"Then do it Resume fire."

Henry nodded and, stepping back, he raised his fist up.

10:50 AM

Longstreet was up out of the trench, standing with Porter inside the shattered remains of the earthen fort occupied by what was left of Cabell's battalion. Over half the pieces were destroyed, the gunners all but collapsing from shock and exhaustion. The brief respite allowed them a few minutes to sink to the ground, oblivious to the blood, the dead horses, the dead men dragged to one side. The wounded who could not walk were being run out by stretcher bearers taking advantage of the interlude.

"I think he's about to open up again," Porter announced.

Pete, standing beside him with field glasses raised, nodded in agreement

"They're good, damn good," Porter offered.

"So are we," Pete snapped. "Your gunners are pretty damn good, too.".

He lowered his glasses, looking to the left and right. Some of the infantry were up out of the trenches, walking about examining the damage, like boys who had taken shelter from a violent storm and were now looking at the destruction wrought

The position was still relatively intact casualties about what he had expected. The long bitter hours of work yesterday and through the night were now paying off. If the men had been caught in an open field under this barrage, he doubted if they could have held.

The men suddenly began to scatter, diving back into their trenches. He looked back and saw the flash of fire racing down the front of the grand battery, like firecrackers igniting on a long string.

The sound finally hit a sustained rolling boom, followed a little more than a second later by the scream of more shells coming in. Dignity forgotten, he flung himself down against the parapet Porter by his side, as dozens of shells and solid shot plowed into the battery position. Screams echoed as the concussion of detonations washed over him.

Porter grunted, cursing. Pete looked over. The man was grimacing, holding his arm, the sleeve of his uniform sliced open, blood already welling out

Behind them a caisson blew, jagged splinters spraying the position.

Pete stood up, knowing that if d be a minute or more before the next salvo came in.

Porter, shaking, face pale, stood up, clutching his arm. "Let me see it" Pete shouted.

"I'm all right" and he gingerly held out his arm, flexing his hand, the gesture indicating that a bone was not broken. A gunner, seeing the situation, came up to Porter, pulling out a handkerchief, which he deftly wrapped around the arm, pulling it tight so that Porter cursed softly under his breath.

"Another one!" somebody shouted.

Again they were down, the blizzard of shot raining down on the position.

"Damn all, General, my men can't take this much longer."

Pete nodded, standing back up again. Two of the guns with the battalion finally responded, lone shots going back in defiant response.

He realized that his staying at this exposed point served no logical purpose. Lee was right on such things; the potential loss of a general through reckless exposure was nothing more than a foolish waste. Save yourself for the key moment not now. I get hit and things here might begin to fall apart

Reluctantly he scrambled up over the side of the parapet motioning for Porter to follow, blocking out the stares of the gunners watching him leave, hoping they did not see it as cowardice that he was leaving them to stand the hurricane alone.

Porter moved slowly, favoring his arm. "Can you stay in command?" Pete asked. "Yes, sir, I can manage. They will not drive me off this battlefield."

The curtain of smoke on the opposite slope began to part again, and seconds later more shots came screaming in.

"He's measuring it out now," Pete announced "They must be running low on ammunition. We have their supplies, and it is beginning to limit their rate of fire."

He stood silent for a moment, staff that had been trailing the two trying to act poised, but obviously nervous as a solid bolt came far too close to the group, killing the horse of a courier, who jumped off as the dying creature reared up screaming and then went down on its side.

Suppose they don't come in? he thought Then what?

"Porter, how is the ammunition supply?"

"More man enough left sir. I have more than a hundred rounds per gun stockpiled back there," and Porter gestured toward the rear area, where the park of limber wagons was clearly visible and safely out of range. "And then there are the additional supplies at Westminster. The Union army has provided for all our ammunition needs."

The group ducked as yet another salvo impacted dirt flying. Another secondary explosion ignited from within Cabell's position. Part of a broken wheel came spiraling out of the battery position and plowed into Longstreet's staff.

A staff officer was down, trying to stifle a scream, leg torn off below the knee; another man had been hit in the chest by a wooden splinter as thick around as a man's wrist blood washing over him.

Pete, stunned came up to the first man's side, grabbing him by the shoulders, holding him as someone struggled to wrap a tourniquet around the knee.

Stretcher bearers came running up, lifting the wounded captain up, and then turning to run off. Longstreet stood up, trying to wipe the blood off on his trouser legs.

He looked around at the carnage and destruction. Porter was right Cabell's men, and beyond him the redoubt held by Poague's battalion, were played out shattered by the thousands of shells that had poured in on them.

"Order Cabell to pull out now, also Poague's battalion. Have them retire to the rear."

"Sir?"

"Order them to retire now!" Longstreet shouted.

"And bring up the reserve?" Pete shook his head. "No."

He turned away, catching the eye of Wofford, the brigade commander holding the heights above the mill. "Come here, Wofford."

Wofford, as ever, stepped smartly forward and saluted, looking a bit absurd since his uniform, which had been all brightness and shiny trim the day before, was completely soaked in half-dry mud.

Wofford stared at Longstreet as the order was given.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Just do it," Longstreet snapped. "Do it now."

11:15 AM, JULY 4,1863

"Are you seeing this?" Meade asked, riding up to where Henry stood at the center of his grand battery.

Henry nodded, lowering his glasses. The rebels were abandoning their two main bastions facing the ground over which Second and Twelfth Corps were supposed to advance.

"Are they pulling back, Hunt?"

"I can't tell yet, sir."

Now he could see infantry getting out of the trenches, not many, but still a significant number, breaking, heading to the rear. His ears were ringing; sound was distorted. It was hard to see, not because of the smoke, but because of his own eyes, which were red, stinging, tears clouding them.

He looked at Meade.

"Hunt, have you done it?"

"Sir," and he paused to rub his eyes with blackened hands, "Sir, I can't tell you that. I see two battalions of their guns withdrawing. Some infantry breaking. I know we gave them a rough going-over, but I can't speak for anything beyond that"

Even as they spoke, Hancock came up, followed only a minute or so later by Slocum and Sickles riding side by side. "Are they breaking, Hunt?" Hancock cried.

Henry felt his chest tighten. He knew that here, now at this moment, whether he wanted to or not, the decision was devolving into his hands. If he said no, if he told Meade flat out that the sustained bombardment by every gun of the Army of the Potomac had failed, perhaps this assault would be called off.