It had taken fifteen minutes for the smoke to slowly clear, fifteen minutes of agonizing frustration. Even the slightest of breezes would have
lifted the curtain, the thick humid air holding the clouds in place.
The rebel lines were now visible. They were continuing to fire back, a slow measured pace, but with the lifting of the smoke it was regaining accuracy, another of his guns dismounted by a direct hit as they waited for the air to clear.
He carefully scanned the line with his field glasses, Meade by his side.
The shooting looked fairly good in places. The parapet overlooking the mill was torn, busted down in places, four, maybe five guns definitely out of action. The grand battery of Napoleons to the right was continuing to fire slowly, shot impacting along the lower line. But the enemy was still in place, a fact that did not surprise him at all. It was one thing for guns to engage an enemy out in the open, another to try and force them out of a prepared position.
He looked over at Meade. Hancock had come up as well, remaining on his black horse, which fidgeted nervously as a shot screamed overhead.
"Keep at it," Meade announced, "I want those batteries suppressed."
Behind them fresh caissons were coming up, crews struggling to back them into place, maneuvering gingerly around wrecked equipment and dead horses. Gunners were leaning on their pieces, speaking in loud voices, everyone's hearing stunned by the pounding of the last hour and a half.
Word was already going down the line to aim carefully and be prepared to resume fire.
"I have enough for one more hour," Henry announced. 'That's it, sir, beyond that and we run the risk of totally depleting our reserves."
"I want those guns over there knocked out," Meade replied, his voice shaky with weariness and nervous strain.
"I've passed the order to slow the rate of fire, gunners not to fire until they can clearly sight a target," Hunt replied.
"Then do it Resume fire."
Henry nodded and, stepping back, he raised his fist up.