Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia.
It was 9 o’ clock of the morning hour and Lee was worried. Quite worried. While Ewell’s Corps had marched into Chambersburg at Dawn, and Hill’s Corps, with Pickett in tow, arrived, there had still been nothing from Longstreet and his First Corps. That brave man, with only two-thirds of his men had marched at 4 days ago from this spot on a reconnaissance mission, as well as a supply mission. It was known that the Federal Army was still at Frederick, and, Joe Hooker was known for his timid approach to warfare. Lee figured that Hooker was good for only a division, but faltered at corps and bigger commands, although he was too much of a gentleman to ever say so. But he was worried, very worried. He knew Longstreet, knew him well, knew he would not put the army in such danger, but there had been no word, he could not continue unless he knew his army was whole.
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“Coffee, sir?” said a voice at the door. It was Walter Taylor, one of Lee’s youngest but also his most trusted aide. “It’s truly coffee, fresh from a resident, sir.” “Thank you, Major Taylor,” Lee replied, while taking the cup. The brew was strong and hot. “Have you heard anything from General Longstreet?” the commanding general asked. The look on the young man’s face told him all he needed to know. This was worrisome, quite worrisome. Maybe he should tell Stuart to send out one of his regiments in search. Lee arose, and asked of his secretary, Armistead Long, “Sir, could you please draft an order to General Stuart requesting one of his regiments to ascertain the whereabouts of General Longstreet, and, then, after so, would you join me and Major Taylor for breakfast, if you please?”
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The two men exited the great tent, and at that time, a courier came galloping up. He was dusty, covered in powder stains and blood, and his horse was foaming at the mouth. He pushed right past Taylor and confronted Lee. “This is from General Longstreet, sir, and requires your immediate attention!” Lee took the note, flipped it over, opened the seal, recognized the handwriting of his old war-horse, and then read the message. His face darkened, he crumpled the paper in anger, let his breath out slowly. Many emotions were swirling through his head, anger, disbelief.... Calm yourself, said his inner voice. We must do all we can to repair this. “Major Venable,” he cried to one of his staff, “Which is the most ready division in the army, sir?” “I think it is that of General Johnson.” replied the major. “Then, sir, ride to him, tell him I want him on the road marching due northeast no later than 30 minutes. I want nothing but ammunition and water because time is of the utmost importance. Gentlemen,” he began, “It seems our friend Hooker has lost his job, and the enemy have stolen a march on us, and met General Longstreet just outside of Gettysburg.”
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June 28, 1863- outskirts of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, 9:30 P.M.
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They were coming. Longstreet could feel it in his bones. Now, even more so that he knew Hooker was no longer in charge of the Army of the Potomac, he knew they were coming. He knew Meade, an engineer in pre-war life, solid, aggressive tactician. Oh, they would be coming, all right, no doubt about it. He wished for his other division, the dandy Pickett and his Virginians, but even they would be understrength with only three of his five brigades present. There was nothing for it but to fortify their position and await the arrival of the enemy.
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The brigades went in line from right to left. First was Kershaw, with 2200 men the biggest brigade in the Corps, holding the extreme left flank, behind a stone wall, which ran the whole length of the road and would anchor the position. Then, further on, there was an outcropping of stone that protruded from that stone wall in the shape of a rectangle. Barksdale and his Mississippians would take up there, with Wofford’s men in support. Then came Hood’s Texans, Tige Anderson and his Georgians, with Old Rock Benning in support, all stretched along that stone wall. Law and his Alabamans were the outpost of the army, being positioned on a strong promontory right to the front of where the Texans and Georgians would be. Paul Semmes and his Georgians would be the reserve of the corps, if they lost this day, those brave men would lose so many.
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There was nothing John Bell Hood loved more than a fight. He was ready, and he knew his men were too. Especially his Texans. He still remembered the thrill of leading them personally last year at Gaines’ Mill, and he wished he could do it again. Who knows, maybe he would get to. He looked up at the trees, the peaches were in full bloom. A soldier came walking by with an armful and saw his general. Hood recognized the man, an Arkansan, from the 3rd regiment of that state. The soldier offered him a peach, and came to give it to him. “Just toss it,” the general said, and the soldier, who had the stripes of a corporal, tossed the fruit underhand. Hood caught it, and grinned. The soldier went on his way. The fruit was good, sweet, and succulent. Hood stood, watched his men, and chewed.
