Tom came up. "Colonel, we're totally out of ammunition on the right and not much better on the left. Thomas is back at the aid station. He took one in the shoulder in that attack on the center." A sudden roar of muskets off to the rear on the far slope of the hill increased his anxiety. Bullets appeared to be hitting among the beleaguered left wing from that fight. He feared all was lost on the other side and that the Union batteries were about to be turned against him from the rear at any moment. In front of him the dead and wounded of both sides mingled on the bloody ground. Beyond them down the slope he could just see the enemy through the woods, rallying for what looked like another assault.

His thought about Vincent's last order to hold his position at all hazards. How was that possible now? Then he remembered a passage from Jomini's Art of War: "When the assailant, after suffering severely, finds himself strongly assailed at the moment when victory seemed to be in his hands, the advantage will, in all probability, be his no longer, for the moral effect of such a counter-attack upon the part of an adversary supposed to be beaten is certainly enough to stagger the boldest troops."  Then more words surfaced.

"The best thing for an army standing on the defensive is to know how to take the offensive at the proper time, and to take it."  The only practical option he had was to order a charge down into the Rebels and hope to scatter them before they charged again. They had to be as tired and thirsty as his own men by now. The only weapon left for most of the men was the bayonet, eighteen inches of cold steel, and the psychological effect it would have that was an edge as keen as the steel itself. The bent back left wing would have to be notified. Before he could do so, Lieutenant Holman Melcher of Company F, one of the badly shot up color companies, came out of the drifting smoke from the left, spotted him and ran over.

"Sir," Lieutenant Melcher said. "I've come to ask permission to advance the center to retrieve our wounded out in front. Most of them can't move far and have been calling out to us for help."  He admired Melcher's bravery and compassion. "Lieutenant, you will have help. I am about to order a charge. Return to your company."

Melcher stared at him in disbelief for a second, nodded and ran off toward the center. He hobbled to the right of Tozier, Elisha Coan and William Livermore, all that were left of the color guard. Competing with the din of the battle from the other side of the hill, he took a deep breath, raised his sword and yelled as loud as he could, "Bayonet!"

Other officers took up the call echoing it down the line. Steel rang as men pulled their bayonets and fastened them to their musket barrels. A loud, hoarse cheer rose from many throats, almost drowning out his yell of, "Forward!"

He stepped forward, pointing his sword down the hill at the drifting smoke and moving shadows in the brush and among the rocks. The line started to move, tentatively. Melcher ran ahead a few feet, waving his sword and shouting, "Come on! Come on, men!"

The men of the right wing were suddenly running down the spur, the wild charge taking up an impetus all its own. Sword up, he hobbled as fast as he could, staying right with Tozier and the color guard, descending the hill in the lead. He hoped the shouted orders of officers down the line would alert Ellis to start the left wing on a similar course. Ellis would certainly start moving as soon as he saw the colors heading down the hill through the trees, he thought.

As they hit the Rebel line, many of the enemy threw down their rifles and cried out, "Don't fire! We surrender!"  The rest began to flee in wild confusion, some off to the right and some up toward the big hill on the left. He saw Elisha Coan rush ahead of him, gather up five prisoners and head them up the hill to the rear at bayonet point. When the charge reached the ledge, the line divided because of the steep drop. He and the colors went to the right of it while some of Melcher's company paused to help the wounded.

Just past the ledge, the wild charge started to meet resistance. Some of the Confederates stopped to take a few final shots at their pursuers. A young lieutenant stood suddenly right in front of his course of descent. The officer waited calmly, for perhaps ten seconds. In those seconds, they examined each other with the unblinking scrutiny of those who take chances. Lawrence painfully tried to slow his momentum down the slope.

When he got within six feet of the lieutenant, he suddenly found a big navy Colt pistol aimed squarely at his face. He could do little more than brace himself for the final fatal shot. The pistol went off, missing him despite the close range. Breathing the acrid smoke of the discharge, he knocked the pistol out of the way with his sword, drawing the point to the lieutenant's neck, and stood there, his heart hammering in his chest. Eyes still defiant, the young officer slowly handed over his pistol and sword with the words, "I am your prisoner, sir."

