Bodies dropped on both sides, men collapsing into the muddy bottom of the Confederate trench, Union troops falling in the grass.

One of Brooke's regiments went into a mad charge, bayonets leveled, racing across the last hundred yards, emerging out of the gloom, Confederates to both sides pouring in a ghastly enfilade that dropped a hundred or more before the battered remnant swarmed up the low, mud slick bluff delineating the end of the flood plain, clawing their way up onto the parapet of the shallow trench. Some of the Confederates gave back a few dozen feet; others leapt down, clubbed muskets raised, men rolling down the embankment kicking, gouging, stabbing.

The charge broke, a final melee ensuing when a dozen Rebs tried to tackle the flag bearer and drag the colors away from him. Retreating men turned, surged back, clubbing and stabbing, physically dragging the dying flag bearer out of the melee.

This action finally broke the deadlock. It was the men

themselves to either flank of the dying regiment that started

to scream out a single word

"Charge! Charge!"

That strange, almost indefinable moment in a battle was occurring when morale surged for some reason, and men, rooted to a spot only a minute before, knowing that to take but one step forward would mean death, began to move, as if shoved into the maelstrom by the hand of some angry god of war desiring more blood.

A wild frenzy took hold, men screaming, lowering weapons, bayonets flashing, here and there two or three beginning to go forward again, in other places entire regiments advancing, keeping formation.

The dam broke.

The Confederate infantry, deployed up on the ridge, had so far remained silent, ordered to hold their fire; but some, unable to stand the strain, stood up, aimed down into the valley, and opened up. The artillery was still aiming across the valley to strike at the second or third line or Sedgwick's heavy brigades. Eighteen-thousand men strong who were in reserve and halfway down the slope began to crank up their elevation gears, raising the breeches of their guns, dropping the muzzles in anticipation of what was coming.

The brunt of the storm hit the muddy embankment, men floundering, falling, getting back up, sergeants and corporals physically pushing men up the slope. The assault wave broke into the line three hundred yards to the west of the mill, drowning it under in a wave of blue. The breach spread, like an old rag disintegrating as it was torn asunder.

Many of the Confederates backed out of the shallow trench, turned, and started scrambling up the slope to the main line. Some stayed; many died; many others dropped weapons, holding hands high, and for some the gesture was too late as they were shot or bayoneted in the wild frenzy.

The small bastion thrown up around the ruins of the mill and miller's house continued to hold. Its eastern flank was guarded by the millpond, the regiment that made up the extreme left of the Union attack stalled by the shallow, open body of water, the soldiers there simply kneeling and lying down along the bank to pour in supporting fire. The bridge below the mill had been destroyed during the night. The stream here had banks steep enough to offer a barrier and cover, so that the men who struck it stopped on the opposite shore, trapped in the narrow defile, while from thirty yards away the rebels inside the rough-built earthworks poured out a continual blaze of fire, dropping any man who dared to try and stand up and push forward.

But beyond that, from the opposite side of the Baltimore Road, clear down to the end of Slocum's divisions, who were opposing Pettigrew, the forward Confederate line fell.

For some this was as far as they felt they could get. They had braved the impact of the first volleys, stormed across the open fields, taken an entrenchment, but above them, three hundred yards above, was the crest

All had been told what to do; officers had gone over it again and yet again. Don't stop, boys. There're two trenches. Don't stop till we're over the top of the ridge. Don't stop!"

"Come on!" The cry echoed along the line, some men, still capable of cold logic, realizing that if they pressed quick enough, right on the heels of the retreating first line, the second might not fire until they were up onto them.

"Come on! Charge, for God's sake, charge!"

The blue wave lurched forward, all semblance of formation gone, men from Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and even Maryland, a few of them having once played and fished along this same creek an eternity ago, pouring over the breastworks and up the slope.

Behind them the second and third waves, which had stopped at midfield and at the base of the slope on the northern side, moved forward again, while Sedgwick's divisions waited for what would develop next

The surviving Confederates from the first trench ran up the hill, arms flapping, some casting away rifles in their haste, a few loading as they ran, turning to fire a defiant shot Their comrades on the crest were up, rifles raised high, the signal that all were loaded and just waiting for the command.

Officers were out in front of the trench, screaming for the survivors to run, to keep running. Behind them the Union charge was gaining momentum, the race now going to the strongest, old battle wisdom telling some that if they could stay on the coattails of the retreating enemy they just might make it into the next line without facing another deadly volley.

The fleetest of the retreating Confederates gained the trench, eager hands pulling them up over the parapet "Hold! Hold your fire!"

The command was shouted by officers and NCOs, the waiting line solid, ranks packed shoulder to shoulder.

Ever since the Union charge had crested the opposite ridge forty minutes ago, they had waited, awed, fearful, defiant angry all in turn, emotions jumbled together. They waited a few seconds more.

The Union wave coming up the slope could see them silhouetted on the crest, rifle barrels poised high, muzzles of cannons depressed, yawning wide. That struck the first fear after the euphoria of sweeping the lower trench. The artillery was not supposed to be there; all had said they'd be swept away.

All knew what a blast of canister could do at two hundred yards, or far worse double canister at seventy-five yards.

Some of the men slowed, particularly those going up toward where Poague's and Cabell's battalions had been. The charge was now less than 150 yards from the crest For a moment there was a strange, almost deathly silence except for the drumming of thousands of men racing up the slope, men gasping for air, a few voices crying out to keep moving.

'Take aim!"

Several hundred Confederates, now caught in front of their own comrades, dived to the ground, hugging the earth, crying out, praying not to be killed by their own men.

"Fire!"

This time it was not three thousand rifles, it was over ten thousand, many of the men in the front rank kneeling down, resting their barrels on the waist-high parapet to steady their aim.

The twenty-seven artillery pieces in place across the front opened up, each gun discharging a round of canister, the smaller three-inch rifles letting loose with a can containing forty to fifty iron balls, the wider, four-and-a-half-inch bore Napoleons firing cans holding eighty to ninety iron balls.

The blast swept down the slope, and it was if the thirty-odd regiments still in the advance had slammed into an invisible wall. In an instant the charge collapsed.

Hundreds dropped or were thrown back down the slope.. Parts of bodies, shattered muskets, busted canteens, fragments of uniform soared up and rained back down twenty, thirty yards to the rear, especially along the front swept by the canister.

Nearly every flag bearer dropped. One of the green flags of the Irish Brigade was swept off its standard, the standard shattered by two canister rounds, the bearer riddled so that his body was a bloody sack.