Chapter XII. The Zenith of the South

The Star of Gettysburg

by Joseph A. Altsheler

The sun of the first day of July, which was to witness the
beginning of the most tremendous event in the history of America,
dawned hot and clouded with vapors. They hung in the valleys, over
the steep stony hills and along the long blue slopes of South
Mountain. The mists made the country look more fantastic to Harry,
who was early in the saddle. The great uplifts and projections of
stone assumed the shapes of castles and pyramids and churches.

Over South Mountain, on the west, heavy black clouds floated,
and the air was close and oppressive.

"Rain, do you think?" said Harry to Dalton.

"No, just a sultry day. Maybe a wind will spring up and drive
away all these clouds and vapors. At least, I hope so. There's the
bugle. We're off on our shoe campaign."

"Who leads us?"

"We go with Pettigrew, and Heth comes behind. In a country so
thick with enemies it's best to move only in force."

The column took up its march and a cloud of dust followed it.
The second half of June had been rainy, but there had been several
days of dry weather now, allowing the dust to gather. Harry and
Dalton soon became very hot and thirsty. The sun did not drive away
the vapors as soon as they had expected, and the air grew heavier.

"I hope they'll have plenty of good drinking water in
Gettysburg," said Harry. "It will be nearly as welcome to me as
shoes."

They rode on over hills and valleys, and brooks and creeks, the
names of none of which they knew. They stopped to drink at the
streams, and the thirsty horses drank also. But it remained hard for
the infantry. They were trained campaigners, however, and they did
not complain as they toiled forward through the heat and dust.

They came presently to round hillocks, over which they passed,
then they saw a fertile valley, watered by a creek, and beyond that
the roofs of a town with orchards behind it.

"Gettysburg!" said Dalton.

"It must be the place," said Harry. "Picturesque, isn't it?
Look at those two hills across there, rising so steeply."

One of the hills, the one that lay farther to the south, a mass
of apparently inaccessible rocks, rose more than two hundred feet
above the town. The other, about a third of a mile from the first,
was only half its height. They were Round Top and Little Round Top.
In the mists and vapors and at the distance the two hills looked like
ancient towers. Harry and George gazed at them, and then their eyes
turned to the town.

It was a neat little place, with many roads radiating from it as
if it were the hub of a wheel, and the thrifty farmers of that region
had made it a center for their schools.

Harry had learned from Jackson, and again from Lee, always to
note well the ground wherever he might ride. Such knowledge in
battle was invaluable, and his eyes dwelled long on Gettysburg.

He saw running south of the town a long high ridge, curving at
the east and crowned with a cemetery, because of which the people of
Gettysburg called it Cemetery Ridge or Hill. Opposed to it, some
distance away and running westward, was another but lower ridge that
they called Seminary Ridge. Beyond Seminary Ridge were other and yet
lower ridges, between two of which flowed a brook called Willoughby
Run. Beyond them all, two or three miles away and hemming in the
valley, stretched South Mountain, the crests of which were still
clothed in the mists and vapors of a sultry day. Near the town was a
great field of ripening wheat, golden when the sun shone. Not far
from the horsemen was another little stream called Plum Run. They
also saw an unfinished railroad track, with a turnpike running beside
it, the roof and cupola of a seminary, and beside the little marshy
stream of Plum Run a mass of jagged, uplifted rocks, commonly called
the Devil's Den.

Harry knew none of these names yet, but he was destined to learn
them in such a manner that he could never forget them again. Now he
merely admired the peaceful and picturesque appearance of the town,
set so snugly among its hills.

"That's Gettysburg, which for us just at this moment is the shoe
metropolis of the world," said Dalton, "but I dare say we'll not be
welcomed as purchasers or in any other capacity."

"You take a safe risk, George," said Harry. "Tales that we are
terrible persons, who rejoice most in arson and murder, evidently
have been spread pretty thoroughly through this region."

"Both sections scatter such stories. I suppose it's done in
every war. It's only human nature."

