Gallant Boys of Gettysburg (8 page)

It was very late in the day when Tom, thirsty and weary from the hard fighting, rose to lead his squad forward. “Come on, men,” he said. “I think I see a gap up there.”

The soldiers began to advance, but almost at once one man went down and lay still.

Tom leaped forward, rolled him over, and then cried, “Pete, are you hit bad?”

Pete Simmons had blood on the front of his uniform. He gasped something that Tom could not understand, and then his eyes closed.

Jeff too was beside him in a moment. “How is he?” he asked, nervously peering down at Pete’s still face.

Tom held his hand on Simmons’s pulse and shook his head. “He’s hit pretty bad. Let’s patch him up, and we’ll send him back to the field hospital.”

Tom and Jeff worked as quickly as they could, stanching the flow of blood from the wound in Pete’s side. He awoke once while they were doing this and blinked. “Guess … I got shot … didn’t I?”

“You’ll be all right, Pete. We’re gonna take you to the doctors. They’ll take care of you,” Tom replied as firmly as he could.

Pete’s eyes were glazed, and he had trouble forming words. Jeff leaned forward to hear him say, “I guess … it’s a good thing … I got saved last night, Jeff … isn’t it?”

“It’s a good thing—but you’ll be all right,” Jeff said encouragingly.

Tom called two men, who carried Pete away on a stretcher, and then the attack rolled on.

When night came, both Union and Confederate forces were exhausted. The Confederate offensive had been fierce, but actually they had accomplished little. The lines were approximately where they had been that morning—with one difference. Ten thousand wounded and dying men were lying on the fields where the battles had taken place.

Tom and Jeff made their way to the field hospital, where they found the doctors still working by lantern light. After some difficulty, they found Pete.

He smiled when they came in. “Hey!” he whispered faintly. “Glad you two … are all right.”

“Yes, we’re fine, but how’re you doing, Pete?” Tom asked.

They knelt down beside Simmons, wrapped in a blanket and lying on the ground. “Don’t feel too good … but I’ll be all right,” Pete said. His voice was weak and thin, and he asked for water.

Jeff sprang up to get it.

Pete drank thirstily, then said, “Like I said, Jeff … it’s a good thing … we had our talk last night.”

“You still know that the Lord’s with you?” Tom asked.

“Sure do. Never had anything … like this before. I’ve always knowed … I needed something … but I didn’t know it was God. I ain’t never gonna forget … callin’ on God. I wish everyone … in the whole army … would do it.”

Tom smiled. “Well, when you get better you’ll be able to preach to ’em some.”

“Dunno as I can do that … but I can sure tell ’em … about how Jesus came into my life.”

When Tom and Jeff returned to their squad, they found Henry Mapes and Curley Henson talking.

Curley looked up. “How’s Simmons doing?”

“He’s hit pretty bad. I hope he makes it, but I just don’t know.” Then Tom said, “What’s gonna happen tomorrow?”

“I think we’re gonna have another run at ’em,” Mapes said.

Curley shook his head. “It won’t do no good. They’re up on top of those hills. We’d have to march right across that open field to get at ’em. I sure hope we don’t do that.”

Jeff looked in the direction of the ridge where the Union army lay. “I can’t imagine marching across that field into the fire of the cannon and the rifles of the Union soldiers on top of that hill. They’ll never make us do that,” he said. “General Lee wouldn’t send us into a thing like that.”

“I don’t know. General Lee ain’t been himself this campaign,” Tom said. “Pa said he’s been sick—got some kind of heart trouble. He’s just not thinking like you’d expect Marse Robert to think.”

Tom stared up at the low ridge. “Sure hope we don’t try to go up those hills!”

W
hat’s the date?”

Jeff looked over at Tom, who stood in a growth of tall oaks and stared across the open field. “July third,” Jeff replied. “Why you asking?”

Tom did not answer right away. There was something almost pathetic about the way he looked out across the field. He managed a brief smile. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July—Independence Day. Back home they’ll be shooting off firecrackers and rockets, and the bands’ll be playing.”

“I guess so.” Jeff did not like the way Tom was acting, but he had noticed that almost all the soldiers lined up in the grove of trees along Cemetery Ridge were not their usual selves. “I wish we were there,” he said somewhat nervously. “Back home.”

