Tom came scrambling to him along the stone wall. "Sir, since the Rebels are over shooting as usual and we don't seem to be in any immediate danger, do you mind if I send out a detail to fetch our share of that beef?"

"Good idea, Tom. Make it quick. If they discover their mistake, we may be in for some trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Tom ran off down the line, grabbing a few men, and they all ran across the field for the carcasses. He watched them cut choice chunks and stuff several haversacks with bloody meat. When a stray shell exploded on the other side of the road fifty yards from them, they grabbed their overstuffed haversacks and bolted across the field back to the regiment to the hoots and hollers of the waiting men. The meat was quickly distributed.

Soon, the aromas of cooking beef and coffee rose around them. Except for the instinctive ducking when shells screamed a little too close overhead, they feasted undisturbed on their well-earned beef, the first real meal they had in over forty-eight hours.

How long the ground shaking cannonade lasted, he was not sure, but believed it was at least two hours. It was followed by a vicious mix of musket fire and artillery that lasted some time, then slackened to scattered shots. A short time after it stopped, rumors began to circulate down the line. There had been a massive Confederate attack on the Union center much like the Union attack on Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg. It was an attack that failed at great cost of life on both sides. Depending on who told the story, the attacking Rebels were either wiped out or lost half their number.

Shortly after the rumors, cheering was heard traveling down the line. Meade and his staff rode past along the road and the 20th Maine joined in the cheers. Finally they had a general in command who could beat Lee. Lawrence did not have the energy to join in himself, but he certainly felt their joy.

The officers' horses were brought up and tied to a picket line stretched between two trees. He was about to try to find Colonel Rice to substantiate the rumors when he saw the familiar form of a tall, mustachioed young officer riding past the wagons on the Taneytown Road - Brigadier General Adelbert Ames.

The general appeared to be looking for something along the edge of their woods. It suddenly struck his feverish mind that Ames might be looking for the 20th Maine. He quickly hobbled to the gelding, slid the sword in the scabbard, pulled the reins free and mounted. He headed the gelding across the field at a trot. Ames had already passed their section in his typically hurried manner, but was within shouting distance.

"General Ames!" he yelled. Ames pulled his horse to a stop and turned in the saddle to look. He took off his cap and waved it to get Ames attention. Suddenly, Ames wheeled the horse around and headed right at him at an easy canter. As they drew up to one another, he saluted.

"Sir, it is so good to see you. I was so relieved to get your letter earlier ... to know you were all right. I heard the Eleventh Corps was cut up pretty bad that first day and fretted about your safety. Thank you for the kind praise."

Ames returned the salute. "True ... I'm sorry to say it's true. I heard the same about the Twentieth early this morning and that you were wounded."

"I don't consider a scratch and a bruise to be serious enough to include my name on the casualty list, sir. I do thank you for your concern," he returned. "Unfortunately, the rest of what you heard was true. It pains me to report that I have lost about half the regiment in killed and wounded in the worst fighting I have ever seen. It is something I will not soon forget. Nor will any of the men who survived the experience." As he spoke, he felt remorse rise like a tide within. "I just hope it is over for now."

"If you saw what I did on the ride over here ... the death and destruction ... you would know Lee's grand invasion of the North is over and his army badly crippled. After that artillery barrage, he made a massive attack, as you may have heard. Marched three divisions a mile over open ground right into our artillery and infantry about a half mile to your right. Right now, it looks like he left half of those divisions behind dead or wounded on the field. If Meade hits him now, this war could be over. But I don't think the army is up to it. The Second Corps and part of the First were hit hard in that fight and the Twelfth took a beating this morning over on Culp's Hill but held. Maybe tomorrow. To destroy this rebellion on the Fourth of July would certainly be a fitting gift for the Union." They fell silent as they approached the regiment. Some of the men stirred to look over at them He heard Ellis yell, "Fall in!"

Suddenly , the regiment was on its feet, assembled by companies and standing at attention. Most were still powder stained and there were many bandages in evidence. He could tell by the look on Ames' face that he was shocked at how few they were. They pulled their horses to a stop by the center and turned to the color guard and the bullet riddled flag.

