THE ZENITH OF THE SOUTH
The sun of the first day of July, which was to witness the beginning
of the most tremendous event in the history of America, dawned hot and
clouded with vapors. They hung in the valleys, over the steep stony
hills and along the long blue slopes of South Mountain. The mists made
the country look more fantastic to Harry, who was early in the saddle.
The great uplifts and projections of stone assumed the shapes of castles
and pyramids and churches.
Over South Mountain, on the west, heavy black clouds floated, and the
air was close and oppressive.
"Rain, do you think?" said Harry to Dalton.
"No, just a sultry day. Maybe a wind will spring up and drive away
all these clouds and vapors. At least, I hope so. There's the bugle.
We're off on our shoe campaign."
"Who leads us?"
"We go with Pettigrew, and Heth comes behind. In a country so thick
with enemies it's best to move only in force."
The column took up its march and a cloud of dust followed it. The
second half of June had been rainy, but there had been several days of
dry weather now, allowing the dust to gather. Harry and Dalton soon
became very hot and thirsty. The sun did not drive away the vapors as
soon as they had expected, and the air grew heavier.
"I hope they'll have plenty of good drinking water in Gettysburg,"
said Harry. "It will be nearly as welcome to me as shoes."
They rode on over hills and valleys, and brooks and creeks, the names
of none of which they knew. They stopped to drink at the streams, and
the thirsty horses drank also. But it remained hard for the infantry.
They were trained campaigners, however, and they did not complain as
they toiled forward through the heat and dust.
They came presently to round hillocks, over which they passed, then they
saw a fertile valley, watered by a creek, and beyond that the roofs of a
town with orchards behind it.
"Gettysburg!" said Dalton.
"It must be the place," said Harry. "Picturesque, isn't it? Look at
those two hills across there, rising so steeply."
One of the hills, the one that lay farther to the south, a mass of
apparently inaccessible rocks, rose more than two hundred feet above the
town. The other, about a third of a mile from the first, was only half
its height. They were Round Top and Little Round Top. In the mists and
vapors and at the distance the two hills looked like ancient towers.
Harry and George gazed at them, and then their eyes turned to the town.
It was a neat little place, with many roads radiating from it as if it
were the hub of a wheel, and the thrifty farmers of that region had made
it a center for their schools.
Harry had learned from Jackson, and again from Lee, always to note
well the ground wherever he might ride. Such knowledge in battle was
invaluable, and his eyes dwelled long on Gettysburg.
He saw running south of the town a long high ridge, curving at the east
and crowned with a cemetery, because of which the people of Gettysburg
called it Cemetery Ridge or Hill. Opposed to it, some distance away and
running westward, was another but lower ridge that they called Seminary
Ridge. Beyond Seminary Ridge were other and yet lower ridges, between
two of which flowed a brook called Willoughby Run. Beyond them all,
two or three miles away and hemming in the valley, stretched South
Mountain, the crests of which were still clothed in the mists and vapors
of a sultry day. Near the town was a great field of ripening wheat,
golden when the sun shone. Not far from the horsemen was another little
stream called Plum Run. They also saw an unfinished railroad track,
with a turnpike running beside it, the roof and cupola of a seminary,
and beside the little marshy stream of Plum Run a mass of jagged,
uplifted rocks, commonly called the Devil's Den.
Harry knew none of these names yet, but he was destined to learn them
in such a manner that he could never forget them again. Now he merely
admired the peaceful and picturesque appearance of the town, set so
snugly among its hills.
"That's Gettysburg, which for us just at this moment is the shoe
metropolis of the world," said Dalton, "but I dare say we'll not be
welcomed as purchasers or in any other capacity."
"You take a safe risk, George," said Harry. "Tales that we are terrible
persons, who rejoice most in arson and murder, evidently have been
spread pretty thoroughly through this region."
"Both sections scatter such stories. I suppose it's done in every war.
It's only human nature."
"All right, Mr. Pedantic Philosopher. Maybe you're telling the truth.
