His army continued to press on.

Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19, 1863 1:45 PM.

George Pickett, it was again the dream. His heavy division, reinforced by the two brigades that had missed Union Mills because of being used as garrison troops, swung out into battle line on the double, ignoring the long-range artillery fire bursting in the air, an occasional round plowing into the ranks.

It would be another Taneytown for him, and he gloried in it He understood his orders, to give ground slowly, but first he would at least let his heavy division show its mettle and tear into whatever the Yankees might throw at him; there'd be time enough later to fall back. Sword raised, he shouted for his Virginians to advance.

The Battle of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19,1863 2:00 P.M.

David Birney led the first division of his corps down into the shallow, open valley, sweeping around mill ponds, men plunging into the cool stream below mill dams and storming up the open slope. Atop the crest, the line of cavalry troopers fired a final volley, dozens of men dropping from the impact The attacking Union division barely wavered. They had taken far worse on many another battlefield.

The charge moved up the slope on the double, artillery fire shrieking overhead as a fourth Union battery deployed on the slope behind them. Stuart's men pulled back fast before the relentless advance of the Union battle line sweeping half a mile of front

August 19,1863

Lo Armistead, sword raised high, led his brigade forward. His regiments held the center of the line, three of them advancing shoulder to shoulder; fifty yards behind were the other two regiments of his brigade, acting as immediate reserve, red St Andrew's crosses held high, the dark blue flags of Virginia beside the scarlet banners. A hundred yards behind them the two reserve brigades of Pickett's division advanced in similar formation.

He turned, walking backward for a moment, the sight sending a chill down his spine. The battle front of the division covered nearly a half-mile front, the lines undulating, breaking up for a moment as the men scrambled over fences, swinging around rough ground, passing a farmhouse and barnyard, pigs and goats scattering as troops knocked down a pen. Long-range shells from the Union batteries fluttered overhead, bursting in the air, plowing up ground, one shell exploding over his own Ninth Virginia. Several men dropped.

It was hot, damnably hot. Sweat poured down his face. He caught glimpses of individuals in the rank, some of the men grinning, their eyes afire with that strange light that imbued soldiers going into a fight; others looked frightened, features pale. Rifle barrels glistened in the glare of the August sun; the air filled with the sound of tramping feet, the clatter of tin cups banging on canteens, the distant shouts of officers and file closers, yelling for the men to keep their alignment, drummers marking the beat.

He turned, looking forward again. Cavalry troopers, some mounted, some on foot, were streaming back, a few turning to fire, smoke drifting across the field; the advancing and retreating Confederate lines passed through each other. The infantry offered some taunts, good-natured in general, about the cavalry getting out of the way now that the real fighting had begun, the troopers offering in mm shouts of encouragement.

Now he could see them, a wall of blue, coming up out of a low valley a quarter mile away, their battle line spreading out, flags marking regiments, a dozen flags at least, a division-wide front. He scanned the lines. This was going to be a straight-out, head-on collision, no fancy maneuvering, a knockdown battle out in the open. The ground a couple of hundred yards ahead dropped down into a shallow ravine. It looked to be marshy ground with high pasture grass, with the Yankees now advancing on to the slope on the other side of the marsh.

Both sides closed, coming straight at each other, their combined rate of advance covering over two hundred yards a minute. What had been a wall of blue was now emerging into individuals, officers out front, flag bearers holding colors aloft The range was now about three hundred yards. The ground ahead was sloping down. Lo looked over at Pickett, who was still mounted, in the lead. Pickett caught his eye, held his sword out sideways, signaling a halt

"Battalions! Halt!"

The cry went down the length of the front Kemper's Brigade to the left flank continued on for another twenty yards or so before they finally came to a stop. Across the gentle, open swale, the Yankee division was coming to a halt as well, range roughly a hundred and fifty yards.

On both sides across that open pasture, all could see what was about to happen. A loud murmuring rose up, some cursing, a few laughing, many praying. Lo, trying to maintain some dignity, moved back into the ranks, even as he shouted for the brigade to take aim.

A metallic ringing echoed, the slapping of the brass fittings on rifle slings as weapons were taken from shoulders, held high, then lowered into firing position. The clicking of thousands of hammers as the.58-caliber Springfields and Enfields were cocked.

From across the field, the Union troops were enacting the same ritual, gun barrels flashing in the sunlight.

A long, drawn-out pause, which was only a few seconds but to all seemed an eternity, some rifle barrels held stock-still, men planting their feet firmly, drawing careful aim, second rank leaning forward, poising their weapons between the left and right shoulders of the men in front of them in the first rank.

"Fire!"

The thundering, tearing volley raced across the front line, thousands of rifles igniting, a blinding sheet of smoke boiling out thousands of one-ounce bullets shrieking downrange at nine hundred feet per second, and almost at the same instant the Union volley swept in, the air buzzing with bullets, a sharp eye able to pick out piercing eddies in the smoke, marking the passage of an invisible round.

Scores of men dropped, some collapsing soundlessly; others picked up and knocked into the second rank, some screaming, cursing as they doubled over or, dropping their rifles, grabbed at a broken arm, or a thigh now gushing blood from a slashed artery.

"Reload!"

These were veterans, they had done this ritual before; they pulled open cartridge box flaps, drew paper cartridges even as they let their rifle butts drop to the ground. Tear cartridge with teeth, pour powder, push bullet into muzzle, draw ramrod. Thousands of arms were now reaching up, pushing rounds down, some resetting ramrods in the rifle stock, others slamming them into the ground to stand now like iron stakes. Raise rifle, half cock, pull out percussion cap, set cap, bring weapon to the shoulder, signaling they were ready.

"Volley fire, present!"

Again thousands of rifles were poised, another thundering crash. The Yankees, several seconds slower, volleyed in return, more men dropping, though not as many as before, both sides masked by smoke, the flashing of pinpoint lights in the yellow battle fog the only indicator that their opponents were still there.

Yet another volley and a volley in return.

"Independent fire at will!" The cry raced up and down the line.

Within a minute it was a continual roar of musketry, the faster loading three or more times a minute, the slower at two rounds a minute, some now fumbling, forgetting to prime with a percussion cap, others pushing the bullet down before pouring in the powder.

Men dropped, the file closer's cry a continual chant- "Close on the center, close on the center!"-while officers screamed for them to keep pouring it in. The continual roar was deafening, artillery from both sides throwing in both shell and solid shot, men screaming, crying, cursing, praying, shouting incoherently as the battle frenzy seized them. Lines might surge forward a dozen feet as if a spontaneous charge was about to be unleashed, then be swept back, as if an invisible wall of death awaited any man who stepped one foot farther.