Tom seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. He kept looking up at the ridge where the Yankees were entrenched.

From where they were stationed in the center of the battle line, Jeff could see the whole fishhook-shaped line of Union troops. Right in the middle was a stand of trees, and they could plainly see the enemy moving back and forth, bringing guns into position and throwing up some kind of breastworks out of logs.

Tom’s face was pale when he turned to Jeff. “I just hope we don’t have to go up that hill,” he said.

Jeff looked at the open field, then up at the Yankee guns on the crest of the ridge. “Why, even I know better than to cross an open field with the enemy on a hill on top of you!”

What Jeff did not know was that Gen. Robert E. Lee had been engaged in a debate with Gen. James Longstreet concerning the wisdom of the planned attack.

For two days, General Lee had sent the Army of Northern Virginia to batter the Union lines. Now he faced General Longstreet, saying, “The enemy was strong on both his flanks, but there has to be a weakness somewhere, and that has to be in the center.”

Longstreet looked at the open field, then at the thousands of Union soldiers and massed artillery at the top of the ridge, and said with some heat, “General, I’ve been a soldier all my life, and I have to tell you that, in my opinion, no fifteen thousand men who ever marched can take that hill.”

But for once General Lee was not able to make the correct decision. Perhaps it was because he was accustomed to having Stonewall Jackson present to carry out his commands. Other officers seemed unable to accomplish the tasks he ordered.

Even now the attack had not gone as Lee had planned. Longstreet had moved slowly, and Jeff and the men of his squad had been crouching in a stand of trees all morning while the sun beat down in hot waves.

Jeff took off his hat and mopped his brow. He was thinking about having to march up that hill when he heard footsteps and saw Jed Hawkins approach.

Jed had a strained look on his face as he plopped down beside Jeff. “Well,” he said, “bad news.”

“What is it?”

“Pete Simmons—he died last night.”

The news of Pete’s death depressed the squad even more. They had lost many men, and Simmons had been one of their best—a little hard to get along with at times but a good soldier. Now he was gone.

Jeff clamped his lips tightly together, saying nothing. But he was thinking,
Poor Pete. He had his whole life before him, and now he’s gone
. Then a second thought came.
I sure am glad Tom and I talked to him about the Lord. He was saved before he died, and that means a lot
.

Ten minutes after Hawkins returned, a terrific roar of guns suddenly rent the afternoon air. It caught Jeff and Tom off guard, and both of them flinched.

Jeff looked down at the Confederate artillery, which was belching smoke and fire. They were shooting as fast as the gunners could reload, and then, looking upward, Jeff saw the shot and shell strike among the Union troops at the top of the ridge.

“They won’t be able to keep that up for long. We don’t have that much ammunition,” Tom shouted over the roar.

He had no sooner spoken than shells began to explode around the Confederates. Although the Southerners were hidden by the line of trees, the Yankee gunners on the ridge began shooting at will. Explosions rocked the earth. One struck so close that dirt was thrown all over Jeff and Tom.

It would be the greatest artillery duel that had ever taken place in America. Cannon roared, shells exploded, and men on both sides were killed and maimed as the exchange went on.

Behind them the officers were running about, getting their orders, when Maj. Nelson Majors came striding through the trees. “Get ready, boys!” he said. “General Lee says we’re gonna take that hill! We’ll file in with General Pickett’s men.”

Nelson Majors, like most of the other officers assigned to make the charge, was unhappy. All of them could see that they would have to cross at least a half mile of open field under the guns of the enemy. But orders were orders, and the generals began to step out, calling for their men to fall into battle positions.

The long lines formed. The Confederate guns were quiet.
Out of ammunition
, Nelson Majors supposed. He looked up and down the lines, waiting for the command to go forward. He felt a moment’s heart-wrenching fear, for he knew what was coming. Many of these fine young men under his command would be dead in less than half an hour, but there was no turning back. He drew his sword, lifted it, and, when the command came, shouted, “Forward, men. Be good soldiers now.”

Jeff advanced, beating his drum slowly, and he heard its drumbeat echoed as drummers on the far end of the company did the same.