"All right, Mr. Pedantic Philosopher. Maybe you're telling the
truth. But look, I don't think we're going into Gettysburg in such a
great hurry! Yankee soldiers are there before us!"

Other Southern officers had noted the blue uniforms and the
flash of rifle barrels and bayonets in Gettysburg. As they used
their glasses, the town came much nearer and the Union forces around
it increased. Buford, coming up the night before, had surmised that a
Southern force would advance on Gettysburg, and he had chosen the
place for a battle. He had with him four thousand two hundred mounted
men, and he posted them in the strong positions that were so
numerous. He had waited there all night, and already his scouts had
informed him that Pettigrew and Heth were advancing.

"Are we to lose our shoes?" whispered Harry.

"I don't think so," replied Dalton in an undertone. "We're in
strong force, and I don't see any signs that our generals intend to
turn back. Harry, your glasses are much stronger than mine. What do
you see?"

"I see a lot. The Yankees must be four or five thousand, and
they are posted strongly. They are thick in the railroad cut and
hundreds of horses are held by men in the rear. It must be almost
wholly a cavalry force."

"Do you see any people in the town?"

"There is not a soul in the streets, and as far as I can make
out all the doors are closed and the windows shuttered."

"Then it's a heavy force waiting for us. The people know it,
and expecting a battle, they have gone away."

"Your reasoning is good, and there's the bugle to confirm it.
Our lines are already advancing!"

It was still early in the morning, and the strong Southern force
which had come for shoes, but which found rifles and bayonets
awaiting them instead, advanced boldly. They, the victors of
Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, had no thought of retreating
before a foe who invited them to combat.

Harry and Dalton found their hearts beating hard at this their
first battle on Northern soil, and Harry's eyes once more swept the
great panorama of the valley, the silent town, the lofty stone hills,
and far beyond the long blue wall of South Mountain, with the mists
and vapors still floating about its crest.

Heth was up now, and he took full command, sending two brigades
in advance, the brigades themselves preceded by a great swarm of
skirmishers. Harry and Dalton rode with one of the brigades, and
they closely followed those who went down the right bank of the
stream called Willoughby Run, opening a rapid fire as they advanced
upon a vigilant enemy who had been posted the night before in
protected positions.

Buford's men met the attack with courage and vigor. Four
thousand dismounted cavalry, all armed with carbines, sent tremendous
volleys from the shelter of ridges and earthworks. The fire was so
heavy that the Southern skirmishers could not stand before it, and
they, too, began to seek shelter. The whole Southern column halted
for a few minutes, but recovered itself and advanced again.

The battle blazed up with a suddenness and violence that
astonished Harry. The air was filled in an instant with the
whistling of shells and bullets. He heard many cries. Men were
falling all around him, but so far he and Dalton were untouched.
Heth, Davis, Archer and the others were pushing on their troops,
shouting encouragement to them, and occasionally, through the clouds
of smoke, which were thickening fast, Harry saw the tanned faces of
their enemies loading and firing as fast as they could handle rifle
and cannon. The Northern men had shelter, but were fewer in number.
The soldiers in gray were suffering the heavier losses, but they
continued to advance.

The battle swelled in volume and fierceness along the banks of
Willoughby Run. There was a continuous roar of rifles and cannon,
and the still, heavy air of the morning conducted the sound to the
divisions that were coming up and to the trembling inhabitants of the
little town who had fled for refuge to the farmhouses in the
valley.

Harry and George had still managed to keep close together. Both
had been grazed by bullets, but these were only trifles. They saw
that the division was not making much progress. The men in blue were
holding their ground with extraordinary stubbornness. Although the
Southern fire, coming closer, had grown much more deadly, they
refused to yield.

Buford, who had chosen that battlefield and who was the first to
command upon it, would not let his men give way. His great hour had
come, and he may have known it. Watching through his glasses he had
seen long lines of Southern troops upon the hills, marching toward
Gettysburg. He knew that they were the corps of Hill, drawn by the
thunder of the battle, and he felt that if he could hold his ground
yet a while longer help for him too would come, drawn in the same
manner.