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First contact was made at about 7:30 as the Alabama brigade was attacked by...
Private James Solomon Pendergrast, of Glenville, Alabama, had never seen a battle before. He had been in the army, and in the 15th , for a grand total of going on seven months and had never seen a battle. This was to be his first, and he was tired of waiting for it, tired of the anxiousness.
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And how did he know there was to be a battle. Why, because Corporal Gillespie said so, and the young private had learned to trust Corporal Gillespie. Why, hadn’t that same man found food where residents said there were none? Hadn’t he cared for the men of the section ever since Sergeant Matherson died of the whooping cough? He had even somehow got hold of a vaccination scab to keep the 7 men alive during the fever of January. He had gotten them all safely through the desperate winter and the spring in much better shape than many of their compatriots. He had even put on weight. Yep, one could put their trust in Corporal Gillespie, so they could.
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That aforethought man just then arrived, and in his hands he held a giant cloth. Stopping before the section, he set the dirty piece of cloth on the ground. Inside was a great lump of honeycomb, in chunks and still covered with the juicy nectar. “Hurry up and eat it,” said the corporal, “because it’s probably all you’ll get today.” The private stuck his greasy hand right into the pile and grabbed a nice chunk, which he shoved into his mouth all at once. The sweet nectar tasted so good in his mouth, and even better going down. Pendergrast was chewing gratefully and trying not to choke when the long roll sounded.
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The 7 men ran back to their positions by the wall. The rest of the 15th, and the other Alabama regiments, could be seen forming, checking to rifles, shifting cartridge pouches, getting down even lower behind the wall. The artillerymen of Latham’s battery were busy stacking canister around their five guns. Gillespie came over to the section of wall behind which Pendergrast was standing. “Check that rifle, boy.” he said softly. The private withdrew his ramrod and it dropped into the barrel with a dull clank. Retrieving his ramrod, he reached for his cartridge pouch, and withdrew his cartridge, and bit it open. The salty taste of the gunpowder mixed with the sweet taste of the peaches from before made a sour taste in his throat. He rammed down the cartridge, and reached for his cap pouch. “There they are, boy,” said the corporal in wonder. Pendergrast could look through the trees and see the dark lines. Blue after blue after blue line. Any one of these men would kill him, given the chance. He felt himself shaking, almost dropped his rifle.
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The corporal was there to catch it before it dropped, and with his other hand steadied the private, as well. “Them men out there, boy, they die like anyone else. I’ve seen them die on the Peninsula, at Manassas, at Sharpsburg, and now they’re going to die here. Put the rifle in to your shoulder, don’t fight the recoil, and for goodness’ sake, if you ain’t sure if you shot, take your damn ramrod and check! Nothin’ worse than some recruit shooting his ramrod across the field then being stuck out like a damn roach. They’re coming, now, get in line, and remember what I told you.” Pendergrast got right behind the tree, and slid the barrel of his Enfield between the two lowest branches. He aimed as far low as possible, lower to compensate for the downhill shooting. The Federals marched closer.
The Colonel of the Regiment stood in the middle of the line. “15th Alabama, make ready!” he cried. 499 rifles went into 499 shoulders. “Pick your damn targets!” Lt. Wood cried. “Take aim!” bellowed the Colonel. The drummer beat the drum and the command to fire was lost in the noise of 500 guns bellowing.
Pendergrast noted with pleasure the rifle kicking back into his shoulder. He dropped the butt to the ground, and reached for a cartridge. If this was what war was like, there was nothing to it.
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The Yankees were more concentrated than anyone thought. Law’s brigade was quickly surrounded like an island of Rebels in a sea of Yankees. A brigade went right past their right flank, one on their left flank. The one on the right flank was a brigade of the Sixth Corps, with some of the Eleventh Corps in support. The two brigades of men marched past Latham’s belching battery and directly into the sights of the 17th Mississippi Infantry.
