Chapter 21
July 4, 1863, 11:30 a.m.
Confederate right flank
South of Cashtown, Pennsylvania
Major General John Sedgwick, in his tightly tailored uniform, slowly but surely felt like being in an oven. He emptied the last remnants of lukewarm water in his water bottle in a single draw while listening to the steadily decreasing volume of fire in his front line.
The course of the battle was far from satisfactory. He had hoped for a quick follow up after the successful flank attack and the consistent retreat of the entire enemy front line. His central division under Wright had rushed forward enthusiastically and had made up dozens of yards until the unexpected and furious counterattack had hit the men like a sledgehammer.
Naturally, not least because of the confusing course of the front, the majority of his units had oriented themselves to the noise of the battle and thus to the place of the most fierce resistance. Both flank divisions had therefore been magically drawn into the stand up fight in the middle.
With time and the increasing exhaustion of the men, who after all had been marching since dawn and had already been in combat for hours, the attacks on the remaining island of Confederate defenders had become increasingly uncoordinated and got stuck despite overwhelming superiority. Several times, individual brigades had approached the rebel position to bayonet length, but each time had been thrown back with heavy losses. The Centre Division had suffered the comparatively heaviest losses. A few days later, after the evaluation of the battle reports, Sedgwick was to learn that a total of nine individual charges had failed in his section of the front that morning.
The rebels were now almost circularly surrounded, ironically forcing the northerners to slow their fire in order to avoid hitting their own troops on the other side of the cordon.
The sudden silence that enveloped the battlefield from one moment to the next was interrupted by the call "White Flag".
It was a young man with the rank insignia of a major, who finally stepped out of the battle smoke, accompanied by a simple soldier with a white rag. His face, like his uniform, was blackened by gunpowder, but the fierce battle did not seem to have robbed him of his dignity. With a good dose of self-confidence and as if it were a matter of course he approached Sedgwick, ignoring the bunch of blue-clad officers surrounding him, each of whom outranked him nonetheless. He stopped in front of the corps commander, tightened his tired shoulders and saluted silently.
Sedgwick returned the gesture, mustered the man briefly and then addressed him. "Major, what can I do for you?"
"General sir, I'm asking about the terms under which I can surrender my unit."
Again a brief moment of silence. It seemed extremely unorthodox for Sedgwick to accept surrender at regimental level, but he had been impressed by the doggedness of the Confederate resistance against his will.
"Very well, Major. I expect your men to lay down their arms and strike down their flag. You fought bravely and I am happy to allow your officers to keep their swords and sidearms as long as they are unloaded."
"Sir, these terms are honorable. I present you hereby with our surrender."
After the conventions had been complied with, it was evident that a burden fell from the man's shoulders. He staggered slightly and it was foreseeable that he could hardly stand on his feet from exhaustion.
"Major?" Obviously Sedgwick still had a question to ask. "Which regiment do you command?"
For a moment the man seemed stunned until he answered.
"General sir, my name is Major John Bane of the 4th Texas and I am the senior officer of the Texas Brigade who can still stand. The couple hundred men there behind me in the fog, that's what's left of my brigade."