Chapter 17
July 3, 1863, 4:00 p.m.
Waynesboro, Pennsylvania
George Pickett was dying. The bullet had punctured one of his lungs and the organ was slowly but surely filling with blood. Each breath sounded harder than the previous one.
'Can you hear me, Lo?' Pickett pushed out in a rough voice.
Lewis Armistead kneeling beside him squeezed his hand and nodded, his voice denying him service.
'How was I, Lo?'
'You were great, George. Like an ancient god of war, you stood amidst the chaos and devastation.'
'That sounds like a good story, and you're an excellent narrator. Please, make sure Sally will be proud of me.'
Tears veiled Armistead's eyes as he answered in a choking voice. 'I will, my old friend. You will not be forgotten.'
Pickett's breathing relaxed, calmed down and then stopped for good.
A jolt went through Armistead as he rose and pushed his overwhelming emotions away in order to function as it was expected of him.
'Colonel Aylett, you have my brigade now. Adjutant, what about our losses, what is left of our division?'
'Sir, General Garnett is wounded, but he will live. General Kemper is supervising the prisoner round-up as we speak. We lost nearly 2,000 men, well over a third of the division. General Imboden reports that he has lost 800 men here and before at the pass, only slightly less than half his men.'
Armistead let his eyes wander over the battlefield. Before the Confederate positions, the ground was littered with bodies in blue uniforms.
'By God, what must they have lost then?' he thought to himself.