"Here they come!"

The cry went up along the line, some of the men standing up to see. Longstreet looked to his right and saw them, the left wing of the Yankee line starting to advance, coming down the sloping hill, the two divisions on their center and left holding their ground.

This was going to get dicey. Hancock wasn't coming straight in; he was trying to stretch the line out, overlap it, pull off Barksdale from the position overlooking the mill, without having to charge straight in. Smart move. Though Hancock had three-to-one odds in his favor, the flat, open ground in the vicinity of the mill would be murder to cross in a direct frontal attack.

Alexander, without waiting for orders, finally unleashed his guns, dropping shell and case shot into the flank of the advancing division. Wofford's men tensed, waiting, as the range closed to six hundred yards, then four hundred, the Yankees hitting the shallow creek, slowing as they stumbled through the marshy ground.

Longstreet watched them, scanning the advancing line with his field glasses. The ground was wet and would soon get churned up. If I get another chance at this, he thought, I should push a line forward, down near the base of the ridge to tear into them when they hit the marshy ground.

The North Carolina battery was in place; and though the range was long, it opened with canister.

The second Yankee division now started forward, a classic attack in echelon, aiming for the center of Wofford's line and the artillery.

Longstreet grabbed a courier, sending him off to Barks-dale, ordering the release of a regiment to extend into Wofford's line and provide close support for the guns.

The range was less than three hundred yards; with the field glasses Longstreet could pick out individual faces. The men were holding formation, sloughing through the marsh grass and damp meadows, the land beginning to slope up under their feet. "Make ready!"

The cry raced down Wofford's line, men standing up, holding rifles high. 'Take aim!"

Longstreet felt a frightful cold chill streak down his spine. It was horrifying to watch and yet beautiful as well, fifteen hundred rifles leveling across a front of four hundred yards, the hot noonday sun sparkling off the barrels.

"Fire!"

The volley roared, tearing across the crest of the ridge. Seconds later fifteen hundred ramrods were withdrawn, men emptying cartridges, pushing down loads, raising their rifles up, cocking, putting on a percussion cap, taking aim, and firing again, a continual roar as fifteen hundred rifles were discharged every twenty seconds.

The smoke eddied and boiled around him. He rode down the line, standing in the stirrups trying to see above the yellow-gray clouds. No one was falling along the line; the Yankees must still be coming on, pushing up the slope.

He reached the battery at the far end of the line, two guns aiming straight ahead, three angled to the left, hitting into a regiment that was beyond their flank and coming up fast. They were less than 150 yards out, charging, bent over low, a regimental flag out front, a mounted officer leading the way.

The small troop of cavalry that had ridden with Longstreet was out on the flank, individuals armed with carbines, a few with revolvers, spreading wider to try and contain the threat

Another blast of canister ripped into the Union charge, dropping the mounted officer and the flag bearer. The men slowed; some came to a stop, raised their rifles, and fired. Longstreet felt something tug at his shoulder, and he turned slightly.

"You're hit!" It was Wofford, on horseback, coming up to Longstreet's side.

He looked down and saw the torn fabric, but there was no pain.

He looked at Wofford and forced a grin, though his heart was now thumping hard, shaking his head.

‘I’ll hold them here, sir," Wofford cried. ‘I’d prefer it if you got back a bit, sir."

Longstreet nodded. There was no telling what was going on at the center or right He was the commander of a corps, not a brigade. Wofford was ambitious as all hell and could control things well enough.

He turned, another bullet clipping the mane of his horse so that it danced for several seconds on the edge of bolting until he reined in hard. He finally eased up and rode at a swift canter down the length of the line. It was hard to see with the smoke, but the line appeared to be holding. Men were dropping, indicating that the charge had come to a stop, the Union forces firing back rather than advancing.

Now it would be a question of volley against volley. Hitting men on a crest was far more difficult than troops deployed in the open and downslope. Once the troops out in the open stopped their charge and began standing and firing, they were sapping the momentum of their attack by the minute. The longer they reloaded and fired, the less likely they were to ever again be able to move forward. The ground might negate the three-to-one odds, but then again a determined charge just might break through. However, with this kind of firing, a new charge was less and less likely.

Reaching Alexander, he slowed for a moment. A fair amount of rifle fire was coming in on the guns, the Union artillery continuing to hit the position as well. Gunners worked their pieces, drenched in sweat each discharge cloaking the field in smoke.

He heard a tearing volley from the right, Barksdale's men. So Hancock was wagering it all, hitting along the entire line.

Riding to the right of center, he saw the mill, blue coats swarming around it Yankees hiding around the building and in the miller's house. A column of troops was storming across the bridge, ignoring the horrific casualties from the canister sweeping down from the heights, coming on at the double.

The charge continued on the road, a couple of regiments, running hard, colors bobbing up and down, men dropping. One of Barksdale's regiments stopped firing, waiting, men loading and holding rifles at the ready. The charge was coming up the slope, and he felt a surge of pride for those men. They had guts.

The range was less than a hundred yards, and still Barks-dale held, another regiment falling silent, loading and waiting.

The range was at seventy-five yards, and the cry went up.

'Take aim!"

Five hundred rifles aimed downslope. The seconds dragged out, the hoarse cries of the Union troops rising up. ‘Fire!"

He watched, features fixed, trying not to feel anything as the charge disintegrated, dozens of men going down, collapsing, their cries clearly heard.

Twenty seconds later another volley tore in and the charge broke apart, the men running back, a taunting yell rising from the Confederate lines, some of the men coming up out of their shallow trench, beginning to charge, officers screaming for them to stand in place.

And then it was over, like the passing of a summer storm that in one minute had been blinding in its intensity and now began to drift away to distant thunder and clearing skies. The smoke slowly lifted, drifting in great dark clouds, stirring and parting as the occasional hot breath of wind wafted across the crest

The land below was littered with hundreds of bodies, some still, others crawling or twisting about in agony, their comrades falling back into the marshy ground, bugles calling for the retreat

He watched it curious, for a moment. They had pulled back without a real fight, not pushing in hard. That wasn't like Second Corps, which had stood defiant for hours, charging again and again at Fredericksburg.

No, that was Hancock. He's doing what I would do. Make a stab at it, hope you can break through in one quick rush; but if you can't, don't bleed yourself out He might very well have been able to take this ridge, but his corps would be a shambles by the time they were atop it Hancock could see that. And as always, there was the element of doubt Hancock did not know what I might have or not have concealed just beyond this ridge. Take the crest with nothing left in reserve and then get torn apart by a counterattack.