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Lieutenant Eugene Greene had been a private in Company D when the war began, and now was its commander. He had been in action from Ball’s Bluff up to now, and never once did he shirk or run away, or lead his men into what could possibly be a death trap. A mining engineer in pre-war life, he tolerated no mistreatment of his men and in return for him they did the same.
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He was a small man, about 5 feet, 3 inches tall. He had a small face, and tiny body, with somewhat gangly arms, but he more than made up for that with his personality and ability. His men knew it, they respected him for it. Known as “Green Gene” in jest by almost all the members of the 17th , he wanted no more, at the moment, than to be home in Mississippi, it was close to pickin’ time for some fruits. Food was sparse out here.
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Samuel Stokes, of the 2nd section, all of a sudden came skittering over to where his commander was standing. “Sir,” he said, gasping, for he was quite rotund, “I see the bluebellies, sir.” Greene looked around, with the binoculars he had in his haversack, which he was not supposed to. And, yes, could he see them, line upon line of them, like the plague of locusts sweeping down on the lands. Lt. Colonel Fiser came by and told him, “Greene, make sure your men hold their fire for when the Yanks get right at that top of that promontory there, we can silhouette them on the skyline and slaughter them!” The normally taciturn officer seemed bloodthirsty now.
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Greene thought about drawing his revolver, but it was too far away. He had a Sharps carbine and about 200 cartridges he had gotten from a drunken cavalryman when they had taken Winchester from Milroy. He unslung the carbine and opened the breech, and placed in a cartridge. It slammed shut with a cold, unfeeling, snap.
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The Yankees were audible now, as well as some riflery in the background, meaning someone had come into contact somewhere. All of a sudden they appeared on the skyline about 100 feet away, three regiments. Unhesitatingly, the 17th volleyed. Yankees dropped in piles. Men died with mouths open, kneecaps torn apart, stomachs opened to the sky, shattered skulls, bodies, and lives. The gray serpent of death reloaded their rifles and volleyed again. Greene saw Sam Stokes’ Hardee hat get taken from his head by a shot. Stokes bent down, retrieved the hat, placed it on his head, gave a holler and fired his rifle into the smoke. He automatically reloaded.
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Greene could see many dead Yankees through a dent in the smoke, and, along the 17th’s line, only 20 or so dead, and only 1 from his 52 man company. They were doing good work here.
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The situation deteriorated quickly. Law’s brigade was flanked by men of the 11th Corps coming around from the rear. Latham’s battery was destroyed, firing canister to the last and making many Yankees at home grieve. But the homes of the South were suffering, as well. The 48th Alabama was shattered, 50 % losses, by a charge of the Vermonters of Lew Grant’s brigade. That brigade was flanking Law, and von Gilsa was coming from the rear. It was time to run like hell, get out. Law gave the command, “Fall back!”
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The first James Pendergrast knew of any Yankees behind them, was, when the company adjutant, Henry Stiltson, yelled, as loud as possible, “Goddamn, boys, they have destroyed the battery and are flanking us!” Pendergrast had been loading and firing with rapidity and was marveled at the sheer number of dead Yankees versus men on his side of the wall. By Christ’s balls, if they got proper ammunition, they could hold forever.
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But with that cry, everything disappeared. Men leaped up and ran like hell for the stone wall, trees, and the safety that they knew was the rest of the Division. As usual, the section looked to Gillespie for guidance. “Come on, boys, this way!” he shouted, and led them on a diagonal away from the stone wall. Pendergrast fired his shot and turned to run.
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His opposite section number, Louis Henderson, from Mobile, stayed to fire one more shot, and before he could a Yankee shot him, low down on the left thigh. Henderson dropped his rifle and uttered a wail of anguish. A Yankee came in, low, then, rifle extended. Pendergrast met his thrust with rifle barrel, then smashed the man’s head with the butt. He dragged out the bayonet, 19 inches of steel, and slotted it onto his rifle barrel, just in time to meet the other Yankee who took the thrust right into the chest. He kept the momentum of the thrust and rammed his rifle’s butt into the face of the other Yankee, who went down with a shattered mouth. The bayonet was stuck in the corpse, he kicked the corpse, and swore, and then the fat Yankee was on him and his rifle fired.