But look, I don't think we're going into Gettysburg in such a great
hurry! Yankee soldiers are there before us!"
Other Southern officers had noted the blue uniforms and the flash of
rifle barrels and bayonets in Gettysburg. As they used their glasses,
the town came much nearer and the Union forces around it increased.
Buford, coming up the night before, had surmised that a Southern force
would advance on Gettysburg, and he had chosen the place for a battle.
He had with him four thousand two hundred mounted men, and he posted
them in the strong positions that were so numerous. He had waited there
all night, and already his scouts had informed him that Pettigrew and
Heth were advancing.
"Are we to lose our shoes?" whispered Harry.
"I don't think so," replied Dalton in an undertone. "We're in strong
force, and I don't see any signs that our generals intend to turn back.
Harry, your glasses are much stronger than mine. What do you see?"
"I see a lot. The Yankees must be four or five thousand, and they are
posted strongly. They are thick in the railroad cut and hundreds of
horses are held by men in the rear. It must be almost wholly a cavalry
force."
"Do you see any people in the town?"
"There is not a soul in the streets, and as far as I can make out all
the doors are closed and the windows shuttered."
"Then it's a heavy force waiting for us. The people know it, and
expecting a battle, they have gone away."
"Your reasoning is good, and there's the bugle to confirm it. Our lines
are already advancing!"
It was still early in the morning, and the strong Southern force which
had come for shoes, but which found rifles and bayonets awaiting them
instead, advanced boldly. They, the victors of Fredericksburg and
Chancellorsville, had no thought of retreating before a foe who invited
them to combat.
Harry and Dalton found their hearts beating hard at this their first
battle on Northern soil, and Harry's eyes once more swept the great
panorama of the valley, the silent town, the lofty stone hills, and far
beyond the long blue wall of South Mountain, with the mists and vapors
still floating about its crest.
Heth was up now, and he took full command, sending two brigades in
advance, the brigades themselves preceded by a great swarm of
skirmishers. Harry and Dalton rode with one of the brigades, and they
closely followed those who went down the right bank of the stream called
Willoughby Run, opening a rapid fire as they advanced upon a vigilant
enemy who had been posted the night before in protected positions.
Buford's men met the attack with courage and vigor. Four thousand
dismounted cavalry, all armed with carbines, sent tremendous volleys
from the shelter of ridges and earthworks. The fire was so heavy that
the Southern skirmishers could not stand before it, and they, too,
began to seek shelter. The whole Southern column halted for a few
minutes, but recovered itself and advanced again.
The battle blazed up with a suddenness and violence that astonished
Harry. The air was filled in an instant with the whistling of shells
and bullets. He heard many cries. Men were falling all around him,
but so far he and Dalton were untouched. Heth, Davis, Archer and the
others were pushing on their troops, shouting encouragement to them,
and occasionally, through the clouds of smoke, which were thickening
fast, Harry saw the tanned faces of their enemies loading and firing
as fast as they could handle rifle and cannon. The Northern men had
shelter, but were fewer in number. The soldiers in gray were suffering
the heavier losses, but they continued to advance.
The battle swelled in volume and fierceness along the banks of
Willoughby Run. There was a continuous roar of rifles and cannon,
and the still, heavy air of the morning conducted the sound to the
divisions that were coming up and to the trembling inhabitants of the
little town who had fled for refuge to the farmhouses in the valley.
Harry and George had still managed to keep close together. Both had
been grazed by bullets, but these were only trifles. They saw that the
division was not making much progress. The men in blue were holding
their ground with extraordinary stubbornness. Although the Southern
fire, coming closer, had grown much more deadly, they refused to yield.
Buford, who had chosen that battlefield and who was the first to command
upon it, would not let his men give way. His great hour had come,
and he may have known it. Watching through his glasses he had seen long
lines of Southern troops upon the hills, marching toward Gettysburg.