Harry once caught sight of this officer, a native of Kentucky
like himself. He was covered with dust and perspiration, but he ran
up and down, encouraging his men and often aiming the cannon himself.
It was good fortune for the North that he was there that day. The
Southern generals, uncertain whether to push the battle hard or wait
for Lee, recoiled a little before his tremendous resistance.

But the South hesitated only for a moment. Hill, pale from an
illness, but always full of fire and resolution, was hurrying forward
his massive columns, their eagerness growing as the sound of the
battle swelled. They would overwhelm the Union force, sweep it
away.

Yet the time gained by Buford had a value beyond all
measurements. The crash of the battle had been heard by Union troops,
too, and Reynolds, one of the ablest Union generals, was leading a
great column at the utmost speed to the relief of the general who had
held his ground so well. A signalman stationed in the belfry of the
seminary reported to Buford the advance of Reynolds, and the officer,
eager to verify it, rushed up into the belfry.

Then Buford saw the columns coming forward at the double quick,
Reynolds in his eagerness galloping at their head, and leaving them
behind. He looked in the other direction and he saw the men of Hill
advancing with equal speed. He saw on one road the Stars and Stripes
and on the other the Stars and Bars. He rushed back down the steps
and met Reynolds.

"The devil is to pay!" he cried to Reynolds.

"How do we stand?"

"We can hold on until the arrival of the First Corps."

Buford sprang on his horse, and the two generals, reckless of
death, galloped among the men, encouraging the faint-hearted,
reforming the lines, and crying to them to hold fast, that the whole
Army of the Potomac was coming.

Harry felt the hardening of resistance. The smoke was so dense
that he could not see for a while the fresh troops coming to the help
of Buford, but he knew nevertheless that they were there. Then he
heard a great shouting behind him, as Hill's men, coming upon the
field, rushed into action. But Jackson, the great Jackson whom he
had followed through all his victories, the man who saw and
understood everything, was not there!

The genius of battle was for the moment on the other side.
Reynolds, so ably pushing the work that Buford had done, was seizing
the best positions for his men. He was acting with rapidity and
precision, and the troops under him felt that a great commander was
showing them the way. His vigor secured the slopes and crest of
Cemetery Hill, but the Southern masses nevertheless were pouring
forward in full tide.

The combat had now lasted about two hours, and, a stray gust of
wind lifting the smoke a little, Harry caught a glimpse of a vast
blazing amphitheater of battle. He had regarded it at first as an
affair of vanguards, but now he realized suddenly that this was the
great battle they had been expecting. Within this valley and on
these ridges and hills it would be fought, and even as the thought
came to him the conflict seemed to redouble in fury and violence, as
fresh brigades rushed into the thick of it.

Harry's horse was killed by a shell as he rode toward a wood on
the Cashtown road, which both sides were making a desperate effort to
secure. Fortunately he was able to leap clear and escape unhurt. In
a few moments Dalton was dismounted in almost the same manner, but
the two on foot kept at the head of the column and rushed with the
skirmishers into the bushes. There they knelt, and began to fire
rapidly on the Union men who were advancing to drive them out.

Harry saw an officer in a general's uniform leading the charge.
The bullets of the skirmishers rained upon the advance. One struck
this general in the head, when he was within twenty yards of the
riflemen, and he fell stone dead. It was the gallant and humane
Reynolds, falling in the hour of his greatest service. But his
troops, wild with ardor and excitement, not noticing his death, still
rushed upon the wood.

The charge came with such violence and in such numbers that the
Southern skirmishers and infantry in the wood were overpowered. They
were driven in a mass across Willoughby Run. A thousand, General
Archer among them, were taken prisoners.

Harry and Dalton barely escaped, and in all the tumult and fury
of the fighting they found themselves with another division of the
Southern army which was resisting a charge made with the same energy
and courage that marked the one led by Reynolds. But the charge was
beaten back, and the Southerners, following, were repulsed in their
turn.

