The
order is given. The grand assault is about to begin.
That assault is going to be one of the most desperate in all history.
Longstreet's has been fierce--this will be mad and full of headlong
fury. At Round Top blood flowed--here the earth is going to be soaked
with it. Gettysburg is to witness a charge recalling that of the six
hundred horsemen at Balaklava. Each soldier will feel that the fate of
the South depends on him, perhaps. If the wedge splits the tough grain,
cracking it from end to end, the axe will enter after it--the work will
be finished--the red flag of the South will float in triumph over a
last and decisive field.
Pickett's division of Virginia troops has been selected for the
hazardous venture, and they prepare for the ordeal in the midst of a
profound silence. Since the morning scarce a gunshot has been heard.
Now and then only, a single cannon, like a signal-gun, sends its growl
through the hills.
Those two tigers, the army of Northern Virginia and the army of the
Potomac, are crouching, and about to spring.
At one o'clock the moment seems to have arrived. Along the whole front
of Hill and Longstreet, the Southern artillery all at once bursts
forth. One hundred and forty-five cannon send their threatening thunder
across the peaceful valley.
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