He knew that they were the corps of Hill, drawn by the thunder of the
battle, and he felt that if he could hold his ground yet a while longer
help for him too would come, drawn in the same manner.
Harry once caught sight of this officer, a native of Kentucky like
himself. He was covered with dust and perspiration, but he ran up and
down, encouraging his men and often aiming the cannon himself. It was
good fortune for the North that he was there that day. The Southern
generals, uncertain whether to push the battle hard or wait for Lee,
recoiled a little before his tremendous resistance.
But the South hesitated only for a moment. Hill, pale from an illness,
but always full of fire and resolution, was hurrying forward his massive
columns, their eagerness growing as the sound of the battle swelled.
They would overwhelm the Union force, sweep it away.
Yet the time gained by Buford had a value beyond all measurements.
The crash of the battle had been heard by Union troops, too, and
Reynolds, one of the ablest Union generals, was leading a great column
at the utmost speed to the relief of the general who had held his ground
so well. A signalman stationed in the belfry of the seminary reported
to Buford the advance of Reynolds, and the officer, eager to verify it,
rushed up into the belfry.
Then Buford saw the columns coming forward at the double quick, Reynolds
in his eagerness galloping at their head, and leaving them behind.
He looked in the other direction and he saw the men of Hill advancing
with equal speed. He saw on one road the Stars and Stripes and on
the other the Stars and Bars. He rushed back down the steps and met
Reynolds.
"The devil is to pay!" he cried to Reynolds.
"How do we stand?"
"We can hold on until the arrival of the First Corps."
Buford sprang on his horse, and the two generals, reckless of death,
galloped among the men, encouraging the faint-hearted, reforming the
lines, and crying to them to hold fast, that the whole Army of the
Potomac was coming.
Harry felt the hardening of resistance. The smoke was so dense that he
could not see for a while the fresh troops coming to the help of Buford,
but he knew nevertheless that they were there. Then he heard a great
shouting behind him, as Hill's men, coming upon the field, rushed into
action. But Jackson, the great Jackson whom he had followed through all
his victories, the man who saw and understood everything, was not there!
The genius of battle was for the moment on the other side. Reynolds,
so ably pushing the work that Buford had done, was seizing the best
positions for his men. He was acting with rapidity and precision,
and the troops under him felt that a great commander was showing them
the way. His vigor secured the slopes and crest of Cemetery Hill,
but the Southern masses nevertheless were pouring forward in full tide.
The combat had now lasted about two hours, and, a stray gust of wind
lifting the smoke a little, Harry caught a glimpse of a vast blazing
amphitheater of battle. He had regarded it at first as an affair of
vanguards, but now he realized suddenly that this was the great battle
they had been expecting. Within this valley and on these ridges and
hills it would be fought, and even as the thought came to him the
conflict seemed to redouble in fury and violence, as fresh brigades
rushed into the thick of it.
Harry's horse was killed by a shell as he rode toward a wood on the
Cashtown road, which both sides were making a desperate effort to
secure. Fortunately he was able to leap clear and escape unhurt.
In a few moments Dalton was dismounted in almost the same manner,
but the two on foot kept at the head of the column and rushed with
the skirmishers into the bushes. There they knelt, and began to fire
rapidly on the Union men who were advancing to drive them out.
Harry saw an officer in a general's uniform leading the charge. The
bullets of the skirmishers rained upon the advance. One struck this
general in the head, when he was within twenty yards of the riflemen,
and he fell stone dead. It was the gallant and humane Reynolds, falling
in the hour of his greatest service. But his troops, wild with ardor
and excitement, not noticing his death, still rushed upon the wood.
The charge came with such violence and in such numbers that the Southern
skirmishers and infantry in the wood were overpowered. They were driven
in a mass across Willoughby Run. A thousand, General Archer among them,
were taken prisoners.
Harry and Dalton barely escaped, and in all the tumult and fury of the
fighting they found themselves with another division of the Southern
army which was resisting a charge made with the same energy and courage
that marked the one led by Reynolds. But the charge was beaten back,
and the Southerners, following, were repulsed in their turn.