"I came by in person to tell you how proud I am of you and your Colonel," Ames began. "I wish I could have been with you to see your splendid defense of Little Round Top and the subsequent bayonet charge. You have proven yourselves to be one of, if not the best, regiment in the Fifth Corps. I am proud to have been a part of preparing you for that fight. In a moment of extreme crisis, you remembered your training and put it to good use with extreme courage. I wish you the best. You will always be in my thoughts."

When Ames finished, there was an awkward silence for a moment. In that moment he could see a change come over the assembled men. Attitudes changed by the looks on their powder-stained faces. They had suddenly realized they were alive, thanks in no small part to Ames' brutal training that they endured for eight months. In effect, they owed their lives to him. Deep hatred shifted in that moment to a familial love that became a bond born in blood and fire. The whole line then erupted into cheering. Ames smiled at them, took off his cap and waved it as he turned his horse to leave. He rode with the general back toward the road under a threatening sky. Thunder sounded in the distance.

"Take care of yourself and those boys, Colonel," Ames said. "I expect great things from you."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best to live up to your expectations. You take care of yourself, too," he returned.

They dispensed with military formality and shook hands. Then, without another word Ames rode away on down the road past the wagons. Lawrence watched, finding himself wondering if he would ever see the young general again or if he, too, would be plucked from this world like Vincent and so many other fine officers. Just then lightning flashed and thunder boomed again loud enough to shake the ground.

He turned the gelding back toward the regiment as it began to rain. To him it seemed as if God himself intended to wash the blood from the fields and forests of the battlefield and quench the thirst of the yet unattended wounded. In the comparative shelter of the trees, he dismounted and tied the reins to the picket line. He had no sooner left the horse when he heard his brother, John, yell, "Lawrence!" He turned to see him walking with Tom, but not for long. John ran to him, grabbed his hand, shook it hard, and embraced him in a near rib-cracking hug.

"God, Lawrence, you have no idea ... I heard the regiment got hit bad, that you were wounded ...expected to see you or Tom brought in on stretchers any moment at the field hospital." He pulled away, looking disheveled. There were spots of blood on his shirt, his eyes were red from lack of sleep. "I have been through hell, Lawrence. I followed our wounded to the hospital ... I'll never forget it ... never in a million years!"

He knew John had no real medical experience and nothing in his life had prepared him for the horrors of a field hospital. He said nothing, thought it best to just let his brother talk and get it all out of his system. He was trying hard not to think about his own losses, the men he knew and cared about. He knew those thoughts would catch up and hit hard later. Then, there would be all those letters to write to grieving families.

"You all right, Lawrence?" John asked, his face twisted with emotion.

"Just a scratch on my foot. Baker bandaged it."

"Oh, God, Lawrence ... let me tell you. It was the hardest experience ... worse than the hospital in Washington ... men without an eye or nose or arm or leg or with a mangled head or body would constantly attract your sympathy. Each looking a little worse than the one who went before ... I did what I could to comfort whomever I could however I could. Most had no shelter ... just laying out in the broiling sun. I rigged shelters out of blankets." He paused, looked at the ground and let out a ragged sigh. "I found Lieutenant Kendall of Company G with a terrible neck wound. No shelter. The doctors hadn't even looked at him, but he was hanging on. I got an assistant surgeon to remove the ball. I checked back on him later. Brought his hat he lost on the field. But ...Lawrence, he was dead. He was such a patient man ... And Buck. I was with him when he died this morning ... but he did not know I was there ..." John suddenly embraced him like a frightened child. "Oh, Lawrence ... I don't know ..."

Lawrence put both arms around his brother to comfort him. "Sh-h-h, you did what you could, John. That is all anyone can do in these situations." He looked over at Tom, standing quietly behind him, uncomfortable, as the rain soaked them all. "Tom, get him some water and something to eat."

"I couldn't eat," John protested as they pulled apart.

"Well, get him some water or coffee." Tom walked away. Beyond him, the men huddled in their rubber blankets by the wall, many asleep. John hunched and shivered in the rain. He took his rubber poncho off the saddle and gave it to him. "Put this on before you catch your death."

John took it, nodded. "What about you? You still look feverish."

"I've been wet before." He knew he did not sound too convincing.