With the shock of the encounter quickly melting, he had the luxury of admiring the lieutenant's courage. When a sergeant drew up even with him, he called out, "Sergeant, take the lieutenant to the rear. See to it that nothing happens to him." Then, he turned the sword over to the sergeant and tucked the pistol in his belt, knowing he could always use an extra side arm. As the sergeant started up the hill with the prisoner, Lawrence continued after the regiment.

He heard firing to the left and saw Ellis bringing the left wing swinging around even with the right. Beyond them more blue coats were firing into the fleeing enemy. It could only be Morrill and the lost Company B. He thought he saw green uniforms among them; realized they must have met up with a unit of the U.S. sharpshooters. Smoke suddenly blotted out the scene. Some of the men who had charged ahead of him were shouting, "We're on our way to Richmond!"

He continued on after them. Looking up at the smaller rocky hill, he determined they were about even with the position of the 44th New York, in a portion of the shallow valley littered with wounded and dying men from the frontal attack on the hill. The firing slackened and died away to occasional scattered reports. They had gone far enough, he thought. He knew the Rebels who had taken cover among the rocks and trees of the big hill, and those who were still in the valley ahead, could do great damage to what was left of his regiment if they rallied. With that thought came the realization he was technically in violation of his orders to hold the ground. That proved an equal incentive to get back up the hill to the rocky spur. He saw Clark to his right with a lieutenant and yelled, "Captain Clark, tell every officer you meet to get the men back to our original position."

"Yes, sir," Clark yelled back. Tom came barreling past, pistol in one hand and sword in the other.

"Tom, pass the word. Get the men back to our original position on that spur," he called after him.

"Yes, sir!" Tom yelled, nearly slamming into a tree as he ran. He changed direction to run parallel to the charging men, yelling, "Back up the hill, boys! It's over! Richmond can wait!"

Slowly, the mad charge petered out as the officers got control and the men started back toward the spur with prisoners at bayonet point. He saw some of the men rally around the tattered colors and give three cheers. Tozier had a broad grin on his powder smeared face and was still chewing cartridge paper. Next to him, Livermore was grinning, too and called to him, "Colonel, can you beat this? We face the Rebs head on the first time in a real fight and we whipped them!"

Lawrence forced a smile and nodded, suddenly too tired and overheated to feel much like celebrating. The smoke was clearing behind them and the confusion subsiding. He started painfully hobbling up the slope. It was all he could do to keep moving one foot in front of the other over the steep rocky ground. He had not gone far when in the fading light he noticed a high ranking Confederate officer with white hair and goatee sitting under a tree. The man had to be in his sixties. He limped over to the officer, found he was in serious condition, lung shot with blood still seeping from the wound and his mouth.

The officer focused on him, a defiance still in his eyes and croaked, "I am Lieutenant Colonel Bulger ... 47th Alabama, Colonel."

"I'll send someone back for you. Do not move or you may further injure yourself," he said, and hobbled on. He stopped a corporal. "Back at that tree is Colonel Bulger of the 47th Alabama. He's seriously wounded. Get the stretcher bearers to take him to the rear."

"Yes, sir," the corporal said and moved on.

As he continued limping up the slope in the growing twilight light, the cost of this victory suddenly became all too clear. Dead and wounded from both sides lay among the rocks and trees around the spur from top to bottom. Blood stood in dark puddles on the rocks and low spots on the ground around them. Trees were scarred up to six feet and a few up to three inches in diameter had been cut down by bullets. The wounded who had not been taken to the aid station were now being gathered up with the bodies. On the way to the center where the colors had stood, he estimated about 150 enemy dead and wounded lay along the line. As he reached the center with what was left of the color guard and companies, he realized the gravity of it all, noting here where the colors stood in the fight that 48 of his men had gone down killed or wounded.

Struggling to catch his breath from the climb, Lawrence watched the exhausted, sweaty survivors following him up the slope, pushing along prisoners at bayonet point, most with their rifles empty. Strange feelings churned within him, a bittersweet mix of guilt for surviving, remorse over those who did not, sorrow, joy and most of all, a sense of deep relief that came with such a desperate victory.

Slowly, in the deepening twilight, most of what was left of the regiment collected itself along their original position. He called a halt and many not occupied with prisoners or wounded sank down where they stood and fell asleep on their arms. He found himself looking off through the trees and brush at the dark, brooding slope of the larger hill. He suspected the fight for the spur was over, but knew the dark forested slope of the big hill held the Confederates who had gotten away during the charge. If they reformed or got reinforcements, he knew it would mean more trouble than his small, exhausted regiment could handle, maybe more than even what was left of the brigade could handle.