The battle, which had been raging for three hours with the most
extraordinary fury, sank a little. Harry and Dalton could make nothing
of it. Everything seemed wild, confused, without precision or purpose,
but the fighting had been hard and the losses great.
Heth now commanded on the field for the South and Doubleday for the
North. Each general began to rectify his lines and try to see what had
happened. The Confederate batteries opened, but did not do much damage,
and while the lull continued, more men came for the North.
Harry and Dalton had found their way to Heth, who told them to stay
with him until Lee came. Heth was making ready to charge a brigade of
stalwart Pennsylvania lumbermen, who, however, managed to hold their
position, although they were nearly cut to pieces. Hill now passed
along the Southern line, and like the other Southern leaders, uncertain
what to do in this battle brought on so strangely and suddenly, ceased
to push the Union lines with infantry, but opened a tremendous fire from
eighty guns. The whole valley echoed with the crash of the cannon,
and the vast clouds of smoke began to gather again. The Union forces
suffered heavy losses, but still held their ground.
Harry thought, while this comparative lull in close fighting was going
on, that Dalton and he should get back to General Lee with news of what
was occurring, although he had no doubt the commander-in-chief was now
advancing as fast as he could with the full strength of the army. Still,
duty was duty. They had been sent forward that they might carry back
reports, and they must carry them.
"It's time for us to go," he said to Dalton.
"I was just about to say that myself."
"We can safely report to the general that the vanguards have met at
Gettysburg and that there are signs of a battle."
Dalton took a long, comprehensive look over the valley in which thirty
or forty thousand men were merely drawing a fresh breath before plunging
anew into the struggle, and said:
"Yes, Harry, all the signs do point that way. I think we can be sure of
our news."
They had not been able to catch any of the riderless horses galloping
about the field, and they started on foot, taking the road which they
knew would lead them to Lee. They emerged from some bushes in which
they had been lying for shelter, and two or three bullets whistled
between them. Others knocked up the dust in the path and a shell
shrieked a terrible warning over their heads. They dived back into the
bushes.
"Didn't you see that sign out there in the road?" asked Harry.
"Sign! Sign! I saw no sign," said Dalton.
"I did. It was a big sign, and it read, in big letters:
'No Thoroughfare.'"
"You must be right. I suppose I didn't notice it, because I came back
in such a hurry."
They had become so hardened to the dangers of war that, like thousands
of others, they could jest in the face of death.
"We must make another try for it," said Dalton. "We've got to cross
that road. I imagine our greatest danger is from sharpshooters at the
head of it."
"Stoop low and make a dash. Here goes!"
Bent almost double, they made a hop, skip and jump and were in the
bushes on the other side, where they lay still for a few moments,
panting, while the hair on their heads, which had risen up, lay down
again. Quick as had been their passage, fully a dozen ferocious bullets
whined over their heads.
"I hate skirmishers," said Harry. "It's one thing to fire at the mass
of the enemy, and it's another to pick out a man and draw a bead on him."
"I hate 'em, too, especially when they're firing at me!" said Dalton.
"But, Harry, we're doing no good lying here in the bushes, trying to
press ourselves into the earth so the bullets will pass over our heads.
Heavens! What was that?"
"Only the biggest shell that was ever made bursting near us. You know
those Yankee artillerymen were always good, but I think they've improved
since they first saw us trying to cross the road."
"To think of an entire army turning away from its business to shoot at
two fellows like ourselves, who ask nothing but to get away!"
"And it's time we were going. The bushes rise over our heads here.
We must make another dash."
They rose and ran on, but to their alarm the bushes soon ended and they
emerged into a field. Here they came directly into the line of fire
again, and the bullets sang and whistled around them. Once more they
read in invisible but significant letters the sign, "No Thoroughfare,"
and darted back into the wood from which they had just come, while
shells, not aimed at them, but at the armies, shrieked over their heads.