Tom returned with three cups of coffee. All three of them walked further under the shelter of the trees in silence, looking for a dryer spot to rest. He figured the worst of this battle had probably passed. What tomorrow held was in the keeping of God. The storm that had begun in late afternoon went on through the night and into the morning, leaving everyone drenched to the skin. Occasional firing from nervous pickets continued, but nothing came of it. The two battered armies settled in and waited under an overcast sky.

With none of their baggage wagons on site yet, he could not write any of the reports he knew would be due. With time on his hands, he mounted the gelding and wandered alone to have a look around. He returned to the hill Ames had called Little Round Top; was drawn to it. He dismounted and lead the horse to a quiet nook behind where his lines had held, and paused by the open shallow graves of his men. The regimental Pioneers were busy carving names and home towns into rough headboards made of ammunition boxes. The sun broke through the clouds, flooding the glen with clear light. He looked upon the dead, most appearing to be only asleep, and muttered a short prayer. It was the least he could do for the thirty there who had given the last full measure of devotion to their country. He knew there would probably be even more who would not survive their experience in the field hospitals. That thought weighed heavy on his mind as he walked on. The horse walked next to him with its head down as if it, too, felt the loss of those who had followed him into battle. He continued on to the rocky spur where he found that the burial details had removed the evidence of conflict. He was struck how peaceful it all seemed, how strange to look upon the spur so hotly contested now almost deserted. The rain had even washed away the blood. The only signs that anything had happened there were the bullet scars on the tree trunks and the men still wandering about searching for casualties. The faces of the fallen rose from his memory and with them the pain and guilt of loss. Fighting a despondency that threatened to take over his thoughts, he started back to the regiment.

Upon arrival, the rain had stopped, yet the sky threatened more. He managed to find a piece of paper, pen and small bottle of ink he had forgotten in his saddlebags, and took a few moments to write Fannie about the incredible experience he had just come through. He knew he had to spare her the terrible details, the horror and heartbreak he felt so deeply. He settled on a blanket on the ground and leaned the paper on his knee.

When he finished the letter, he folded it and put it in his leather folder in his coat breast pocket, hoping it would stay dry. Supplies and tents still had not been brought up and the men spent another afternoon and evening beside the wall with only rubber blankets for shelter. The Fourth of July passed wet and quiet with no one in much of a mood to celebrate.

Early in the morning of July 5, the Third Brigade was ordered out on a reconnaissance in force across the part of the battlefield where General Dan Sickles' Third Corps had fought. It was ground between the hostile lines that neither army had occupied over the last two days. The Third Brigade formed a battle line. Lawrence rode out in front with Ellis at the left wing and Clark on the right. Tom was next to him and John had insisted on coming along. John rode next to Tom with a promise to head for the rear if any shooting started. Soon after they started to move he realized it would be impossible to keep the battle line straight.

As far as the eye could see were dead and dying men, shattered and burned equipment, dead horses and mules, all scattered over the fertile farmland. Over all hung a miasma of rotting flesh and burned powder that turned his stomach. The line was forced to break in many places to get around the carnage of battle. John had a trouble with Prince, who shied several times from bodies hideously torn by artillery. The farther they moved across the field, the worse the scene grew. He tried counting the bodies, but gave up -- they were so thickly strewn where the fighting had been the hottest. Looking upon them, all he could think of was their mothers, wives, children, sweethearts and sisters.

As they approached the Abraham Trostle farm, he could see nineteen horses among the fragments of an exploded caisson and gun carriage. One near them tried to rise. He saw one leg was twisted horribly with exposed bone. Unable to stand the sight of it, he rode the short distance to the animal, pulled the pistol that he had taken from the Rebel lieutenant from his belt, and shot the horse in the head, ending its misery. When he rode back to the advancing line, he found John staring at him a somber look on his young face.

"War does not discriminate does it, Lawrence? Men of every rank and age are here from both sides," John said in a low, strained voice. "There's no glory in it." He nodded and shoved the pistol back in his belt. It seemed the closer they got to the Emmitsburg Road, the more horrifying the scene became. Some distant shots sounded. Officers were yelling. Passing an order down the brigade line. "Halt and set up breastworks."