The battle, which had been raging for three hours with the most
extraordinary fury, sank a little. Harry and Dalton could make
nothing of it. Everything seemed wild, confused, without precision
or purpose, but the fighting had been hard and the losses great.

Heth now commanded on the field for the South and Doubleday for
the North. Each general began to rectify his lines and try to see
what had happened. The Confederate batteries opened, but did not do
much damage, and while the lull continued, more men came for the
North.

Harry and Dalton had found their way to Heth, who told them to
stay with him until Lee came. Heth was making ready to charge a
brigade of stalwart Pennsylvania lumbermen, who, however, managed to
hold their position, although they were nearly cut to pieces. Hill
now passed along the Southern line, and like the other Southern
leaders, uncertain what to do in this battle brought on so strangely
and suddenly, ceased to push the Union lines with infantry, but
opened a tremendous fire from eighty guns. The whole valley echoed
with the crash of the cannon, and the vast clouds of smoke began to
gather again. The Union forces suffered heavy losses, but still held
their ground.

Harry thought, while this comparative lull in close fighting was
going on, that Dalton and he should get back to General Lee with news
of what was occurring, although he had no doubt the
commander-in-chief was now advancing as fast as he could with the
full strength of the army. Still, duty was duty. They had been sent
forward that they might carry back reports, and they must carry
them.

"It's time for us to go," he said to Dalton.

"I was just about to say that myself."

"We can safely report to the general that the vanguards have met
at Gettysburg and that there are signs of a battle."

Dalton took a long, comprehensive look over the valley in which
thirty or forty thousand men were merely drawing a fresh breath
before plunging anew into the struggle, and said:

"Yes, Harry, all the signs do point that way. I think we can be
sure of our news."

They had not been able to catch any of the riderless horses
galloping about the field, and they started on foot, taking the road
which they knew would lead them to Lee. They emerged from some
bushes in which they had been lying for shelter, and two or three
bullets whistled between them. Others knocked up the dust in the
path and a shell shrieked a terrible warning over their heads. They
dived back into the bushes.

"Didn't you see that sign out there in the road?" asked
Harry.

"Sign! Sign! I saw no sign," said Dalton.

"I did. It was a big sign, and it read, in big letters: 'No
Thoroughfare.'"

"You must be right. I suppose I didn't notice it, because I
came back in such a hurry."

They had become so hardened to the dangers of war that, like
thousands of others, they could jest in the face of death.

"We must make another try for it," said Dalton. "We've got to
cross that road. I imagine our greatest danger is from sharpshooters
at the head of it."

"Stoop low and make a dash. Here goes!"

Bent almost double, they made a hop, skip and jump and were in
the bushes on the other side, where they lay still for a few moments,
panting, while the hair on their heads, which had risen up, lay down
again. Quick as had been their passage, fully a dozen ferocious
bullets whined over their heads.

"I hate skirmishers," said Harry. "It's one thing to fire at
the mass of the enemy, and it's another to pick out a man and draw a
bead on him."

"I hate 'em, too, especially when they're firing at me!" said
Dalton. "But, Harry, we're doing no good lying here in the bushes,
trying to press ourselves into the earth so the bullets will pass
over our heads. Heavens! What was that?"

"Only the biggest shell that was ever made bursting near us.
You know those Yankee artillerymen were always good, but I think
they've improved since they first saw us trying to cross the
road."

"To think of an entire army turning away from its business to
shoot at two fellows like ourselves, who ask nothing but to get
away!"

"And it's time we were going. The bushes rise over our heads
here. We must make another dash."

They rose and ran on, but to their alarm the bushes soon ended
and they emerged into a field. Here they came directly into the line
of fire again, and the bullets sang and whistled around them. Once
more they read in invisible but significant letters the sign, "No
Thoroughfare," and darted back into the wood from which they had just
come, while shells, not aimed at them, but at the armies, shrieked
over their heads.

"It's not the plan of fate that we should reach General Lee just
yet," said Harry.