Battle flags fluttered in the slight breeze, and unit flags whipped as the soldiers marched. There was a pride in them that caused them to keep their lines dressed and trim, and up on the ridge the Federals looked down with admiration.

“You gotta give it to those Rebs,” a Yankee lieutenant breathed softly. “Look at ’em! Coming like they’re on a parade ground.”

“They won’t keep those ranks long,” another officer said. “But they do look great, don’t they? Never doubted that the Rebs had courage. But they’re fools for coming up that hill.”

There was no cover whatsoever for the marching columns. Instead there were fences and stone walls that had to be hurdled as the troops advanced. But up they went. Heat waves shimmered on the gentle slope, grown over with ripening grain. Up they went toward Cemetery Ridge.

From time to time those who stayed behind in reserve saw the lines disappear into small depressions, then emerge again, the uneven ground making their march more difficult. Some men were so overcome by the sun that all they could do was stumble blindly forward.

Far down the line, General Pickett watched his men parade across the slope. He was proud of these men, most of them Virginians, and the coal black horse that he rode stamped the earth, excited by the sound of the drums.

Jeff wiped the sweat from his face. His hands were trembling, and his heart pounded. The thudding of his drum seemed to have entered his heart. As he glanced down the line, he saw the strained, bearded faces of his friends, and the hands that gripped their muskets were white. On Jeff went, and it was a strange feeling. Soon, he knew, the bullets would begin flying and the shells exploding.

They’re just waiting
, he thought,
until we get closer, so that they can’t miss
.

Onward he marched. Looking down the slope, he saw Tom, clasping his musket in both hands. His face was pale, but he was encouraging his men to keep their lines straight.

Far off to Jeff’s left he saw his father, wearing his best uniform of ash gray, his back straight, carrying a flashing saber. Fear struck him then.
We could all be killed in a few minutes
, he thought, and one of the drumsticks slipped from his hands. He halted, picked it up desperately, then caught up the steady drumming rhythm.

And then the enemy opened up with sudden, terrible musket fire. Men began to fall on Jeff’s right and left. A flag went down but was picked up at once by another soldier. He stepped over the body of the fallen flag bearer, and the line moved onward, straight onward.

Cannon began to roar. Grape and canister shot plunged and plowed through the ranks. Bullets whizzed thick as hailstones around Jeff, and he expected to fall to the ground any moment, shot through.

General Pickett moved alongside his valorous troops, as if courting death. He waved his hat, and the black stallion snorted and tore the turf with his hooves.

General Kemper, with hat in hand, cheered his men on. And General Armistead put his hat on his saber and held it high.

Jeff noticed that rabbits, frightened by the guns, were fleeing everywhere. It was a small thing to notice, but he thought,
I’m about as afraid as these rabbits are! They don’t know what’s happening—but I do!

Just then a shell struck to his right. It killed men instantly. One man was down, holding his stomach. He was only a boy, and his sergeant and Tom had to restrain others who would stop to help him. “Close up! Close up!” they yelled.

Jeff could see the Yankee batteries shooting. He could see the black cannonballs bouncing along like bowling balls. And sometimes, tumbling over and over in the air, were the men that had been struck by them.

The Confederates reached the road that cut through the middle of the field. There they were forced to take down fence rails. Musket fire now was beginning to reach them, and men were dropping in a long, neat line of dead. Canister, millions of metal balls, whirled through the air. Everywhere men were falling.

Still on they went. They were almost at the top now, and General Armistead was screaming for a charge. There was no strength left in Jeff, but he stumbled onward, close enough now to see the blue figures behind the fences at the summit.

He noticed especially one young Union soldier who looked to be no older than Jeff was. He was drawing a bead, it seemed, right on Jeff, when suddenly a shot took him and drove him over backward.

Then they were at the ridge-top fence line, and some of the company were over but fighting desperately hand to hand with their muskets or whatever else they could find. It was at this moment that Jeff glanced back and saw an exploding shell hurl Tom to the ground, where he rolled over and over.

“Tom!” Jeff yelled and dropped his drum. He ran to Tom, who was holding his left leg. It was crimson.