"It's not the plan of fate that we should reach General Lee just yet,"
said Harry.
"The shells and bullets say it isn't. What do you think we ought to do?"
Harry rose up cautiously and began to survey their position. Then he
uttered a cry of joy.
"More of our men are coming," he exclaimed, "and they are coming in
heavy columns! I see their gray jackets and their tanned faces, and
there, too, are the Invincibles. Look, you can see the two colonels,
riding side by side, and just behind them are St. Clair and Langdon!"
Dalton's eyes followed Harry's pointing finger, and he saw. It was a
joyous sight, the masses of their own infantry coming down the road in
perfect order, and their own personal friends not two hundred yards
away. But the Northern artillerymen had seen them too, and they began
to send up the road a heavy fire which made many fall. Ewell's men came
on, unflinching, until they unlimbered their own guns and began to reply
with fierce and rapid volleys.
The two youths sprang from the brush and rushed directly into the gray
ranks of the Invincibles before they could be fired upon by mistake
as enemies. The two colonels had dismounted, but they recognized the
fugitives instantly and welcomed them.
"Why this hurry, Lieutenant Kenton?" said Colonel Talbot politely.
"We were trying to reach General Lee, and not being able to do so,
we are anxious to greet friends."
"So it would seem. I do not recall another such swift and warm
greeting."
"But we're glad, Leonidas, that they've found refuge with us," said
Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.
"So we are, Hector. Down there, lads, for your lives!"
The colonel had seen a movement in the hostile artillery, and at his
sharp command all of the Invincibles and the two lads threw themselves
on their faces, not a moment too soon, as a hideous mass of grape and
canister flew over their heads. The Invincibles, rising to their feet,
sent a return volley from their rifles, and then, at the command of a
general, fell back behind their own cannon.
The Northern artillery in front was shifted, evidently to protect some
weaker position of their line, but the Southern troops in the road did
not advance farther at present, awaiting the report of scouts who were
quickly sent ahead.
"You're welcome to our command," said Langdon, "but I notice that you
come on foot and in a hurry. We're glad to protect officers on the
staff of the commander-in-chief, whenever they appeal to us."
"Even when they come running like scared colts," said St. Clair.
"Why, Happy, I saw both of 'em jump clean over bushes ten feet high."
"You'd have jumped over trees a hundred feet high if a hundred thousand
Yankees were shooting at you as they were shooting at us," rejoined
Harry.
"What place is this in the valley, Harry?" asked Colonel Talbot.
"It's called Gettysburg, sir. We heard that it was full of shoes.
We went there this morning to get em, but we found instead that it was
full of Yankees."
"And they know how to shoot, too," said Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire.
"We heard all the thunder of a great battle as we came up."
"You haven't come too soon, sir," said Dalton. "The Yankees are
fighting like fiends, and we've made very little headway against 'em.
Besides, sir, fresh men are continually coming up for 'em."
"And fresh men have now come for our side, too," said Colonel Leonidas
Talbot proudly. "I fancy that a division of Jackson's old corps will
have a good deal to say about the result."
"What part of the corps, sir, is this?" asked Harry.
"Rodes' division. General Ewell himself has not yet arrived, but you
may be sure he is making the utmost haste with the rest of the division."
Rodes, full of eagerness, now pushed his troops forward. Hill, who saw
his coming with unmeasured joy, shifted his men until they were fully in
touch with those of Rodes, the whole now forming a great curving line of
battle frowning with guns, the troops burning for a new attack.
Harry looked up at the sun, which long ago had pierced the mists and
vapors, but not the smoke. He saw to his surprise that it had reached
and passed the zenith. It must now be at least two o'clock in the
afternoon. He was about to look at his watch when the Southern trumpets
at that moment sounded the charge, and, knowing no other way to go,
he and Dalton fell in with the Invincibles.
Howard was in command of the Northern army at this time, and from a roof
of a house in Gettysburg he had been watching the Southern advance.