Lawrence sat on a low boulder to get his weight off his throbbing foot after walking the line, counting his men and seeing that the wounded were tended. He stared at the leaf litter at his feet trying to comprehend everything he had just been through. A twig snapped. He looked up. Tom walked to him out of the near dark woods.

"Lord, what a mess this all is," Tom said, sitting next to him. "Sure you don't want to see a doctor about your foot?"

"For a scratch? I'd be mortified. They have enough on their hands with real wounds," he returned, wondering briefly how John was doing with the aid station.

"Well, I found out a lot wandering around helping with the wounded all over this hill. Talked to some fellers from the 83rd. As hard as we had it on this spur, I think the rest of the brigade had it just as bad ... maybe worse. Lord Almighty, the news is real bad about most of our commanders over there. Damn Rebel snipers had themselves a field day in that pile of boulders they call Devil's Den. Colonel Vincent has been mortally wounded."

"No!" The shock hit like a physical blow. He had known Vincent was down, but did not want to believe it. Not Vincent.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. He went down in the very beginning of the fight from what Captain Woodward said. Colonel Rice now has our brigade. We lost General Weed, Lieutenant Hazlett, even Colonel O'Rorke of the 140th New York, who came just in time to stop a disaster on the right ... all ..." he paused, choked with emotion, shook his head, unable to go further. They sat in dismal silence. Lawrence was aware of crickets chirping in the brush. An owl called. Nature's creatures carried on as if nothing had happened.

Then Tom continued. "I talked to some of the boys. I don't think a single man in our regiment was not hit by enemy fire in some way or another, even if it was just through their clothes or blanket roll. Only three of our captains remain in command of their companies. Captain Sam Keene of Company F is still on his feet, though. When you sent me and Thomas to help in the center, I saw him go down. He's plenty sore. Bullet hit his sword belt and bruised his hip real bad." He paused to wipe sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "The regiments we fought were the 15th and 47th Alabama.

Some of the prisoners are from Texas, too. According to Will Livermore in the color guard, one of the prisoners from the 15th Alabama told him they ain't never been whipped before and never want to fight the 20th Maine again."

"Any idea how many men we have left fit for duty? I counted one hundred and ninety-eight," he said hoarsely. "That includes Captain Morrill and Company B down on the skirmish line below the base of the big hill."

"The company commanders are still trying to compile casualty lists. Between stragglers, men helping the wounded, burial details and details out seeking ammunition, I'd say you are close in the total."

A fear settled cold in his gut; an old fear of being exposed and vulnerable. "That's hardly a strong skirmish line and certainly not enough to defend this spur. The Alabama regiments are still on that big hill in front of us. We could have real trouble again by morning if not sooner."

"Don't I know it," Tom said. "But, the dark at least might make them cautious. What do you want me to tell the company commanders?"

"In case the worst comes, have the wounded prisoners taken to the rear and gather our dead in an area behind our line. It would also be a good idea to have the men pile up more rocks."

"Yes, sir." Tom stood up slowly. As Tom walked away, another officer came out of the gloom of the deepening twilight. "Colonel Chamberlain?" He saluted.

"Yes," he said returning it, not recognizing the man.

"Colonel Rice sent me to find you, sir. He would like to see you."

Lawrence got up painfully, the inaction and easing of battle tension bringing out all the aches with a vengeance. "Lead on," he said, limping after the officer, using his sword as a cane. As he hobbled along he felt shaky with a mix of fever and fatigue. He hoped no one would notice in the dark.

Colonel Rice was over by the 44th New York, the regiment at rest around him. He saw small fires scattered around the ridge and smelled coffee boiling.

"Sir, you sent for me," he said and saluted.

Rice returned it. "Colonel Chamberlain, your gallantry was magnificent and your coolness and skill saved us."

"Thank you, sir, but the credit must go to the men. They performed remarkably well," he said. "And I must not overlook the help from Adjutant Gifford and Captain Woodward."

"You are too modest, Colonel. You know Colonel Vincent is not expected to live?"

