And then what? Follow Sickles's wild scheme? Meade would never do that. Fall back on Harrisburg? Impossible. Just as impossible as trying to flank to the left Washington would hang all of them because surely Lee would finally move toward the capital, even if just to occupy the outskirts, to bring the place under siege and trigger a panic.
No. Fate was drawing them in. The web, whether created by us, by Lee, or ordained long ago, had come to this moment He looked back at the long lines of troops. Some were standing up, many of them looking straight at this knot of officers, obviously the high command of the Army of the Potomac, who were about to make the decision.
A light shower opened up, the cool rain drifting down.
"If you are going to do it sir," Henry replied, voice trembling, near to breaking, "then do it now. I have to break off this barrage to keep enough rounds left to provide minimal cover once you go in. Once the columns are into the valley, I'll open back up with measured support"
Meade said nothing; the corps commanders were silent; Hancock was stock-still, gazing across the open ground.
"Now is the time, gentlemen," Meade announced, voice steady. "To your posts. Remember my orders. No corps commanders are to go forward. My headquarters is here, and I expect you to report back here. Hunt in ten minutes, fire one salvo from all your guns; that will be the signal to go in."
Henry nodded, unable to respond.
"God save our Republic," Sickles whispered, taking off his hat and lowering his head.
Henry, startled, looked up at the normally profane general.
The corps commanders rode off at a gallop; the sight of them moving thus, followed by their flag bearers, set up a rippling cheer from the tens of thousands assembled behind the ridge. Drums began to roll, bugles echoing, calling the men to arms.
Henry lowered his head and prayed, letting the minutes slowly tick out.
He finally looked back up and saw Hancock, dismounted, kneeling in the wet grass with Kelly's Irishmen, a priest standing atop a small boulder, making the sign of the cross. Battle flags were uncased; a hundred or more American flags, each one marking a regiment, were held up, a faint breeze stirring them to life.
The sight of them made his heart constrict, his throat going tight, tears coming to his eyes. Today is the Fourth of July, he thought yet again. Dear God, let there be reason to celebrate another come next year.
Kelly's Irishmen were back on their feet, their battle chant beginning to echo, "Erin go bragh."
Other regiments began to cry out as well, "The Union, the Union, the Union!"
His gunners were poised, at their pieces, looking toward Henry!
Hat still off, he looked straight up, letting the light rain wash his face for a moment.
Henry raised his hat up over his head, and cleared his throat "Battalions, at my command!"
The cry was picked up, racing down the line yet again.
He looked across the field, gaze fixed on a small knot of mounted officers atop the distant crest He closed his eyes and slapped his arm down. "Fire!"
For over eighty thousand men, Union or Confederate, it was a moment unlike any seen before, a moment all would carry to their dying hour, whether that was but minutes away or destined to be four score years into the future.
Hancock, tears streaming down his face, saluted as the Irish Brigade started up the slope, falling in to ride by their side.
Sickles, not yet back into his own lines, turned, mesmerized by the sight of two full corps, the 22,000 men of the first waves, going up the slope, line after line, flags held high, a breeze snapping them out
Henry, arms at his side, turned, watching the vast phalanx approach. As the first battle line drew near, he shouted for his gunners to stand clear, trace riders to hold their teams. Many of the gunners came to attention, saluting; others cheered, their cry picking up, echoing down the lines…
"The Union!"
For most of the men, there was no grand sight If in the first line, just the slope of the ground ahead, dead horses littering the field, dead artillerymen, now the guns coming into view, gunners blackened standing, saluting, some cheering.
For those in the second rank, the third rank, or those with Sedgwick's corps moving forward to occupy the ground just vacated, all that could be seen was the man in front haversack and canteen over left hip, sky blue trousers caked with mud, trampled grass, occasional stains of blood, and bodies where those caught in the barrage had stayed behind. File closers kept shouting the same litany, "Close it up. Guide on the colors, boys. Close it up."
Some prayed; some, caught in the grandeur of the moment stared about Men with the Twentieth Massachusetts, Hall's brigade, of Gibbon's division of the Second Corps, led by a grandson of Paul Revere, heard an officer reciting from Henry V. Some scoffed; more than a few recited along, knowing the words by heart…" 'we few, we happy few, we band of brothers… "'
Along the far slope, twelve hundred yards away, men were up and out of the trench. A teenage boy from North Carolina, one of the "pets" of the company, disemboweled by a fragment, was surrounded by weeping comrades as he penned a farewell note to his mother with trembling hand, then accepted the draught of morphine from a doctor who knew the amount he was giving to him was not murder, but a merciful blessing.
Others stood silent, voices whispering in awe, "Here they come; my God, here they come."
John Williamson, with Sergeant Hazner by his side, was silent, watching as first the tips of flags, then muskets, appeared along the crest of the ridge; and then, finally, the first rank was in view, a solid wall half a mile across, followed by another rank, and then another.
It was terrifying, and yet it held him with its frightful grandeur, its pageantry, the sheer power of what was unfolding before him, coming straight at him.
John looked over nervously at Hazner, who gave him a tight-lipped grin. Standing to the rear of the trench, they slowly paced the line together. The regiment had taken a couple of dozen casualties so far, one shell detonating inside the trench, killing several men and horribly wounding half a dozen more. The wounded were being carried to the rear in the lull, the dead pulled out of the trench. John stepped around one of the bodies, swallowing hard as he looked down. It was Mark Arnson, one of the boys from home, a cousin to Elizabeth. Same hair, pale blond. He looked away.
One of the men had a Bible out and was standing, reading it aloud.
"'A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee
He felt cold, empty, the words bringing no comfort. Thousands would fall in the next few minutes. If all of them pray this same prayer, then whose trust will be betrayed?
If only I could believe, take comfort in that. As he paced the line, he looked at the men, their expressions, wondering who would still be alive an hour from now, who would be silenced forever.
The vast, undulating line of blue was atop the opposite crest, coming on relentlessly.
"My God," Hazner whispered, "I'm glad it's them rather than us."
John said nothing. Hand absently slipping into his haversack, touching the leather volume, wondering if he would ever write in it again.
General Longstreet stood with arms folded and for a moment he felt doubt, hesitation. Such power, line after line cresting that distant ridge, coming on as if they would never stop, feeling as if behind them came a million more. Can I hold them now? Even if we do stop them today, can we hold them?
A cheer began, rippling down his line, building in intensity, the rebel yell. He sensed, though, that it was not given in the lust of battle, as his men so often did when going into a charge. It was a salute, an acknowledgment that those coming toward them had created a moment never to be forgotten, a moment that, win or lose, would be remembered across history.