He and Doubleday gathered all their strength to meet it, and, despite
the new troops brought by Rodes, Hill was unable to drive them back.
Harry felt, as he had felt all along, that marked hardening of the
Northern resistance.
The battle wavered. Sometimes the North was driven back and sometimes
it was the South, until Hill at last, massing a great number of men on
his left, charged with renewed courage and vigor. The Union men could
not withstand their weight, and their flank was rolled up. Then Gordon
and his Georgians marched into the willows that lined Rock Creek,
forded the stream and entered the field of wheat beyond.
Harry saw this famous charge, and during a pause of the Invincibles he
watched it. The Georgians, although the cannon and rifles were now
turned upon them, marched in perfect order, trampling down the yellow
wheat which stood thick and tall before them. The sun glittered on
their long lines of bayonets. Many men fell, but the ranks closed
up and marched unflinchingly on. Then, as they came near their foe,
they fired their own rifles and rushed forward.
The men in blue were taken in the flank at the same time by Jubal Early,
and two more brigades also rushed upon them. It was the same Union
corps, the Eleventh, that had suffered so terribly at Chancellorsville
under the hammer strokes of Jackson, and now it was routed again.
It practically dissolved for the time under the overwhelming rush on
front and flank and became a mass of fugitives.
Harry heard for the first time that day the long, thrilling rebel yell
of triumph, and both Howard and Doubleday, watching the battle intently,
had become alarmed for their force. Howard was already sending messages
to Meade, telling him that the great battle had begun and begging him
to hurry with the whole army. Doubleday, seeing one flank crushed, was
endeavoring to draw back the other, lest it be destroyed in its turn.
Harry and Dalton and all the Invincibles felt the thrill of triumph
shooting through them. They were advancing at last, making the first
real progress of the day.
Harry felt that the days of Jackson had come back. This was the way
in which they had always driven the foe. Ewell himself was now upon
the field. The loss of a leg had not diminished his ardor a whit.
Everywhere his troops were driving the enemy before them, increasing the
dismay which now prevailed in the ranks of men who had fought so well.
Harry began to shout with the rest, as the Southern torrent,
irresistible now, flowed toward Gettysburg, while Ewell and Hill led
their men. The town was filled with the retreating Union troops and the
cannon and rifles thundered incessantly in the rear, driving them on.
The whole Southern curve was triumphant. Ewell's men entered the town
after the fugitives, driving all before them, and leaving Gettysburg
in Southern hands.
But the Northern army was not a mob. The men recovered their spirit and
reformed rapidly. Many brave and gallant officers encouraged them and
a reserve had already thrown up strong entrenchments beyond the town on
Cemetery Hill, to which they retreated and once more faced their enemy.
Harry and Dalton stopped at Gettysburg, seeing the battle of the
vanguards won, and turned back. Their place was with the general to the
staff of whom they belonged, and they believed they would not have to
look far. With a battle that had lasted eight hours Lee would surely
be upon the field by this time, or very near it.
There were plenty of riderless horses, and capturing two, one of which
had belonged to a Union officer, they went back in search of their
commander. It was a terrible field over which they passed, strewed with
human wreckage, smoke and dust still floated over everything. They
inquired as they advanced of officers who were just arriving upon the
field, and one of them, pointing, said:
"There is General Lee."
Harry and Dalton saw him sitting on his horse on Seminary Ridge, his
figure immovable, his eyes watching the Union brigades as they retreated
up the slopes of the opposite hill. It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon and the sunlight was brilliant. The commander and his horse
stood out like a statue on the hill, magnified in the blazing beams.
Harry and his comrade paused to look at him a few moments. Their
spirits had risen when they saw him. They felt that since Lee had come
all things were possible and when the whole of the two armies met in
battle the victory would surely be theirs.
The two rode quietly into the group of staff officers gathered at a
little distance behind Lee. They knew that it was not necessary now
to make any report or explanation. Events reported for themselves and
explained everything also. Their comrades greeted them with nods,
but Harry never ceased to watch Lee.