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Pendergrast thought that he was shot, his head rang, but he could feel no sensation. Maybe this is how it is to die, he thought, then the world hit him with a bang! and he realized the Yankee had missed. In a moment he was on the man, throwing him to the ground, uttering inarticulate forms that may or may not have passed for words, pummeling the man, stomping kicking, writhing in the death struggle. The young private saw red. He snatched up a displaced rock and in a fit of howling ground that Yankee’s head into watermelon mush.
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The battle lust wore off, and right in front of the stunned Alabaman were two more Yankees, both with rifles and horrid expressions on their faces. The private arose, mouth and larynx forming an inarticulate howl, raising the rock, covered in blood and wailing like Cerberus from the depths of Hell, intending to fight all Yankee-dom for possession of the place in which his friend lay, but just then the two men jerked to the impact of bullets hitting them and then here came Corporal Gillespie and the other 4 men of the section. One of them reached for Henderson, and flung him over his shoulder like a sack of meat, while the other two men fired their rifles. “You fight like Hell, boy.” said the corporal. “Pick up a rifle and let’s go.” Pendergrast took a rifle from one of the Yankee corpses and the 6 men disappeared into the trees bordering the Taneytown Road.
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Slowly, but surely, the Yankee line extended. The rest of the Vermont brigade, as well as Barlow’s division of the 11th Corps pushed on Hood’s line. Men loaded and fired and died in a frenzy. Anderson had to refuse his brigade’s flank to the left to avoid being flanked. The firing went on.
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Vincent Miller of the 5th Texas was terrified. Not during all the battles of the previous year had he ever been this scared. His compatriots loaded and fired their rifles, and the bullets came back and men died. Next to him was Miles Magruder, of Galveston. He had been loading and firing his rifle 4 times a minute, among the fastest in the regiment, and now he was down to his last pack of his 70 cartridges. Miller was loading his rifle, when Magruder turned to him and said, “Hey, Vince, you got some cartridges, I done used up all the ones on these corpses down here.” Miller gave him 5 of the ones in his hip pocket. As Magruder turned to fire his rifle, a Yankee regiment out of the smoke fired a volley. A great ball struck Magruder in the face, where his nose and left eye used to be was nothing but a giant, blood and gore soaked hole. Miller crouched behind his boulder even deeper and went back to loading and firing.
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Alfred Gallatin, Sgt, 13th Mississippi Infantry, couldn’t believe his eyes. A whole regiment of Yankee infantry was just running across the front of his regiment.
In the smoke behind them were more, what looked to be a whole brigade. And they were running unprotected right across the front of the 13th. That was more than the 480 men could resist, and they fired a volley. Men went down and the Yankee regiment halted. They turned, and volleyed back. It became a race, and Gallatin acted as an automaton. Hold the rifle steady, squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it. Drop the butt, reach for the cartridge. Bite, ram, stick the ramrod in the ground, cap the rifle, shoot, listen for the noise and wait for the kick, keep repeating it, forget whether the rifle fired or not, swear, throw it away and pick up another and hope it works. Load, aim low, don’t fight the recoil, and fire. Fire into those men, fire until your mouth tastes of salt and you hack for every breath and until your face is as black as a Negro. Fight for your country!
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But the army was fracturing. Key regiments had been routed. Yankees were pouring onto the field. Hood’s Division was near its breaking point.
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George Anderson saw his brigade falling apart. He knew, soon, the division must retreat. They needed time to escape. He mounted his horse, and galloped over to the 8th Georgia Infantry. He spoke to the Colonel of that regiment, a big man with bushy sideburns. “Colonel,” cried Anderson, “charge that infantry!” The Colonel looked, and he understood. He placed his hat on his sword. “8th Infantry, follow me!” he cried, and the regiment dashed towards the oncoming enemy. Anderson went to rally the remains of his brigades.
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James Longstreet, too, saw the calamity. But without knowledge of how many Yankees he faced, or from whence they could arrive, he could not just shuttle around units with no regard. But there must be a brigade unengaged, there HAD to be. Longstreet galloped over to General McLaws. “General,” he cried, “our left is nearly gone. Send any troops you can spare!” McLaws galloped to General Semmes, with his Mississippi brigade. He spoke thusly: “General, we are gone, the Yankees are flanking us.” Pointing with his sword towards the cacophony of battle, he yelled, “There, Benning goes in! Take your brigade, and do what must be done!” Semmes and his Mississippians set off, but would they arrive in time?
