"He's going to do it" Porter Alexander, Longstreet's corps artillery commander, shouted, pointing across the valley to the north side of Pipe Creek.
Longstreet intent on watching as the men of Barksdale's brigade furiously dug in, looked up.
Along the crest of the ridge, twelve hundred yards to the north, a line of skirmishers was in view, followed a moment later by a battle line of Union troops, a quarter of a mile wide.
He raised his glasses, scanning the advancing troops.
"A division at least," he remarked to Alexander.
Some of Barksdale's men stopped in their backbreaking labor and looked up. "Keep at it!" Longstreet shouted. "They won't be here for fifteen minutes. Keep at it!"
The men reluctantly stooped back over. Across the crest of the hill looking down on the mill, Barksdale's boys were digging in. Dirt was flying as men dug away with bayonets, canteens split in half, and the few precious shovels that someone had thrown into an ammunition wagon.
Saplings and low brush down along the slope, which flattened out into the bottomland of the creek, were being cut back to deny cover, and several hundred men were swarming over the mill, tearing off planks, clearing out the stacked-up lumber alongside the mill, and dragging the loot uphill to reinforce the trench.
The artillery batteries were better equipped for this kind of work, the crews laboring to build up lunettes, crescent-shaped earthworks around each gun, which Alexander had personally set in place.
The few scattered trees were going down as well, dropped by men who had an ax or hatchet with them. Sharpened stakes were being cut to drive into the ground, branches dragged into place and then tied to the stakes to act as a barrier to slow down a charge.
But his men, arriving exhausted, had only been at work a couple of hours. A day here, with fresh troops, Longstreet thought wistfully, even twelve hours, and I could turn this into a fortress that could stop ten times their numbers. The earthwork was barely knee-high in places, the ground hard and flinty.
Wofford's brigade had fallen in on the left of Barksdale only an hour ago, their line barely traced out The four batteries assigned to McLaws were up, positioned between the two brigades, but short of ammunition after the action in front of Westminster. The Confederate army might have stumbled onto the biggest bonanza of the war in Westminster, but the town was still burning, reports indicating that it was utter chaos, McLaws's remaining two brigades struggling to round up prisoners, sort out some supplies to send up to Union Mills, and fight the fire sweeping the town.
Barksdale came up to Longstreet, white hair hanging limp, covered in sweat from the heat "Should I get the boys formed?"
"Five more minutes."
The minutes slowly ticked by.
Longstreet finally turned and nodded. "Order your men to arms."
Barksdale let out a whoop and took off at a gallop, shouting for his men to form. Bugles echoed, drummers picking up the long roll, and the men of his command eagerly scrambled out of the dusty trench to where weapons and uniform jackets were stacked twenty yards to the rear.
The Yankee line was less than a thousand yards off, and now a second battle line emerged, this one moving on the oblique to the right
Alexander waited quietly by Longstreet's side. The young artilleryman was calm, not begging for orders, knowing that he had to go with what little ammunition he had.
A Union battery crested the hill, six pieces, moving fast, guns skidding around as they swung into line abreast. A second battery came up and then a third. The infantry advance slowed and then halted, standing roughly eight hundred yards off, left flank into the edge of the small village on the other side.
Longstreet nodded to himself. Hancock knew he had to take this place, that he was most likely only facing two brigades. He wasn't going to make the mistake of feeding his men in piecemeal, the way it had been done too often by the Yankees. He would bring up every man and gun he had and then throw it all in at once.
The first gun on the other side fired; six seconds later the shot roared in, plowing up a furrow of earth in front of the First North Carolina Artillery. The gunners from Carolina hooted derisively. Seconds later the other guns of the battery opened, and a minute later another battery joined in.
The Tarheel gunners were soon down on the ground, hugging the earth behind the lunettes, as solid shot plowed in and case shot began to detonate around them.
Barksdale's men, now armed, were back into their shallow trench, some standing to watch the show, others hunkered down to wait out the storm, a few continuing to dig away.
The Yankees soon had five batteries up on the crest, thirty guns banging away, and Longstreet could tell that Alexander was getting edgy, especially when a solid shot hit one of the guns from North Carolina, smashing a wheel, the piece collapsing, a wounded gunner staggering out from behind the lunette, screaming, a jagged splinter the length of his arm transfixing him through the stomach. Several of his comrades came out, ducking low, grabbing the man, who, seconds later, collapsed dead.