"The shells and bullets say it isn't. What do you think we
ought to do?"

Harry rose up cautiously and began to survey their position.
Then he uttered a cry of joy.

"More of our men are coming," he exclaimed, "and they are coming
in heavy columns! I see their gray jackets and their tanned faces,
and there, too, are the Invincibles. Look, you can see the two
colonels, riding side by side, and just behind them are St. Clair and
Langdon!"

Dalton's eyes followed Harry's pointing finger, and he saw. It
was a joyous sight, the masses of their own infantry coming down the
road in perfect order, and their own personal friends not two hundred
yards away. But the Northern artillerymen had seen them too, and
they began to send up the road a heavy fire which made many fall.
Ewell's men came on, unflinching, until they unlimbered their own
guns and began to reply with fierce and rapid volleys.

The two youths sprang from the brush and rushed directly into
the gray ranks of the Invincibles before they could be fired upon by
mistake as enemies. The two colonels had dismounted, but they
recognized the fugitives instantly and welcomed them.

"Why this hurry, Lieutenant Kenton?" said Colonel Talbot
politely.

"We were trying to reach General Lee, and not being able to do
so, we are anxious to greet friends."

"So it would seem. I do not recall another such swift and warm
greeting."

"But we're glad, Leonidas, that they've found refuge with us,"
said Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.

"So we are, Hector. Down there, lads, for your lives!"

The colonel had seen a movement in the hostile artillery, and at
his sharp command all of the Invincibles and the two lads threw
themselves on their faces, not a moment too soon, as a hideous mass
of grape and canister flew over their heads. The Invincibles, rising
to their feet, sent a return volley from their rifles, and then, at
the command of a general, fell back behind their own cannon.

The Northern artillery in front was shifted, evidently to
protect some weaker position of their line, but the Southern troops
in the road did not advance farther at present, awaiting the report
of scouts who were quickly sent ahead.

"You're welcome to our command," said Langdon, "but I notice
that you come on foot and in a hurry. We're glad to protect officers
on the staff of the commander-in-chief, whenever they appeal to
us."

"Even when they come running like scared colts," said St. Clair.
"Why, Happy, I saw both of 'em jump clean over bushes ten feet
high."

"You'd have jumped over trees a hundred feet high if a hundred
thousand Yankees were shooting at you as they were shooting at us,"
rejoined Harry.

"What place is this in the valley, Harry?" asked Colonel
Talbot.

"It's called Gettysburg, sir. We heard that it was full of
shoes. We went there this morning to get em, but we found instead
that it was full of Yankees."

"And they know how to shoot, too," said Lieutenant-Colonel St.
Hilaire. "We heard all the thunder of a great battle as we came
up."

"You haven't come too soon, sir," said Dalton. "The Yankees are
fighting like fiends, and we've made very little headway against 'em.
Besides, sir, fresh men are continually coming up for 'em."

"And fresh men have now come for our side, too," said Colonel
Leonidas Talbot proudly. "I fancy that a division of Jackson's old
corps will have a good deal to say about the result."

"What part of the corps, sir, is this?" asked Harry.

"Rodes' division. General Ewell himself has not yet arrived,
but you may be sure he is making the utmost haste with the rest of
the division."

Rodes, full of eagerness, now pushed his troops forward. Hill,
who saw his coming with unmeasured joy, shifted his men until they
were fully in touch with those of Rodes, the whole now forming a
great curving line of battle frowning with guns, the troops burning
for a new attack.

Harry looked up at the sun, which long ago had pierced the mists
and vapors, but not the smoke. He saw to his surprise that it had
reached and passed the zenith. It must now be at least two o'clock
in the afternoon. He was about to look at his watch when the
Southern trumpets at that moment sounded the charge, and, knowing no
other way to go, he and Dalton fell in with the Invincibles.