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Henry Benning’s men were coming up. The reserve of Hood’s Division, these 1400 Georgians, knew that the fate of the army rested upon them because if they did not blunt this enemy attack, the whole corps would be rolled up like a dirty carpet. The 4 regiments spread out in a line, the ragged butternut and brown men, hard, tough men, moving instinctively like the professionals they had become. The 15th Georgia Infantry was the first regiment to engage the enemy, throwing a volley into a regiment of New Yorkers. The 20th Georgia went straight up the center.
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In the ranks of the 20th Georgia Infantry was an ex-railroad engineer named Jedediah Allen. Originally from Ohio, he had moved to Georgia at age 9 and had come to love his adopted state so much that he joined her ranks when war came. Now, at age 31 and adjutant of his regiment, he felt that his defining moment had come.
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Allen dismounted. He had no revolver, for it had been left behind on his other mount at Hagerstown. Colonel Jones and Lt. Colonel Waddell were still on their horses. All Allen had was a fry-pan in which he cooked his breakfast bacon. It was better than nothing, it would have to do.
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Colonel Jones galloped to the front of his regiment and yelled, “Now, boys, them folks are there, you know what to do, drive them like always, and remember that the eyes of the South are upon you. Now go!” and with a yell the 20th, simultaneously with the 11th Georgia of Anderson’s brigade, the 700 or so Confederates charged towards the oncoming Union infantry.
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The blue men immediately began to shoot, and men dropped, but the two regiments pressed on and hit a mass of Unionists right abaft a field halfway from their starting position. Jed Allen was in the middle of it. His sword, a heavy, Model 1840 sword, with a ground down back blade and point, reached out to take a Yankee in his throat, the bright red blood coating the blade. Here came another one, with bayonetted rifle this time, and the thrust was parried with the fry-pan, and the sword took its second victim. Allen thrust and hacked wildly like a man possessed. A ball struck the fry pan and nearly rent it from his grip, but it stayed there, and the color-bearer of the Yankee regiment took the pan straight to the face, knocking him down, as well as a sword thrust to the chest to finish him.
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There was a Yankee officer lying there, and Allen tossed away his pan and took the man’s revolver. It was a fine Remington, with silver inlaid grips. There were 5 pre-loaded cylinders on the dead Yankee as well, and those were appropriated. He looked, and saw other Yankee regiments crossing the road unmolested. “Come on, boys!” he yelled, and without a thought, notwithstanding the fact that he was not their officer, all the remaining Georgians responded. The Rebels charged towards the Yankees, screaming, like banshees, carrying all before them. Then they crashed into the road.
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Yankees surrendered in droves. Fighting was close and fierce. The pistol blasted, once, twice, thrice, the sword took two more victims. Here came this tiny Yankee whose rifle seemed to be bigger than he was. He made a thrust at Allen, who parried it, and fired the pistol directly into the boy’s face. His head and features disappeared in a welter of red and bone; the Confederate was splattered with it. The song of war was in his breast, the strength of Hercules was in his sword arm, and all who dared oppose him fell. Then the other Yankee regiment arrived.
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They fired a volley, and the ball struck Allen somewhere in his lower gluteal cheek, traveling down through his leg. Immediately, he fell, as if his legs were pulled from under him. He could not feel his left leg at all. He saw the remnants of the 11th Georgia either surrendering or running, and the 20th fell back, their job done. Some Yankee came by, and looted Allen as he lay there bleeding. He wanted water badly.
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Barksdale’s men had been holding position long and well. But the strain was showing.
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Eugene Greene of the 17th Mississippi had long given up any pretense of giving orders; he had picked up a rifle and fought like an enlisted man. There were so many casualties now that the line had, out of necessity, shrunk. He loaded his rifle, and squeezed the trigger.
