‘Hold them back!" Warren shouted.
The Vermonters were already into the cornfield. The men were panting from the heat, the pursuit of the last mile that had carried them across pastures, fields
of winter wheat, corn, orchards, and farm lanes. They had swept up hundreds of prisoners, all Confederate resistance collapsing. But in the cornfield ahead, there was something that was triggering in him a sense of foreboding. "Holdback!"
His cry went unanswered. He turned, riding across the front of the reserve brigade, the boys from the First Corps, shouting for them to halt, but only those directly to his front followed orders. The battle front was nearly a half mile wide, and one lone voice at such a moment could not be heard.
The charge plunged into the cornfield, trampling the crop under as it advanced.
He caught a glimpse of Sickles coming up, army commander banner held high, staff trailing behind him. Warren raced back.
Sickles was exulting, swept up in the moment of glory, of victory.
"Call it off!" Warren cried. Sickles slowed, looked at him.
"For God's sake, we've driven them. It's enough for now."
"I know. God damn them, we're driving them. Your boys are magnificent!" Sickles cried.
"No, sir. Halt now!"
Sickles looked at him, incredulous.
Warren gasped. "We don't know what's waiting ahead. Stop this charge!"
Sickles, eyes blazing, said nothing, and then rode past, following the charge; Warren, knowing not where to go at this moment, falling in behind him.