Howard was in command of the Northern army at this time, and
from a roof of a house in Gettysburg he had been watching the
Southern advance. He and Doubleday gathered all their strength to
meet it, and, despite the new troops brought by Rodes, Hill was
unable to drive them back. Harry felt, as he had felt all along, that
marked hardening of the Northern resistance.

The battle wavered. Sometimes the North was driven back and
sometimes it was the South, until Hill at last, massing a great
number of men on his left, charged with renewed courage and vigor.
The Union men could not withstand their weight, and their flank was
rolled up. Then Gordon and his Georgians marched into the willows
that lined Rock Creek, forded the stream and entered the field of
wheat beyond.

Harry saw this famous charge, and during a pause of the
Invincibles he watched it. The Georgians, although the cannon and
rifles were now turned upon them, marched in perfect order, trampling
down the yellow wheat which stood thick and tall before them. The
sun glittered on their long lines of bayonets. Many men fell, but
the ranks closed up and marched unflinchingly on. Then, as they came
near their foe, they fired their own rifles and rushed forward.

The men in blue were taken in the flank at the same time by
Jubal Early, and two more brigades also rushed upon them. It was the
same Union corps, the Eleventh, that had suffered so terribly at
Chancellorsville under the hammer strokes of Jackson, and now it was
routed again. It practically dissolved for the time under the
overwhelming rush on front and flank and became a mass of
fugitives.

Harry heard for the first time that day the long, thrilling
rebel yell of triumph, and both Howard and Doubleday, watching the
battle intently, had become alarmed for their force. Howard was
already sending messages to Meade, telling him that the great battle
had begun and begging him to hurry with the whole army. Doubleday,
seeing one flank crushed, was endeavoring to draw back the other,
lest it be destroyed in its turn.

Harry and Dalton and all the Invincibles felt the thrill of
triumph shooting through them. They were advancing at last, making
the first real progress of the day.

Harry felt that the days of Jackson had come back. This was the
way in which they had always driven the foe. Ewell himself was now
upon the field. The loss of a leg had not diminished his ardor a
whit. Everywhere his troops were driving the enemy before them,
increasing the dismay which now prevailed in the ranks of men who had
fought so well.

Harry began to shout with the rest, as the Southern torrent,
irresistible now, flowed toward Gettysburg, while Ewell and Hill led
their men. The town was filled with the retreating Union troops and
the cannon and rifles thundered incessantly in the rear, driving them
on. The whole Southern curve was triumphant. Ewell's men entered the
town after the fugitives, driving all before them, and leaving
Gettysburg in Southern hands.

But the Northern army was not a mob. The men recovered their
spirit and reformed rapidly. Many brave and gallant officers
encouraged them and a reserve had already thrown up strong
entrenchments beyond the town on Cemetery Hill, to which they
retreated and once more faced their enemy.

Harry and Dalton stopped at Gettysburg, seeing the battle of the
vanguards won, and turned back. Their place was with the general to
the staff of whom they belonged, and they believed they would not
have to look far. With a battle that had lasted eight hours Lee
would surely be upon the field by this time, or very near it.

There were plenty of riderless horses, and capturing two, one of
which had belonged to a Union officer, they went back in search of
their commander. It was a terrible field over which they passed,
strewed with human wreckage, smoke and dust still floated over
everything. They inquired as they advanced of officers who were just
arriving upon the field, and one of them, pointing, said:

"There is General Lee."

Harry and Dalton saw him sitting on his horse on Seminary Ridge,
his figure immovable, his eyes watching the Union brigades as they
retreated up the slopes of the opposite hill. It was about four
o'clock in the afternoon and the sunlight was brilliant. The
commander and his horse stood out like a statue on the hill,
magnified in the blazing beams.

Harry and his comrade paused to look at him a few moments.
Their spirits had risen when they saw him. They felt that since Lee
had come all things were possible and when the whole of the two
armies met in battle the victory would surely be theirs.

The two rode quietly into the group of staff officers gathered
at a little distance behind Lee. They knew that it was not necessary
now to make any report or explanation. Events reported for
themselves and explained everything also. Their comrades greeted
them with nods, but Harry never ceased to watch Lee.