The commander-in-chief in his turn was gazing at the panorama of battle,
spread almost at his feet. Although the combat was dying, enough was
left to give it a terrible aspect. The strife still went on in a part
of Gettysburg and cannon were thudding and rifles cracking. The flames
from houses set on fire by the shells streamed aloft like vast torches.
Horses that had lost their riders galloped aimlessly, wild with terror.
While he looked, General Hill rode up and joined them. Hill had been
ill that day. His face was deadly in its pallor, and he swayed in his
saddle from weakness. But his spirit and courage were high. Harry saw
the two generals talking together, and again he glanced at the valley.
After long and desperate fighting the Southern victory had been
complete. Any young lieutenant could see that. The whole Northern
force was now being driven in great disorder upon Cemetery Hill, and a
man like Jackson, without going to see Lee, would have hurled his whole
force instantly upon those flying masses. Some one had called Ewell and
Hill, brave and able as they were, small change for Jackson, and the
phrase often came to Harry's mind. Still, it was not possible to find
any man or any two men who could fill the place of the great Stonewall.
The day was far from over. At least three hours of sunlight were left.
More Southern troops had come up, and Harry expected to see Lee launch
his superior numbers against the defeated enemy. But he did not.
There was some pursuit, but it was not pressed with vigor, and the
victors stopped. Contradictory orders were given, it was claimed later,
by the generals, but Lee, with the grandeur of soul that places him so
high among the immortals, said afterward:
"The attack was not pressed that afternoon, because the enemy's force
was unknown, and it was considered advisable to await the rest of our
troops."
When failure occurred he never blamed anyone but himself. Yet Harry
always thought that his genius paled a little that afternoon. He did
not show the amazing vigor and penetration that were associated with the
name of Lee both before and afterwards. Perhaps it was an excess of
caution, due to his isolated position in the enemy's country, and
perhaps it was the loss of Jackson. Whatever it was, the precious hours
passed, the enemy, small in numbers, was not driven from his refuge on
Cemetery Hill, and the battle died.
The Southern leaders themselves did not know the smallness of the
Northern force that had taken shelter on the hill. That hardening of
the resistance which Harry had felt more than once had been exemplified
to the full that deadly morning. Buford and Reynolds had shown the
penetration and resolution of Jackson himself, and their troops had
supported them with a courage and tenacity never surpassed in battle.
Only sixteen or seventeen thousand in number, they had left ten thousand
killed and wounded around the town, but with only one-third of their
numbers unhurt they rallied anew on Cemetery Hill and once more turned
defiant faces toward the enemy.
Hancock, whose greatest day also was at hand, had arrived, sent forward
in haste by Meade. Unsurpassed as a corps commander, and seeing the
advantage of the position, he went among the beaten but willing remnants,
telling them to hold on, as Meade and the whole Army of the Potomac were
coming at full speed, and would be there to meet Lee and the South in
the morning.
Both commanding generals felt that the great battle was to be fought to
a finish there. Meade had not yet arrived, but he was hurrying forward
all the divisions, ready to concentrate them upon Cemetery Hill.
Lee also was bringing up all his troops, save the cavalry of Stuart,
now riding on the raid around the Northern army, and absent when they
were needed most.
Harry did not know for many days that this fierce first day and the
gathering of the foes on Gettysburg was wholly unknown to both North and
South. The two armies had passed out of sight under the horizon's rim,
and the greatest battle of the war was to be fought unknown, until its
close, to the rival sections.
Harry and Dalton, keeping close together, because they were comrades and
because they felt the need of companionship, watched from their own hill
the town and the hill beyond. Harry felt no joy. The victory was not
yet to him a victory. He knew that the field below, terrible to the
sight, was destined to become far more terrible, and the coming twilight
was full of omens and presages.
The sun sank at last upon the scene of human strife and suffering,
but night brought with it little rest, because all through the darkness
the brigades and regiments were marching toward the fatal field.