"Yes, sir. I will miss him." He looked at the ground, feeling his throat go tight with emotion. Control, he thought, this is not the time to let a numbing grief take over. He promised himself to write Vincent’s wife, Elizabeth, see that she was taken care of.

"We all will miss him, Colonel," Rice said and sighed. "I do have some welcomed news for all that it is worth. I have brought up reinforcements from another part of the corps. Colonel Joseph Fisher's Brigade of Pennsylvania Reserves and three thousand rounds of ammunition are on the way." Rice paused, staring at the ground a moment. Then, he looked up at him and went on. "I am extremely uncomfortable about what the Rebels might be up to on Wolf Hill, as I know you are. I asked Colonel Fisher to occupy the hill with his brigade. He declined on the grounds that his men have just arrived, and are ignorant of the situation. Thus, it would be dangerous in the dark. Be that as it may, do you think you can carry that hill? This is not a direct order, Colonel. I know you and your regiment have already done more than expected...more than anyone could imagine when this fight started. But, you have had experience with night maneuvers at Fredericksburg. No one will hold it against you if you decline, Colonel."

He offered no comment on Fisher's refusal, but knew Wolf Hill had to be secured before daylight. "I will see what can be done," he returned, knowing he had to figure out a way to tell his exhausted men they had to climb a hill infested with the enemy in the dark.

"Thank you, Colonel. I'll await word of your progress and will get you some support," Rice said.

On his way back, he noticed the full moon was up. The silver light sent a few shafts through the leafy canopy, settling in pools on the forest floor. All but a few pickets were asleep on their arms. He looked at his depleted line, did not have the heart to order them up. He limped on to the colors. Tozier was awake, as were Livermore and Coan. They were talking in low tones among themselves but stopped and gave him their full attention when he paused by them. A few men near them stirred, looked up, poked others awake around them.

"Boys, I am asked if we can carry this hill in front," he started. "I am going, the colors will follow me. As many of you as feel able to do so can follow us. There will be no shooting. Use the bayonet if need be. We cannot risk an engagement that will reveal just how small our numbers are." Sword in hand, he limped toward the foreboding bigger hill.

He could hear men stirring, following. He looked over his shoulder and, in the patches of moonlight, he saw every one of them stand up. Officers moved in the gloom, trimming up the formation. Tom came over.

"Tom, get word to Captain Morrill out on the skirmish line to join us," he said.

"Yes, sir," Tom replied and was gone.

Lawrence continued on, straining to see in the dark. An occasional shot from a nervous picket in the far distance broke the forest silence. He heard Company B arrive and take its place. Cautiously, he entered the dark woods at the base of Wolf Hill. In the best battle line they could manage over the rough ground, the regiment advanced. Moon light filtering through the branches did little to relieve the blackness. Soon he found his eyes becoming accustomed to the dark. They pushed forward. Something small ran through the brush. Someplace out in front in the murky darkness, nervous Southerners began to fire at real or imagined noises.

Bullets harmlessly clipped leaves and branches over head. The sudden, explosive whistling sound of beating morning dove wings startled him. Just before they reached the top of the hill, there was a disturbance on their left. Some of the men captured a half dozen Confederates, including an officer from General Law's staff. Once at the top, he could hear noise below that indicated the enemy was close and in force directly in front of them. He turned to Tom, who was close by. "Pass the word to the company commanders to have the men take cover. Have Captain Morrill take Company B down the hill in a skirmish line to keep an eye on things. I want to know what's down there. How big a force"

"Yes, sir." Tom went stumbling off along the line on his mission.

Lawrence heard the skirmishers move away and checked his pocket watch in a pool of moonlight. It was 9:45. Then, he waited by a tree thinking dismal thoughts of Southern prison camps or worse while the rest of the regiment huddled around him behind rocks and trees in their exposed position. Time passed by interminably slowly. There was some noise in the woods ahead, movement through brush, the rattle of equipment. His heart pounded and breath came short. He could feel the fever begin its burn, knew he was pushing himself to the limit. He also knew if they were all captured, he would never survive prison. It chilled him to envision Fannie in black. How many of the others are having such thoughts, he wondered. What was he thinking dragging his exhausted regiment up an enemy infested hill in the dark? Duty? Rice himself had said they had all done more than what was expected of them. The sound of men pushing through brush closer in front stopped his growing pangs of regret.