The commander-in-chief in his turn was gazing at the panorama of
battle, spread almost at his feet. Although the combat was dying,
enough was left to give it a terrible aspect. The strife still went
on in a part of Gettysburg and cannon were thudding and rifles
cracking. The flames from houses set on fire by the shells streamed
aloft like vast torches. Horses that had lost their riders galloped
aimlessly, wild with terror.

While he looked, General Hill rode up and joined them. Hill had
been ill that day. His face was deadly in its pallor, and he swayed
in his saddle from weakness. But his spirit and courage were high.
Harry saw the two generals talking together, and again he glanced at
the valley. After long and desperate fighting the Southern victory
had been complete. Any young lieutenant could see that. The whole
Northern force was now being driven in great disorder upon Cemetery
Hill, and a man like Jackson, without going to see Lee, would have
hurled his whole force instantly upon those flying masses. Some one
had called Ewell and Hill, brave and able as they were, small change
for Jackson, and the phrase often came to Harry's mind. Still, it
was not possible to find any man or any two men who could fill the
place of the great Stonewall.

The day was far from over. At least three hours of sunlight
were left. More Southern troops had come up, and Harry expected to
see Lee launch his superior numbers against the defeated enemy. But
he did not. There was some pursuit, but it was not pressed with
vigor, and the victors stopped. Contradictory orders were given, it
was claimed later, by the generals, but Lee, with the grandeur of
soul that places him so high among the immortals, said afterward:

"The attack was not pressed that afternoon, because the enemy's
force was unknown, and it was considered advisable to await the rest
of our troops."

When failure occurred he never blamed anyone but himself. Yet
Harry always thought that his genius paled a little that afternoon.
He did not show the amazing vigor and penetration that were
associated with the name of Lee both before and afterwards. Perhaps
it was an excess of caution, due to his isolated position in the
enemy's country, and perhaps it was the loss of Jackson. Whatever it
was, the precious hours passed, the enemy, small in numbers, was not
driven from his refuge on Cemetery Hill, and the battle died.

The Southern leaders themselves did not know the smallness of
the Northern force that had taken shelter on the hill. That
hardening of the resistance which Harry had felt more than once had
been exemplified to the full that deadly morning. Buford and
Reynolds had shown the penetration and resolution of Jackson himself,
and their troops had supported them with a courage and tenacity never
surpassed in battle. Only sixteen or seventeen thousand in number,
they had left ten thousand killed and wounded around the town, but
with only one-third of their numbers unhurt they rallied anew on
Cemetery Hill and once more turned defiant faces toward the enemy.

Hancock, whose greatest day also was at hand, had arrived, sent
forward in haste by Meade. Unsurpassed as a corps commander, and
seeing the advantage of the position, he went among the beaten but
willing remnants, telling them to hold on, as Meade and the whole
Army of the Potomac were coming at full speed, and would be there to
meet Lee and the South in the morning.

Both commanding generals felt that the great battle was to be
fought to a finish there. Meade had not yet arrived, but he was
hurrying forward all the divisions, ready to concentrate them upon
Cemetery Hill. Lee also was bringing up all his troops, save the
cavalry of Stuart, now riding on the raid around the Northern army,
and absent when they were needed most.

Harry did not know for many days that this fierce first day and
the gathering of the foes on Gettysburg was wholly unknown to both
North and South. The two armies had passed out of sight under the
horizon's rim, and the greatest battle of the war was to be fought
unknown, until its close, to the rival sections.

Harry and Dalton, keeping close together, because they were
comrades and because they felt the need of companionship, watched
from their own hill the town and the hill beyond. Harry felt no joy.
The victory was not yet to him a victory. He knew that the field
below, terrible to the sight, was destined to become far more
terrible, and the coming twilight was full of omens and presages.

The sun sank at last upon the scene of human strife and
suffering, but night brought with it little rest, because all through
the darkness the brigades and regiments were marching toward the
fatal field.