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Chapter 16
July 3, 1863, 2:00 p.m.
In front of Waynesboro, Pennsylvania
A cheer went up from the road as the batteries were racing forward, reaching the crest. They turned at right angles at the full gallop, dirt and dust spraying up. Even before the last gun had appeared, solid shot ranged out from the rebel line, one shell hitting and exploding a recently arrived limber wagon. The guns swung about, dismounted, and in less than a minute opened up as well, returning the favor.
In the fields behind the slope, the wave of infantry was beginning to advance. Five brigades up front with the pityful remains of the proud Excelsior Brigade bringing up the rear. There was no cheering this time, just focused determination.
David Bell Birney could not longer contain himself. Turning about, he raced down the slope and reached the left flank of his advancing division, joining them in their march. 'For the Union, forward!' he shouted. The cry was echoed down the line by brigadiers and regimental commanders alike.
Billows of smoke, light gray to night dark, obscured the Confederate lines. Bursts of flame marked the muzzles of Confederate batteries, but the enemy could be seen only when a quirk of the air made a path through the earthbound clouds.
There was smoke in plenty around Birney's forming ranks, too, but shafts of golden afternoon light pierced it, gilding rifle barrels and bayonets. Noting his presence, some of his men gave Birney a cheer. He nodded, but did not smile. It was serious business now. The alignment of the long lines of men advancing was far from perfect, but they pressed steadily forward, centered on their colors. The regiments in blue rushed handsomely for the line of artillery and infantry opposing them on the higher ground.
Ragged and proud, the men crossed a shimmering field, not caring at all for enemy cannon. They tore down a fence with hardly a moment of pause and brushed aside a Rebel skirmish line. Men began to fall, but at that instant it did not make a difference. The juggernaut was rolling forward.
Smoke rose. And screams. With a cheer, Birney's soldiers swept through a Confederate line, the grey-clad defenders falling back. But they were not running, were not beaten. Regaining cohesion, the Rebels kept up their fire as they slowly withdrew closer to their guns. On the other side of the field, Birney could make out the mass of Humphrey's division advancing at comparable pace, also driving the enemy before them. The Federals no longer displayed parade-ground precision, but they held together well enough and went forward to get in range of Confederate regiments scrambling to change front.
Birney watched as one of his brigades shot it out with two Virginia regiments until the bluecoats swarmed in for the melee, rifle buts raised and bayonets poised. 'Come on boys, come on! They are breaking, force them back!' the division commander cried.
Flags were held up all up and down the line. Two divisions, six brigades, perhaps ten thousand infantry were in this from the beginning, their opponents numbering maybe half as many.
Birney continued to ride with his men, ignoring the protests of his adjutants. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire on the Rebels in their second position too soon. Regardless of losses they should have pressed in before firing. Through the smoke he could now dimly see that hundreds were falling.
The charge gained momentum again, men exhorting each other on, screaming to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line over the bodies of those who had fallen in the instances before. Enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front, an ocean of armed men bent on victory.
A solid grey line appeared in front of them. Less than five thousand men, rifles leveled, waiting for the order. An officer with golden locks shouted one word: 'Fire!'. The line erupted in flashes and smoke.
The Federals shrugged off the volley, surged up over dead, wounded and dying and pushed forward, some now firing so close that the discharges burned the men in front of them. The wall of men had broken across the front of the town into several funnels, swarms of men, all formation lost, pressing ahead. Then they saw them, the muzzles of massed cannon not a hundred feet away, aimed straight at them. When the guns fired their double canister, the scenery turned into hell on earth.
The entire front of the charge collapsed in a bloody heap. Men simply disappeared, leaving only a light red mist behind. Again and again, the cannon roared, spewing death and destruction. As David Bell Birney was swept from his horse with shrapnel to his guts and one of his legs blown off below the knee, as he saw Union men all along the line staggering to a halt, hunkering down, shocked and panicked, as he saw the first of his proud men stepping back, he realized, he had failed.
Maj. Gen. David B. Birney, USA.