A voice challenged, "Halt! Who goes there?"

"Merrill, Company B. We got thirty prisoners," came the answer from Captain Morrill. "All of them Texans from Hoods Division not three hundred yards down the hill."  The words were no sooner out of his mouth when noise from a large force crashing through the brush and clattering over rocks erupted in their rear, cutting them off from the brigade.

"Prepare for an attack!" Lawrence called and heard his own men shift position in the dark as he ducked behind a large boulder and, with painful difficulty, knelt on the ground.

"Oh, Hell! It's those Pennsylvanian Reserves." Land's voice boomed from the edge of the line. "They're coming up the hill by the left flank. God, what a bunch of idiots. They're going to end up with their butts to the enemy when they halt. Holy Mother of God! Now they're trying to correct it!"

The correction digressed into a noisy mess by the sound of the crash of brush and curses. A Confederate far down the hill yelled. "Fire!" A volley shattered the night harmlessly passing over his regiment to clip twigs and leaves, sending them down in a softly rustling shower. The crashing in the brush and the shouting suddenly receded down the hill behind them. Then the nights forest silence closed in.

"Captain Morrill, send out a few of your men as a picket line to our rear. We don't need any more surprises," he called.

"Yes, sir," Morrill replied as Tom returned.

"Tom, get word to Colonel Rice we've got the hill but need some reliable help holding it."

Tom nodded and was gone. He waited in the dark listening, praying the Texans below would not figure out how few blue clad troops they really faced. He did not know how long the wait was, even caught himself dozing, leaning against the boulder. The crackling and snap of brush pulled him back alert, told him a large force of troops was approaching. Anxiety gripped him. His heart thumped coldly. He stood, felt the Colt in his belt, started to reach for it.

Out of the dark a young officer appeared in front of him, the moonlight glinting on captain's bars.

"Colonel Chamberlain, sir, is that you?" the captain asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Captain Woodward of the 83rd," Woodward said. "Colonel Rice sent us and the 44th New York now coming up behind us to support you."

"That's the best news I've had all night," he said, grinning with crazy relief in the darkness.

"The Pennsylvania Reserves will be following come daylight. They seem a little shaken by their first attempt to climb this hill."

"They made quite a mess of the whole affair and were so noisy they drew fire," he explained, watching the reinforcements take up position. "I'm going to have my boys get what sleep they can. They are all played out. Let me know every half hour what the status is. I'm going to try to get a little sleep myself."

"Yes, sir." Woodward said, saluted and left, a shadow within the shadows of the dark Pennsylvania hillside. He eased down with his back against a boulder to sit with his sore leg and foot out in front of him, the sword at his side, the bent scabbard useless, and soon he dropped off into a feverish sleep.

After being awakened before dawn for what seemed the millionth time for the half hour reports, he decided to stay awake. The air was already hot and humid, making him break out in a sweat. He knew right from the start it was going to be another miserable day for everyone. Feeling stiff and leaning on his sword, he started limping along the line to check the men. He felt light-headed and could not tell if it was from lack of food or the nagging fever. He ached in more places than he cared to think about. Then he thought of that slacker Gilmore back in Baltimore and became all that more determined to stay on his feet as long as he could.

Not far away, he found Ellis sitting against a tree trunk, a blanket over his shoulders and looking miserable. Hospital Steward Granville Baker stood next to him and handed Ellis a flask. Concerned, he hobbled over. "Ellis, how are you doing?"

"Not that great, sir. Everything is catching up to me and has made the malarial fever and shits worse. But, this ought to help," he said drinking from a flask, then handing it to him. "You look like you could use this, too. We can't let the only two field officers this outfit has drop out of the fight now."

"What is it?"

"Quinine in whiskey," Baker answered. "If you two had kept tak'in it like Dr. Townsend wanted you to do, neither of you would be in such bad shape now, if you don't mind me say'in so."

Lawrence took a couple of swallows and could not help making a face as he quickly handed the flask back to Ellis.

"You better have Baker take a look at your foot while you're at it," Ellis said, corking the flask and putting it in his coat pocket. "A bandage will ease it some."

"It's just a scratch not worth ..."

"Sir, just let me get a bandage on it. You don't want to rub up a bigger sore. Hiking around these hills in riding boots can't be do'in it any good."

