses.

All was silent.

8:10 AM

Pete Longstreet, sitting on a camp chair, nursed his fourth cup of coffee of the morning, gaze fixed northward The coffee was excellent, several wagon loads of the beans having been found in Westminster and brought up during the night Someone back there was thinking. Many of the men had not had a real cup in months, and as it was distributed along the line in the early morning men awoke to the smell of kettles full of the brew boiling on smoldering campfires. Several dozen head of cattle and pigs were driven up as well and slaughtered just behind the line. His men were going into this one well fed for once, and he could sense the effect as men chewed on half-cooked steaks or fried pork. There was even real sugar for the coffee. He knew that McLaws was most likely chafing at being stuck back at Westminster, but the man was doing his job, knowing what the boys would need this day. Along with the food had come the entrenching tools and ammunition, extra boxes stacked with each regiment covered over in the trenches, and extra limber loads for the artillery kept a mile to the rear.

Most had slept only four or five hours, the work details for digging in finally told to stand down shortly before midnight if for no other reason than the fact that the men were literally collapsing from exhaustion. Most had simply gone to sleep in the mud. Tents had been left behind long ago. Almost to a man the troops were filthy beyond belief, having marched for days on dusty roads and then labored like madmen for upward of twelve hours digging in. In some cases you literally could not tell who was behind the encrusted dirt.

Still, no time to stop digging and clean up. The fortifications were still not up to his liking. In most places the trenches were only three feet deep, with the dirt piled up forward to form a parapet. The battery positions had been fortified with whatever trees or lumber could be found for additional protection.

The artillery battalion bastions, positioned above the mill and then spaced at intervals of two hundred yards or so down the length of the line, were the strong points, fallback positions for infantry as well if the line broke. These points were fully enclosed on all four sides, with earthen walls four-to-five-feet high, strengthened on the inside with logs and cut lumber.

Unfortunately, there was no reserve line to the rear, nor traverses; not enough time for that. Extra supplies moving up and wounded heading to the rear would have to run the open gauntlet behind the lines.

A forward line, down at the bottom of the slope, was little more than a shallow cutout, able to protect men lying down, but not designed for a hard, stand-up fight There were no covered access ways down to the forward line. The men stationed forward would have to simply hold as long as possible then, if need be, run like hell up the slope to gain the protection of the main line. But if they did their job right they would slow down and break up the coherence of the Union charge. That could be worth everything.

The scattering of trees, saplings, and brush bordering the flat bottomland had been cut down to provide a clear field of fire.

A faint breeze stirred, and he noticed that the steady drumming of the rain had eased, almost come to a stop. Mists still blanketed the valley.

The shadows of the hills to the north, only moments before a dim outline, began to take shape, coming into focus. The men who had been up out of their trenches, gathered round smoky fires, drinking coffee, wolfing down strips of meat with singed fingers, fell silent, all looking to the north.

Now he could see them; all could see them. The crown of the opposite ridge was a raw slash of earth across more than a quarter mile; the guns lining the brow were a dark menace. Another great battery, farther down the slope and to his left, positioned near a farmhouse that had been torn apart during the night, was composed of Napoleons, their bronze barrels dull in the diffused gray light.

Longstreet looked over at Porter. Nothing needed to be said. Porter nodded and then, strangely, he came to formal attention and saluted before mounting up to ride down the line.

Pete took another long sip on his coffee and braced himself for what was to come.

8:50 AM, JULY 4,1863

"Battalions, on my command!"

All up and down the line 120 gun crews stood to attention, battery commanders standing back from their pieces, looking in the direction of Henry Hunt each crew sergeant standing with lanyard taut, layers, rammers, loaders, fuse setters, runners all poised, ready to spring into action.

A shaft of sunlight poked through the clouds for a second, fingers of light illuminating the ground below and the opposite slope. The air was still, not as hot as yesterday, but thick with humidity. He knew that within minutes smoke would obscure the target, and the battery commanders had been given careful orders to ensure that their guns were properly laid after every shot.

He raised a clenched fist heavenward and held it poised for a moment.

All were silent and he felt as if he were on a stage, the culmination of all that he had ever lived and trained for narrowing down to this moment

Dean God, please let this work, he thought and even as he muttered the prayer, he knew the irony, the obscenity of it praying that he could successfully kill hundreds on the opposite slope with what he was about to do.

His arm started to tremble. There was no reason to wait to drag it out Let it begin. He let his arm drop.

"Fire!"

The cry echoed down the line, battery commanders mimicking the downward sweep of his arm. The salvo ripped down the length of the line, 120 guns recoiling, more than three hundred pounds of powder igniting, twelve hundred pounds of solid and case shot splitting the silence apart as the bolts shrieked across the valley.