Chapter 16
July 3, 1863, 2:00 p.m.
In front of Waynesboro, Pennsylvania
A cheer went up from the road as the batteries were racing forward, reaching the crest. They turned at right angles at the full gallop, dirt and dust spraying up. Even before the last gun had appeared, solid shot ranged out from the rebel line, one shell hitting and exploding a recently arrived limber wagon. The guns swung about, dismounted, and in less than a minute opened up as well, returning the favor.
In the fields behind the slope, the wave of infantry was beginning to advance. Five brigades up front with the pityful remains of the proud Excelsior Brigade bringing up the rear. There was no cheering this time, just focused determination.
David Bell Birney could not longer contain himself. Turning about, he raced down the slope and reached the left flank of his advancing division, joining them in their march. 'For the Union, forward!' he shouted. The cry was echoed down the line by brigadiers and regimental commanders alike.
Billows of smoke, light gray to night dark, obscured the Confederate lines. Bursts of flame marked the muzzles of Confederate batteries, but the enemy could be seen only when a quirk of the air made a path through the earthbound clouds.
There was smoke in plenty around Birney's forming ranks, too, but shafts of golden afternoon light pierced it, gilding rifle barrels and bayonets. Noting his presence, some of his men gave Birney a cheer. He nodded, but did not smile. It was serious business now. The alignment of the long lines of men advancing was far from perfect, but they pressed steadily forward, centered on their colors. The regiments in blue rushed handsomely for the line of artillery and infantry opposing them on the higher ground.
Ragged and proud, the men crossed a shimmering field, not caring at all for enemy cannon. They tore down a fence with hardly a moment of pause and brushed aside a Rebel skirmish line. Men began to fall, but at that instant it did not make a difference. The juggernaut was rolling forward.
Smoke rose. And screams. With a cheer, Birney's soldiers swept through a Confederate line, the grey-clad defenders falling back. But they were not running, were not beaten. Regaining cohesion, the Rebels kept up their fire as they slowly withdrew closer to their guns. On the other side of the field, Birney could make out the mass of Humphrey's division advancing at comparable pace, also driving the enemy before them. The Federals no longer displayed parade-ground precision, but they held together well enough and went forward to get in range of Confederate regiments scrambling to change front.
Birney watched as one of his brigades shot it out with two Virginia regiments until the bluecoats swarmed in for the melee, rifle buts raised and bayonets poised. 'Come on boys, come on! They are breaking, force them back!' the division commander cried.
Flags were held up all up and down the line. Two divisions, six brigades, perhaps ten thousand infantry were in this from the beginning, their opponents numbering maybe half as many.
Birney continued to ride with his men, ignoring the protests of his adjutants. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire on the Rebels in their second position too soon. Regardless of losses they should have pressed in before firing. Through the smoke he could now dimly see that hundreds were falling.
The charge gained momentum again, men exhorting each other on, screaming to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line over the bodies of those who had fallen in the instances before. Enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front, an ocean of armed men bent on victory.
A solid grey line appeared in front of them. Less than five thousand men, rifles leveled, waiting for the order. An officer with golden locks shouted one word: 'Fire!'. The line erupted in flashes and smoke.
The Federals shrugged off the volley, surged up over dead, wounded and dying and pushed forward, some now firing so close that the discharges burned the men in front of them. The wall of men had broken across the front of the town into several funnels, swarms of men, all formation lost, pressing ahead. Then they saw them, the muzzles of massed cannon not a hundred feet away, aimed straight at them. When the guns fired their double canister, the scenery turned into hell on earth.
The entire front of the charge collapsed in a bloody heap. Men simply disappeared, leaving only a light red mist behind. Again and again, the cannon roared, spewing death and destruction. As David Bell Birney was swept from his horse with shrapnel to his guts and one of his legs blown off below the knee, as he saw Union men all along the line staggering to a halt, hunkering down, shocked and panicked, as he saw the first of his proud men stepping back, he realized, he had failed.
Maj. Gen. David B. Birney, USA.
- Lothar
- Word Count: 850