Snap! A nipple malfunction. Damnation! Just then a section of Yankees charged through the smoke. The pistol was out, and in his hands and firing, one, two, three, until it landed on an empty chamber. He threw the pistol at his adversary, a slim Union officer, then he went after it. The Yankee thrust his sword at Greene, who simply sidestepped and slammed into the man as hard as he could. Down they went onto the leaf-and-blood strewn ground. Greene pounded the Yankee’s face, and held him by the throat. All of a sudden, aforementioned Yankee lashed out with a great foot, one that would belie the thin body. Down went Greene and his adversary was upon him. The Yankee took the knee to the face, while his hands grappled at Greene’s groin. Seizing one of his gonads, the Yankee gave a twist, Greene wailed, thrust the Yankee off, and planted a shoe in the chest. Down went he. Greene grabbed the fiery man and hauled him back over the wall, where he dumped the man on his face. “Damn little bastard,” he cried to Samuel Stokes, “he tried to rip my damn balls off.” He picked up a rifle and went on firing. Men on both sides died. 
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The 13th, 18th, and 21st Mississippi regiments were about fought out. Gallatin of the 13th was down to his last pack of cartridges. He had fired over 100 rounds, he knew not how much. His arm would be stuck in the rifle position.
The 21st had made a charge into the flanking forces that had nearly pushed them out of their position. Now the three regiments were back behind the wall, intermingled, but all with one goal in mind, to kill Yankees. 
The dead close to outnumbered the living, but there was nothing to do but to shoot and hope for the best. Gallatin loaded and fired his rifle. He was pretty sure his face was as black as a Negro’s now, but it was not important. He was down to his last cartridge. He slid out the 17 inch sword bayonet and attached it to the muzzle. If he knew his Yankees, they would be coming soon. 
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The 4th Texas Infantry was a veteran regiment if ever there was one. They had been in nearly every battle from Gaines’ Mill to now and this time were not about to disappoint their officers. Yankees had stood and fired on them from the cover of the trees and the Texans had not flinched, took their losses and fought back, and now it was time to take the fight to the enemy. The 320 men still standing erupted from the trees with a roar right into the middle of von Gilsa’s New York brigade.
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George Hartranft, of Austin, Texas, was in the midst of that melee. He had a Mississippi rifle and was using it, and its sword bayonet, to deadly effect. He plunged it into a fat, greasy Yankee, and he could feel the meat and fat sticking around the edges of his bayonet. He ripped it loose with a roar, and surged forward into the chaos.
He had come from Texas at a small age; all he could remember was much hollering and screaming, wailing, a somber man, and a funeral, and someone kept throwing around the word suicide. He wasn’t even sure who had died. Oh, and he remembered another little boy like him, too. He used to wonder who it was, but now, he didn’t care. He had found Texas, and law, which he loved, and now he had found the killing..
The bloody bayonet sought out its victims. The Texan made the thrust, and the bayonet penetrated the flesh. He yanked it out and dropped the rifle’s butt.
The cartridge went to the muzzle, the rifle was rammed, capped, fired. “More Yankees, boys, keep up the hunt!” cried one of his officers, and the 4th kept surging forward into another Yankee regiment. This time the work was close and bloody, and Hartranft was again in the middle of it. 
He slid between a tree to give a Yankee a rifle butt to the face and then all was silent. He woke up at the bottom of a ravine, choked with blue and butternut bodies. His rifle was gone, and his legs could not move at all. He was thirsty, as well. He dragged himself to a corpse, or what seemed to be a corpse. He was a Yankee, he had a canteen, and, it was covered in blood, but, joy of joys, IT WAS FULL!!!!! .
He drank, and as he drank, he heard a weak voice groaning for water, food, mother. He dragged himself in the direction of the voice, and, found there, a shot Yankee. He had a full brown beard, and spectacles. He had no left leg, the vessels had been cauterized by the hot shrapnel. There were scraps of clothing and paper surrounding the Yankee, and he kept striving for some small book in the middle of the scrap pile. He shifted the canteen, and let some of the liquid trickle into the wounded man’s mouth. He reached for it. It was a Bible, bloodstains covering the cover. He opened the first page. There were 7 names there.
