'Up, men, up!" Beauregard shouted, saber drawn, riding across the front of the columns resting under the shade of the trees.
The unmistakable volley of guns from six miles away had come as a dull continual rumble.
General Lee, who had been anxiously looking at his watch every five minutes, and was on the verge of ordering Beauregard in, signal or not, breathed a sigh of relief. The signal meant that Sickles was fully engaged six miles to the southeast. Beauregard was now to slice directly east, rolling up the valley of the Gunpowder River.
The men, eager to begin, raced forward, following narrow woodsman's trails, a country lane, breaking through woods and briars, advancing on the double, unable to be restrained, and he rode with them. Again the joy of battle was filling his soul.
’That's it! Keep feeding it in, boys, you're breaking them, you're breaking them!" The volley line of the Second Division, Third Corps, fought like the experienced soldiers they were. They had been at it for over half an hour, advancing under terrifying fire to within two hundred and fifty yards of the rebel artillery, down nearly into the bottom of the swale, and there stopped. They had long since gone to independent fire at will, some standing, others kneeling. Orders were for them to take careful aim, to make every shot count.
And the casualties they were taking in turn were terrifying. These men were not getting hit by.58-caliber mini6 balls; what was coming back was solid shot and shells cut to one-second fuses to burst in front of them. Men were not just killed; they were torn to pieces by the frightful solid shot and jagged pieces of metal bursting over and around them
Still there was no infantry support for the rebel guns; they were out there, in the open, pouring in fire, the guns having recoiled in places more than fifty yards, gunners not bothering to drag them back up. The smoke parted for a moment, and he scanned their line; scores, perhaps hundreds of rebels were down. Several pieces were silent, abandoned, surviving crews doubling up. But still they kept at it, and he would not push his men into the murderous swath of canister that would greet them if they closed to under two hundred yards. Occasionally a rebel gun lofted a charge of canister in, but it had little effect at this range; shot scattered wide, though here and there an unlucky man would be cut down. No, they were saving that deadly dose for a final charge that Sickles was not yet ready to commit.
But his men were suffering terribly, the artillery fire improving at times in accuracy, solid shot striking just in front of a file, bounding up, obliterating two men in a rank and then bounding on up the slope. It was in many ways far more unnerving than facing a volley line, and the strain was showing. His men were now cursing, down on the ground, loading, trying to take aim, firing, then rolling over on their backs to pour another measure of powder down the barrel, not daring to stand up.
He rode along the volley line, shouting encouragement. Screaming for them to pour it in. He knew he should have left this sector by now, to check on the advance to either flank, but his attention was focused here. If they could finally overrun these guns, by God, what a victory that would be. Then he could plunge straight up the center and catch the rest of Lee's army in the rear.
A constant stream of couriers came in, many hunched low, frightened by the bombardment, reporting that the Third Division of the Third, supported by the Sixth Corps, was even now pushing around the flank of the guns. Another report from the Fifth Corps, that they were continuing to drive McLaws two miles to the north, asking if a brigade should be detached to catch the guns on the other flank, a request to which he agreed.
"Pour it in!" he continued to scream. "Damn them to hell, pour it, boys!"
9:50am
Back a quarter mile behind the line, reluctantly following the orders given to him by General Lee, Longstreet watched the struggle down in the valley below. Behind him an entire division was concealed-Dole's men, rested and waiting-but he would not spring them yet. The time was not yet right.
Overhead and around him a continual rain of branches, leaves, bits of bark floated down or whirled past, tens of thousands of minie balls, fired high, plunging into the woods.
"General Longstreet!" It was Venable. "I've just come from General Lee, sir. He wishes to inform you that the advance of Beauregard has begun. Do not engage until it is clearly evident that the Yankees are in retreat"
"Thank you, son. How are you?"
Venable grinned.
"Turning into one hell of a fight, isn't it?"
"And he's taken the bait," Longstreet replied, pointing to the battered line out in the middle of the field. "Hell, I might of taken it as well, the chance to capture so many guns unsupported by infantry. Masterful by General Lee. Now let's hope Beauregard pushes it!"