"He has a point, Colonel," Ellis said. "No sense in being foolish about it. We've got to get ourselves ready for action. You might try replacing that bent scabbard, too, before you break your neck over it on this damn hill."

"I suppose you're right on both counts." He sat next to Ellis and pulled off his boot, grimacing at the pain. His torn sock was stuck to the wound by dried blood.

Baker took a roll of bandage out of a haversack he carried stuffed with medical supplies. Then, he looked at the wound, frowned, grabbed his canteen and dumped some water on it, using part of the bandage to gently wet the sock. He peeled it off exposing a small, but deep jagged cut that started to ooze blood. "Damn, this is a nasty gash, but noth'in I can't fix." Baker had his foot neatly bandaged in no time. Lawrence gingerly pulled the boot back on and stood. It felt a little improved.

"Thank you, Baker. Now, gentlemen, I better check on the rest of the men and our situation. Ellis, try to get a little rest while things are quiet."

"That I will, sir," Ellis said and smiled weakly.

He continued hobbling toward the front of the hill where the enemy would likely make an attack. As he drew closer, he heard the clatter of rocks being piled up and found his men building a stone wall from the plentiful supply of rocks scattered on the hillside.

"Take a line forward and start another so we have this first wall as a place to fall back to," he ordered and they got to work immediately on it. He turned away and walked only a few yards when a couple of shots rang out near the construction of the forward wall, breaking the morning calm. He turned to face it, expecting any second to hear the high falsetto of the Rebel yell and crash of muskets. He saw Tom running toward him. There was trouble by the look on his brother's face.

"Colonel," Tom panted. "They're tak'in Lieutenant Linscott to the rear. He's been shot. His own damn fault, too."

"Explain," he snapped, deeply distressed. Linscott was one of the young men he had recommended for a commission when the regiment formed last summer.

"Well, sir, he decided to borrow a rifle and see if he could get a shot at one of the Rebels below, but instead one of the Rebs got him. He's hit in the thigh just above his knee. Baker say's he'll probably lose the leg."

The two of them walked on in tense silence. All he could think was what a foolish waste that show of bravado had been. Now another fine officer was gone. He looked out at his pathetically thin regiment and felt a chill. He could not stand to lose any more men and the prisoners still had to be taken care of. "Tom, get a detail together to get the prisoners to the rear. They'll be a liability if we are attacked."

"Yes, sir," Tom said and left.

At 10 o'clock, the Pennsylvania Reserves took over the line on Wolf Hill. Colonel Rice ordered Third Brigade back to the smaller hill. On the way past the spur, Lawrence could not help noticing that the enemy dead still lay where they had fallen, but the dead of the Third Brigade had all been removed. On the hill, the men received another sixty rounds of ammunition. Tom gave him a scabbard to replace the bent one. Then, they marched a half mile toward the center of the Union line with the rest of the brigade hearing sounds of fierce fighting far to the Union right near the town. They were halted on the edge of woods behind two other lines of infantry just off the Taneytown Road in support of Hancock's Second Corps. Not trusting the way things looked, he had them put up two rows of low stone walls in case of another attack.

So far, the morning had been eerily silent around them except for an occasional shot from a nervous skirmisher or an artillery piece. It was as if neither side was sure they wanted to continue on this end of the field. Yet a tension crackled in the hot, humid air. Cicadas droned on lazily in the trees, oblivious to human struggles.

Once they were settled behind the wall, he hobbled along the line to check on the men. By the position of the sun in the cloudy sky, it was about noon. Most of the men were half asleep in the stifling heat, talking in low voices among themselves or writing letters home. As he passed, the ones still awake would look up, some nodding, others flashing a fleeting smile.

"I'm proud of you. All of you. You did well out there," he said in a loud voice that carried down the line. He spotted Lewis, who had a bandage around his head and was sitting next to a prone soldier who had his hat over his face, napping. The prone soldier next to him pulled his hat up. It was Burk. "I'm just glad we're off that damn hill, sir. Found out it had several names, like no body wanted it. Wolf Hill or Big Round Top or Sugar Loaf." Lawrence smiled.