The bombardment continued, and off to the left Longstreet saw a third line emerging, this one clearly overlapping Wofford's position.
He reined his mount around and trotted down the line, ignoring the shells winging in. An airburst detonated over the trench to his right, dropping several men. He pushed on, reaching Wofford's line. Looking back over the Union forces, he saw they were preparing to overlap him by at least a quarter mile or more.
There was only one thing to do, and he passed the order for Wofford to extend to the left, doubling the width of front covered by the unit, and sent Alexander galloping back to the North Carolina battery with orders to pull out of then-position and move down to the left flank.
Minutes later the five surviving guns of the battery thundered by at the gallop, dismounted gunners running to keep up.
The Union artillery fire shifted, now dropping down on
Wofford's men, who were spread out along the crest, exposed, lying down in the high grass of the pasture.
Longstreet, ignoring the shot humming in, slowly rode the line, letting the men see him.
"Here they come!"
The cry went up along the line, some of the men standing up to see. Longstreet looked to his right and saw them, the left wing of the Yankee line starting to advance, coming down the sloping hill, the two divisions on their center and left holding their ground.
This was going to get dicey. Hancock wasn't coming straight in; he was trying to stretch the line out, overlap it, pull off Barksdale from the position overlooking the mill, without having to charge straight in. Smart move. Though Hancock had three-to-one odds in his favor, the flat, open ground in the vicinity of the mill would be murder to cross in a direct frontal attack.
Alexander, without waiting for orders, finally unleashed his guns, dropping shell and case shot into the flank of the advancing division. Wofford's men tensed, waiting, as the range closed to six hundred yards, then four hundred, the Yankees hitting the shallow creek, slowing as they stumbled through the marshy ground.
Longstreet watched them, scanning the advancing line with his field glasses. The ground was wet and would soon get churned up. If I get another chance at this, he thought, I should push a line forward, down near the base of the ridge to tear into them when they hit the marshy ground.
The North Carolina battery was in place; and though the range was long, it opened with canister.
The second Yankee division now started forward, a classic attack in echelon, aiming for the center of Wofford's line and the artillery.
Longstreet grabbed a courier, sending him off to Barks-dale, ordering the release of a regiment to extend into Wofford's line and provide close support for the guns.
The range was less than three hundred yards; with the field glasses Longstreet could pick out individual faces. The men were holding formation, sloughing through the marsh grass and damp meadows, the land beginning to slope up under their feet. "Make ready!"
The cry raced down Wofford's line, men standing up, holding rifles high. 'Take aim!"
Longstreet felt a frightful cold chill streak down his spine. It was horrifying to watch and yet beautiful as well, fifteen hundred rifles leveling across a front of four hundred yards, the hot noonday sun sparkling off the barrels.
"Fire!"
The volley roared, tearing across the crest of the ridge. Seconds later fifteen hundred ramrods were withdrawn, men emptying cartridges, pushing down loads, raising their rifles up, cocking, putting on a percussion cap, taking aim, and firing again, a continual roar as fifteen hundred rifles were discharged every twenty seconds.
The smoke eddied and boiled around him. He rode down the line, standing in the stirrups trying to see above the yellow-gray clouds. No one was falling along the line; the Yankees must still be coming on, pushing up the slope.
He reached the battery at the far end of the line, two guns aiming straight ahead, three angled to the left, hitting into a regiment that was beyond their flank and coming up fast. They were less than 150 yards out, charging, bent over low, a regimental flag out front, a mounted officer leading the way.
The small troop of cavalry that had ridden with Longstreet was out on the flank, individuals armed with carbines, a few with revolvers, spreading wider to try and contain the threat
Another blast of canister ripped into the Union charge, dropping the mounted officer and the flag bearer. The men slowed; some came to a stop, raised their rifles, and fired. Longstreet felt something tug at his shoulder, and he turned slightly.
"You're hit!" It was Wofford, on horseback, coming up to Longstreet's side.
He looked down and saw the torn fabric, but there was no pain.
He looked at Wofford and forced a grin, though his heart was now thumping hard, shaking his head.
‘I’ll hold them here, sir," Wofford cried. ‘I’d prefer it if you got back a bit, sir."
