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Chapter 12
July 3, 1863, 11:30 a.m.
Waynesboro, Pennsylvania
The courier had reached him around seven in the morning. A man from McNeill's independent company, Imboden's brigade. He had slipped from his sweat-covered, exhausted horse and had called in an almost hysterical voice for the next officer. Unfortunately, what he had to report afterwards did not come from a confused mind. Yankees on a flank march, cavalry in divisional strength, infantry behind. All together, moving west towards their life line.
He hadn't waited to ask his superior for permission, he had acted. It had only taken about thirty minutes to get the men ready to march. From the South Mountain Plateau to this sleepy little town, however, it had taken him four hours of marching time. But that wasn't important anymore, the only important thing was that he had obviously won the race. The first cavalrymen in grey coming in from the east, including a John Imboden moved to tears by the surprise, had reported that the enemy was close on their heels.
He slowly rode along his defensive line infront of the town, a battlefront three brigades wide, from left to right half a mile, thousands of rifles flashing and gleaming in the midday sun. Four batteries of artillery had gone into position as well, bronze Napoleons glinting. Red battle flags held high, marking the individual regiments and their alignment.
He nearly wept with joy at the sight of it. His moment had finally arrived. We are ready, we are doing it in style, it was so good to be alive on this day in July, Major General George Edward Pickett thought.
Standing in his stirrups, he addressed his men. 'Virginians! This is the hour! We gonna have to be stubborn this day. The fate of the army and of our whole nation is in our hands! Hold your positions! Drive them back to Washington!'
Maj. Gen. George E. Pickett, CSA.
Chapter 12
July 3, 1863, 11:30 a.m.
Waynesboro, Pennsylvania
The courier had reached him around seven in the morning. A man from McNeill's independent company, Imboden's brigade. He had slipped from his sweat-covered, exhausted horse and had called in an almost hysterical voice for the next officer. Unfortunately, what he had to report afterwards did not come from a confused mind. Yankees on a flank march, cavalry in divisional strength, infantry behind. All together, moving west towards their life line.
He hadn't waited to ask his superior for permission, he had acted. It had only taken about thirty minutes to get the men ready to march. From the South Mountain Plateau to this sleepy little town, however, it had taken him four hours of marching time. But that wasn't important anymore, the only important thing was that he had obviously won the race. The first cavalrymen in grey coming in from the east, including a John Imboden moved to tears by the surprise, had reported that the enemy was close on their heels.
He slowly rode along his defensive line infront of the town, a battlefront three brigades wide, from left to right half a mile, thousands of rifles flashing and gleaming in the midday sun. Four batteries of artillery had gone into position as well, bronze Napoleons glinting. Red battle flags held high, marking the individual regiments and their alignment.
He nearly wept with joy at the sight of it. His moment had finally arrived. We are ready, we are doing it in style, it was so good to be alive on this day in July, Major General George Edward Pickett thought.
Standing in his stirrups, he addressed his men. 'Virginians! This is the hour! We gonna have to be stubborn this day. The fate of the army and of our whole nation is in our hands! Hold your positions! Drive them back to Washington!'
Maj. Gen. George E. Pickett, CSA.
- Lothar
- Word Count: 330