Was it all going to start again? He looked down his battle line. He found the center of his regiment resting in front of the charred, smoking remains of a barn with a stone foundation. He figured a shell fragment had caused the blaze. " Ellis,  Clark, have the men take the foundation stones and build a wall. We need more cover here," he yelled.

Orders were passed along his line. Several men went toward the smoldering ruin to grab foundation stones to construct the wall. As they reached it, they paused. One man turned away quickly and fell to his knees vomiting. "Oh, Lord, have mercy!" another man blurted and backed away from the barn.

He rode over to investigate. What greeted him was a sight worse than anything he ever experienced at Antietam or Fredericksburg, or hoped to experience again. It took his breath away and put him in mind of the Biblical wrath of God at Sodom and Gomorrah. Wounded officers and men from both sides had come seeking shelter only to be caught in a death trap. Their bodies were charred down to the skeleton or were mere piles of ashes among blackened, broken boards. Others lay swollen, their flesh cracked and peeling with clothes burned off. Some were half-burned with roasted heads, the white teeth grinning in black, eyeless skulls. A few were still alive, but badly burned.

The air was heavy with the stench of burned flesh. The men who looked upon this immediately tried to do something for those still breathing, but they were beyond all human aid. A corporal waded into the charred and smoking remnants of the barn, lowered his rifle and ended one unfortunate's suffering with a bullet to the head. Was this merciful release murder in God's eyes, he wondered. The corporal saw him staring and said, "Colonel, he pleaded for me to end his life. I'd want it done for me if I was half a cinder as he was."

He turned his horse away as several other shots rang out in the barn. It was all he could do to keep from losing the coffee he had drunk an hour ago. Strange sights mercifully drew his thoughts away from the barn. In a peach orchard across from the barn were huge piles of bread he surmised the Confederates had forced local women to bake. Beyond them, along a fence, some of his men were going through thousands of blankets and knapsacks, rifles and other items the Confederates had shed before the assault on the Third Corps. He did not stop them from taking what they needed.

Passing the burned barn, he saw that John had overcome his queasiness, dismounted and taken a button from a Confederate officer's coat for a souvenir. He also collected several letters from the dead. He was disappointed in the young seminarian's behavior, but said nothing. The regiment finally settled by the wall they built, while behind them the Pioneers and other detailed soldiers collected weapons and buried the dead.

An occasional cannon fired in the distance often enough to make him wonder if hostilities were going to open again. They stayed all morning by the wall in the almost intolerable stench and blazing heat. He settled his horse in the shade of a tree as far from the ruined barn as he could. As thirsty as he started to get, he knew he could not stomach a drink. An unearthly silence fell over the field except for the calls of cicadas in the trees.

In the early afternoon they were ordered forward. They moved cautiously across the field, the remnants of tall wheat swishing past their legs. He squinted at the trees and low brush ahead, searching for the least movement - expecting shots to ring out any second. He was suddenly sharply aware of what a good target on the gelding. They splashed across shallow Willoughby Run, well into enemy territory now, and found Lee's army had gone. At dusk they headed back across the macabre field. Tom and John rode next to him each in silent contemplation.

Tom spoke up. "These have been the hardest sights I have ever seen."

John nodded. "I never, never shall forget."

If anything more passed between his younger brothers, he did not notice. He was too deep in his own thoughts. He wondered if Meade would pursue Lee immediately and finish the job begun in this Pennsylvania farmland. How much longer would this slaughter go on before the South understood they could not win? He looked off toward the two brooding hills that marked the Union left flank and thought of the desperate fight for the spur, of Vincent and his men languishing in field hospitals and the dead buried behind the hill. He made a promise to himself he would go to the hospitals and check on them as soon as the regiment was settled back in their position behind the center of the line. His thoughts raced on to what they had done, what they had accomplished beyond the glory, beyond the suffering. The regiment had proved itself in combat, had passed the trial by fire in their first stand up fight, at great cost. He had proven he could command in the crisis of combat. And, beyond that, maybe they had helped bring the Union that much closer to a final victory, that much closer to reuniting the torn and bleeding country. But, there was more, much more on a deeper level.

THE END

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.

The Bivouac Banne