Longstreet nodded. There was no telling what was going on at the center or right He was the commander of a corps, not a brigade. Wofford was ambitious as all hell and could control things well enough.
He turned, another bullet clipping the mane of his horse so that it danced for several seconds on the edge of bolting until he reined in hard. He finally eased up and rode at a swift canter down the length of the line. It was hard to see with the smoke, but the line appeared to be holding. Men were dropping, indicating that the charge had come to a stop, the Union forces firing back rather than advancing.
Now it would be a question of volley against volley. Hitting men on a crest was far more difficult than troops deployed in the open and downslope. Once the troops out in the open stopped their charge and began standing and firing, they were sapping the momentum of their attack by the minute. The longer they reloaded and fired, the less likely they were to ever again be able to move forward. The ground might negate the three-to-one odds, but then again a determined charge just might break through. However, with this kind of firing, a new charge was less and less likely.
Reaching Alexander, he slowed for a moment. A fair amount of rifle fire was coming in on the guns, the Union artillery continuing to hit the position as well. Gunners worked their pieces, drenched in sweat each discharge cloaking the field in smoke.
He heard a tearing volley from the right, Barksdale's men. So Hancock was wagering it all, hitting along the entire line.
Riding to the right of center, he saw the mill, blue coats swarming around it Yankees hiding around the building and in the miller's house. A column of troops was storming across the bridge, ignoring the horrific casualties from the canister sweeping down from the heights, coming on at the double.
The charge continued on the road, a couple of regiments, running hard, colors bobbing up and down, men dropping. One of Barksdale's regiments stopped firing, waiting, men loading and holding rifles at the ready. The charge was coming up the slope, and he felt a surge of pride for those men. They had guts.
The range was less than a hundred yards, and still Barks-dale held, another regiment falling silent, loading and waiting.
The range was at seventy-five yards, and the cry went up.
'Take aim!"
Five hundred rifles aimed downslope. The seconds dragged out, the hoarse cries of the Union troops rising up. ‘Fire!"
He watched, features fixed, trying not to feel anything as the charge disintegrated, dozens of men going down, collapsing, their cries clearly heard.
Twenty seconds later another volley tore in and the charge broke apart, the men running back, a taunting yell rising from the Confederate lines, some of the men coming up out of their shallow trench, beginning to charge, officers screaming for them to stand in place.
And then it was over, like the passing of a summer storm that in one minute had been blinding in its intensity and now began to drift away to distant thunder and clearing skies. The smoke slowly lifted, drifting in great dark clouds, stirring and parting as the occasional hot breath of wind wafted across the crest
The land below was littered with hundreds of bodies, some still, others crawling or twisting about in agony, their comrades falling back into the marshy ground, bugles calling for the retreat
He watched it curious, for a moment. They had pulled back without a real fight, not pushing in hard. That wasn't like Second Corps, which had stood defiant for hours, charging again and again at Fredericksburg.
No, that was Hancock. He's doing what I would do. Make a stab at it, hope you can break through in one quick rush; but if you can't, don't bleed yourself out He might very well have been able to take this ridge, but his corps would be a shambles by the time they were atop it Hancock could see that. And as always, there was the element of doubt Hancock did not know what I might have or not have concealed just beyond this ridge. Take the crest with nothing left in reserve and then get torn apart by a counterattack.
Pete smiled.
He'll maneuver now, most likely to our left and come in again on ground he hopes is clear. And he will soon have a lot of friends to help him if the rest of the Union army is now on the way to recapture Westminster and re-establish a line of communication with Washington. This was only the first bloody probe of what could be a long couple of days. The rest of our army had better get here if we are to hold this line against the entire Union army.
Several of the men were up and out of the trench, one of them waving a dirty handkerchief in one hand, a canteen in the other, heading down to help the tangle of bleeding men in the road.
We kill each other and then turn right around and risk our lives to save each other. A strange war, Pete thought
The Yankees in the mill began to fire, not at the good Samaritans, but aiming to the crest, at Longstreet and the men around him.
He raised his glasses and for a moment thought he caught a glimpse of Hancock on the other side of the bridge.
You'll be back, Pete thought, next time on my flank and with more guns. Always you'll have more guns than we do. So we dig in and pray for reinforcements.
He looked to the west. Hill's divisions were still not in view, and beyond, from over by Taneytown, the gunfire echoed.