Henry watched, always the professional. He carefully eyed the pieces, nodding with approval as gun sergeants actually raised elevation slightly to loft the canister rounds across the three hundred yards to the closing enemy lines. On a flat plain he'd still be ordering case shot, but this high up, canister would plunge down into the Rebs with enough force still remaining to break an arm or smash a skull.

The first gun fired, the other three following suit in a matter of seconds. The deadly dance continued: gunners wheeling pieces back into place, rammers sponging out gun bores to kill* any sparks, loaders running up with ammunition, sergeants directing the lay of their piece, depressing elevation slightly, even as the rammers.slammed the rounds in. Pieces were primed, crews stepping back, section commanders shouting the order, the one-ton Napoleons lifting up with a terrifying recoil. The hissing scream of canister tins bursting as they cleared the breech echoed around Henry, iron balls shrieking downrange. If close enough, one could hear the sound of that hot iron tearing off arms, legs, killing with a hideous cruelty.

And still they came on. The enemy lines were spreading out, a brigade or more coming straight at Wiedrich and Ames.

The Seventeenth Connecticut, down at the bottom of the slope, opened up with a sharp volley. Schurz's men, on the left flank, opened as well, a good hard volley that cut into the flank of the Reb charge.

Another volley from Connecticut and then the men started to pull back, not running, Ames directing the orderly retreat, his high, clear voice ringing, making it clear he'd shoot the first bastard who tried to run.

The Seventeenth poured up the hill, the sight of their pullback heartening the Rebs; who let loose a triumphal shrieking roar. The defiant note of it, almost a mocking laugh, stiffened the men around Henry.

"Come on and get it, you sons of bitches!" one of the men of the Seventeenth cried as he came up over the lunette of Wiedrich's second gun.

His cry was picked up by others who stood, holding rifles high, bitter men, angry at the beating they had been taking all day, ashamed, and now ready to prove something.

"Come on, come on and get it!" the scream rolled up and down the line.

"All the cowards have run off. What we have left is the steel." It was Hancock, reining in by Henry's side. He stood up tall in the stirrups, right fist punching the air. "Come on, come on and get it, you bastards!"

Henry, looking at him, felt that here was a moment he 'would forever hold in memory, the late afternoon sun slanting in, illuminating Hancock, behind him and arrayed up the slope of Cemetery Hill, six batteries, thirty guns, firing, smoke billowing, tongues of fire lashing out, and Hancock filling the foreground like a god of war, fist raised high, urging the enemy to just try and take the hill.

The men of the Seventeenth filled in around the guns, hunkering down, rifles poised, flinching as the guns beside them fired yet again. The range was down to less than 200 yards and then to 150.

For a gunner this was a murderous dream, to be up on a good slope, supported by infantry, the enemy in canister range with only a scattering of ineffective counter-battery fire in support… it was impossible to miss them.

' "They're actually going to try for it!" Hancock exclaimed.

Henry didn't need to be told. Enemy flag bearers were at the fore, colors leaning forward, officers waving swords, the rebel yell echoing.

A hundred yards, they were on the slope, over the low stone wall abandoned by the Seventeenth pouring up the road, breaking into a run.

Madness!

"Wiedrich, load double canister!"

His battery commander didn't need to be told. The charge was coming on fast; Ames's men were pouring it on, volleys by companies and regiments, then the steady staccato roar of independent fire.

Gun sergeants waited, poised, crouching low, holding lanyards taut The Rebs, seeing what was ahead'-a full battery loading with double canister-slowed, until officers and noncoms, screaming for the charge, pushed them forward. In the fore was a lone mounted officer, hat gone, white hair streaming, standing in his stirrups, urging the men on.

"Battery!… Fire!"

Wiedrich's four guns' recoiled, each piece discharging nearly 150 two-ounce iron balls. Six hundred man-killing rounds filled the space in front of the battery, screaming downrange, turning the space ahead into an impenetrable killing zone.

The impact was devastating. Entire lines went down. Men were picked up, pitched backward half a dozen yards, decapitated bodies, broken limbs, shattered muskets, torn-up sod, gravel, and dust, the debris swirled up by hundreds of canister rounds flung high into the air.

"That's it!" Hancock screamed. "Again, give it to them again!"

Amazingly, out pf the dust and smoke, a rebel battle line emerged. There were gaping holes, but still they pressed on. Rifle lire flickered out of the smoke.

Henry's mount let out an agonizing shriek, rearing up, nearly throwing him. The horse started to roll over on its side. Kicking his feet out of the stirrups, Henry jumped clear, rolling as the horse crashed down, its hooves flaying the air.

Stunned, Henry came back up to his feet and was staggered as the horse, thrashing in its death agony, kicked him just above his left knee, nearly knocking him back over. For a second he thought the leg was broken.

He stepped back and then felt a tug at his left shoulder. He looked down and saw the ragged tear where a rifle ball or a shell fragment had torn off his shoulder strap.

The sound of battle redoubled into a thundering roar. He looked up. Hancock was still mounted, still standing in his stirrups, shouting. A gun sergeant, stepping back, pulling his lanyard taut, ready to fire, suddenly spun around and collapsed, clutching frantically at his throat, bright arterial blood spraying out in a geyser.

The section commander came up, tried to grab the lanyard, and went down as well.

Beyond the gun, Henry could see them pouring in; several of the Rebs, dashing forward with fanatical bravery, were already up on to the lunette, bayonets poised, only to be swept away as the men of the Seventeenth rose up to meet them. Hand-to-hand fighting exploded around the guns.

Henry limped forward into the middle of the melee, ducking low under a musket butt swung by a screaming Reb, who was suddenly tossed backward, shot in the chest Henry reached down and picked up the lanyard.

He looked forward. Men were coming out of the smoke, a flag bearer in the lead.

He jerked the lanyard taut and then pulled. The Napoleon leapt back with a thunderclap roar. Those in front of the bore simply disappeared, blown into a pulpy spray.

He dropped the lanyard, pulled out his revolver… but there was nothing left to shoot at… only the smoke engulfing them. He caught shadowy glimpses of Rebs falling back, running, disappearing into the smoke. The charge was broken.

On the ground, in front of the gun he had just fired, was a rebel flag, a red Saint Andrew's cross, torn to shreds, staff gone, a twitching body next to it the flag bearer, the bottom half of his body nothing but a ghastly tangle of charred flesh that was still smoking from the blast

One of Wiedrich's gunners scrambled over the lunette and started to pick up the flag. The Reb feebly reached out trying to hang onto the colors. The gunner stopped, knelt down by his side, and relinquished the flag, gently putting the colors back into the hands of the dying boy. The gunner cupped his hands around the Confederate's, leaned over, whispering something. The eyes of the dying boy shifted, looking up at the gunner. He started to say something, lips moving. Henry heard the words drifting as the two spoke together.

" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…'"