Free Gallant Boys of Gettysburg by Gilbert L. Morris Page B

courage. But they’re fools for coming up that hill.”
    There was no cover whatsoever for the marching columns. Instead there were fences and stone walls that had to be hurdled as the troops advanced. But up they went. Heat waves shimmered on the gentle slope, grown over with ripening grain. Up they went toward Cemetery Ridge.
    From time to time those who stayed behind in reserve saw the lines disappear into small depressions, then emerge again, the uneven ground making their march more difficult. Some men were so overcome by the sun that all they could do was stumble blindly forward.
    Far down the line, General Pickett watched his men parade across the slope. He was proud of these men, most of them Virginians, and the coal black horse that he rode stamped the earth, excited by the sound of the drums.
    Jeff wiped the sweat from his face. His hands were trembling, and his heart pounded. The thudding of his drum seemed to have entered his heart. As he glanced down the line, he saw the strained, bearded faces of his friends, and the hands that gripped their muskets were white. On Jeff went, and it was a strange feeling. Soon, he knew, the bullets would begin flying and the shells exploding.
    They’re just waiting
, he thought,
until we get closer, so that they can’t miss
.
    Onward he marched. Looking down the slope, he saw Tom, clasping his musket in both hands. His face was pale, but he was encouraging his men to keep their lines straight.
    Far off to Jeff’s left he saw his father, wearing his best uniform of ash gray, his back straight, carrying a flashing saber. Fear struck him then.
We could all be killed in a few minutes
, he thought, and one of the drumsticks slipped from his hands. He halted, picked it up desperately, then caught up the steady drumming rhythm.
    And then the enemy opened up with sudden, terrible musket fire. Men began to fall on Jeff’s right and left. A flag went down but was picked up at once by another soldier. He stepped over the body of the fallen flag bearer, and the line moved onward, straight onward.
    Cannon began to roar. Grape and canister shot plunged and plowed through the ranks. Bullets whizzed thick as hailstones around Jeff, and he expected to fall to the ground any moment, shot through.
    General Pickett moved alongside his valorous troops, as if courting death. He waved his hat, and the black stallion snorted and tore the turf with his hooves.
    General Kemper, with hat in hand, cheered his men on. And General Armistead put his hat on his saber and held it high.
    Jeff noticed that rabbits, frightened by the guns, were fleeing everywhere. It was a small thing to notice, but he thought,
I’m about as afraid as these rabbits are! They don’t know what’s happening—but I do!
    Just then a shell struck to his right. It killed men instantly. One man was down, holding his stomach. He was only a boy, and his sergeant and Tom had to restrain others who would stop to help him. “Close up! Close up!” they yelled.
    Jeff could see the Yankee batteries shooting. He could see the black cannonballs bouncing along like bowling balls. And sometimes, tumbling over and over in the air, were the men that had been struck by them.
    The Confederates reached the road that cut through the middle of the field. There they were forced to take down fence rails. Musket fire now was beginning to reach them, and men were dropping in a long, neat line of dead. Canister, millions of metal balls, whirled through the air. Everywhere men were falling.
    Still on they went. They were almost at the top now, and General Armistead was screaming for a charge. There was no strength left in Jeff, but he stumbled onward, close enough now to see the blue figures behind the fences at the summit.
    He noticed especially one young Union soldier who looked to be no older than Jeff was. He was drawing a bead, it seemed, right on Jeff, when suddenly a shot took him and drove him over backward.
    Then they were at the ridge-top fence