Daniel Boone Williamson (1782-) married Evangeline (1787-
Henry Thomas Williamson (1809-), Frederick, Maryland, who married Sarah (1811- )
Mary Elizabeth Arnett Williamson (1811-1829) Frederick, Maryland
Calista Williamson (1813-) Frederick, Maryland
Daniel Williamson (1835 - ) Frederick, Maryland. Enlisted, 68th N.Y.V.I. July 25, 1861
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Then, the final name at the bottom of the page, crossed out with black ink, read
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George Williamson Hartranft (1837- no date), San Felipe, TX
“My God,” cried Hartranft, and the tears began to flow. He clutched the Yankee to his bosom and the tears flowed freely, mixed with the blood of brave men pooled on the ground.
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Hood could see, now, that his men would, out of necessity, have to retreat. Benning’s brigade had gone far, but they were slowly fraying due to exhaustion and casualties. Turning to his chief of staff, he gave the order, “Have the division fall back to the fenceline, refuse the line on Semmes’ Mississippi boys.” The tears ran down his face and into his beard as he saw the slaughter of his brave boys.
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As far as William Shepherd of the 2nd Georgia was concerned, the men were doing fine. His was the last regiment of Benning’s to get into action, but were doing damn well. They had pushed across the field after the rest of the brigade, and made it to a stone wall. Two Union regiments were volleying at them, and Shepherd’s Georgians fired back, getting the better of the encounter. The two Yankee regiments began to fray at the edges. Shepherd walked behind the line, exhorting his men to fire.
They were doing well on their own. One of his men were shot, and collapsed down onto the ground, blood coming from his mouth. He picked up the man’s rifle, unbuckled his belt and pouch. He stepped into the line and loaded the rifle. “Come to do proper killing, Major?” asked one of his men. Shepherd grinned, hefted the rifle, stock coated in the blood of its owner. “Yep, come to do some killing. 2nd Georgia, fall back!” he cried. The regiment went back, firing. Shepherd rejoiced in the rifle bumping his shoulder. 
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The 15th Alabama was just about the last Confederate regiment holding on the field, the rest of them had fallen back to the second defensive line. Private Pendergrast and the rest of his section was still with the regiment. The regiment had been shattered, half of them were dead, wounded, missing. Corporal Gillespie was the de-facto commander of the company, down to 19 men. “Spread out, fire,” cried the Corporal. Pendergrast wasn’t scared anymore, either.
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He just kept loading and firing and kept his eyes on Corporal Gillespie. Load, fire, watch. The corporal hadn’t even fired anymore, just directed his 19 men with a baton. It was while he was watching him that he staggered, and fell. Blood came from the front of his shell jacket, and he collapsed onto his face. Pendergrast ran to him; it was clear that he was dying. “Get back to the line, Private.” said Gillespie. “We can take you to the doctors, they can get the hole fixed…” panted Pendergrast. “Get back to the line, Private Pendergrast!” cried the dying man. “I am dead, now GO!” Pendergrast went, back into the smoke, the regiment fragmented, falling away, and Pendergrast turned and ran into the smoke, towards the other flag that meant safety and shelter, and as he ran the tears fell down his grimy cheeks as he cried for his only true friend.
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The remnants of Hood’s once fine division rallied along a sectioned fence parallel to the Taneytown Road.
The men lay down, rested, got ammunition, brooded on lost ones and those to be lost. This scene was replicated along the whole front. Men grieved, prayed, died. The 18th Georgia of Wofford’s brigade came to take position on the left flank of Barksdale’s position along with the shattered 13th, 18th, and 21st Mississippi regiments. 
Albert Gallatin rubbed his sore arm and hoped he could get it to move when the Yankees came back. Gene Greene and the remnants of his company stacked their former friends as barricades on top of the stonewall and refilled their cartridge pouches. The remnants of the 18th Mississippi treated themselves to a breakfast of beef and hard crackers, a la dead Yankee. Two thirds of them had been slain. 
Vincent Miller of the 5th Texas had fallen back to a fenceline bordering a small hut with a hole in the wall. He lay there and tried to sleep. Jed Allen of the 20th Georgia dried out in the sun. In a small ravine close to the Emmittsburg Road, two brothers found each other again in heartbreak and pain. .
Soldiers were marching, generals were planning. The stage was set for what promised to be the cataclysm of the biggest war on American soil known to date. Many more would die in the clash of arms soon to be known to all the world as the Battle of Gettysburg.