Further down the line he found Color Sergeant Andrew Tozier sitting next to the tattered flag. He had jammed the pole in the ground next to the wall and piled up a few stones around it to make sure it stayed up. The sergeant had a piece of paper balanced on his knee and a pencil in hand and appeared to be writing a letter. Looking at him in passing, Lawrence could not but help recall the brave stand the sergeant made with the colors in the center of the decimated line. The sight of him wreathed in battle smoke, the flag in the crook of his arm as he cooly fired a rifle taken from a fallen comrade, was the stuff of legends and patriotic paintings. Toizer was good officer material and the color companies had lost most of theirs. He walked over to the sergeant with an offer in mind.

Sergeant Tozier," he said. Tozier looked up, his face still powder stained. Then got to his feet and saluted, "Sir."

He returned it. "I am in need of good officers. I would like to promote you to lieutenant for your gallantry in holding the center yesterday."

Tozier was quiet a moment seeming to be thinking it over. "Sir, I thank you deeply for such an offer, but I respectfully decline. I am happy at my present post. Besides its just too much dang paperwork being an officer."

"As you wish, sergeant. But, I will keep the offer open should you change your mind," he said and turned away to continue limping along the line.

A voice from down the line called to him. "Be nice if they sent us some more rations. Don't even have crumbs left and I'm so hungry I could eat the back end of a skunk."

"And you would, too, George," another called and laughter burst from some men around him.

"I expect they'll be sending something up soon. It looks like we are in a fairly secure area and the Taneytown Road is right behind us," he said, and returned to limping down the line. As he made his way toward Company I, he began to worry about Lieutenant Linscott. He paused by a private near the end of the company. "Private, I'd like you to go find the hospital where Lieutenant Linscott is and make sure he is well cared for. With us having no regimental surgeon, I don't want him forgotten."

"Yes, sir. Be glad to." The private got up, saluted and left. A man on a black horse riding along the line suddenly caught his eye. A courier. The courier looked toward him, rode up and saluted. He quickly returned it.

"Sir, are you Colonel Chamberlain of the 20th Maine?"

"Yes."

The courier took a letter from his inside coat pocket and handed it to him. "Sir, this is for you. General Ames sends his compliments." Ames had survived. Thank God, he thought as he took the letter. "Give the general my compliments and tell him I am very pleased to know he is well. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," the courier said and rode away. He opened the paper and read.

As miserable as he felt, the letter cheered him. Ames was as proud of the regiment as he was. And in Ames eyes, he had proved he could command. He folded the letter and put it in his coat pocket, savoring the self-satisfaction it gave him.

The sound of wagons and cattle on the Taneytown road drew his attention. The division wagons were moving up. The regiment's non-combatants were on their way over to learn of the previous day's news and check on friends. Butchers were driving up a small herd of cattle that were quickly slaughtered for fresh beef rations for the brigade.

To get his weight off his sore foot for a while, he sat in the shade under an oak on the edge of the woods. He just got settled when two cannons fired way off to the right along the enemy line. They were followed almost immediately by an enormous force of Confederate artillery fire that sent the butchers along the road scurrying for cover leaving the carcasses behind. It jolted awake every sleeping man along the wall. Men who were standing and talking with friends instantly threw themselves on the ground. He froze where he was and looked up. He saw shells flying toward them and lost count quickly.

Luckily, the screaming shells flew well over them, exploding to the right and left, causing no harm in the ranks. When the Union artillery opened up far to their right and to their left from Little Round Top, the ground began to shake like an earthquake.

Nick Korolev has been a serious student of the Civil War since age 12.  He is  a professional published writer and artist and his interest in the Civil War has provided many subjects for both.  He is author of a Civil War novel entitled Silver Eagles,  about Cols. Ames, Chamberlain and the 20th Maine from the formation of the regiment to Gettysburg.  Silver Eagles was nominated for the 2003 Michael Shaara Award for Civil War Fiction.  He is currently working on a novel about McClellan and Stanton titled The Sword and the Lightning  and a screen play about Brig. Gen William Averell's Salem Raid in December of 1863 currently titled  Averell and the Raiders of the North Wind (winner of the 2004 Screenplay Award at the Appalachian Film Festival).  He is a member of the Civil War Heritage Foundation for whom he portrays Gen. George McClellan and the First  Regiment of West Virginia Cavalry, for whom he portrays Gen. William Averell.  Nick is Secretary for the local Sons Of Union Veterans of the Civil War and recently joined the Falling Waters Battlefield Association.

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