Authors: Gilbert Morris
Laughter erupted, but Chamberlain sobered. “We’re out of ammunition, I suppose.”
“You’re right, sir,” Lieutenant Rankin replied, worry creasing his face.
“Send men out to collect all the ammunition they can from the enemy, but be careful. When you get back, add it to our supply and divide it up.” He looked down the line sadly. It seemed that every other man had been killed or wounded.
“Sir, I don’t know if we can hold them if they come back that strong,” Rankin said.
From the statement, Davis realized the other officers weren’t aware of the order given Chamberlain: You cannot withdraw—under
any
conditions.
Chamberlain didn’t answer but gave orders to move the
wounded back, and no sooner had they completed the task when the special call was heard:
Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield.
They rushed back and took up their positions just in time to meet the fierce charge as the Rebels neared the top of the hill.
The second attack was no less fanatical, and Davis soon ran out of ammunition. Running down the line, he frantically searched until he found a few balls and some powder, then sped back in time to help repel the last line. The Rebels withdrew, but this time they did not go far—only to wait until a new line of support caught up with them from below.
During the interlude, as the Rebels were reforming before their eyes, Lieutenant Rankin reported the shortage of am-munition. “Some of the men have nothing, sir,” he said, his face gray. “Should we pull out?”
“We can’t, Lieutenant,” Chamberlain replied, checking the line. Davis followed his glance. If
they
went, the hill went, then the army—and the battle would be lost, as so many had already.
“They’re beginning to move, Colonel!” Second Lieutenant Marsh yelled.
They all waited for Colonel Chamberlain’s command to retreat, but he scanned the hillside at the lines of Rebels climbing up, and said casually, “We’ll give them the bayonet.”
Unable to comprehend his logic, they stared incredulously.
“They’ll be tired, and we’ll be going downhill,” the colonel explained. “Rankin, you take the wing. We’ll get them after they fire, before they can reload.”
Davis quietly picked up a rifle, snapped a bayonet in place, and said, “Let’s do it, men.” That proved to be the spark Chamberlain needed.
The sight of the greenest man in the regiment moving forward either shamed the Twentieth Maine or fired them with courage, for up and down the line there was the clicking sound of bayonets being attached. Then Davis yelled and leaped over the rock barricade.
He never expected to get out alive, for he could clearly see the Rebels leveling their rifles, sending a barrage of bullets around them. He knew he was screaming at the top of his lungs, and so was every man who made the charge. They poured down the hill shouting, and in spite of those who fell, nobody stopped. Over the dead and wounded they flew, their bayonets gleaming in the sun.
As the Yankees plunged ahead, fearlessly brandishing their weapons, the enemy fell one by one.
The daring and unexpected assault drove fear into the Rebels’ hearts, and they threw their rifles and fled down the slope in great bounds. The retreat began so abruptly that it seemed to have no beginning. The sight of that naked steel coming at them shook men who had endured the worst of the war, and they ran for cover.
It was over as suddenly as it had begun.
“Winslow,” Chamberlain commanded, “check your men and return to your post!”
Davis took a quick count and found they had lost only six soldiers, though three more had been wounded. They reached the top, and cared for the wounded. Not more than twenty minutes later, an officer rode out from the timber behind them, his face wreathed in admiration.
“Sir,” he said to Chamberlain, “that was magnificent! We saw it all from that hill back there. Colonel Gilmore wants to see you.”
As they left, Chamberlain called, “Lieutenant Winslow, come with me. Lieutenant Rankin, see that the ammunition is handed out.”
Davis followed him back to where the officer had tied some horses. He found mounting the animal awkward but bearable. When the three men headed for the ridge, Chamberlain remarked, “That was a stiff fight. If we were in the classroom, Winslow, I would give you an excellent mark for your work today.” He added, “If you hadn’t made that first move, I doubt if a single man would have gone down that hill.”
“I didn’t think we had any choice, Colonel.”
“I’ll mention your name in the reports—but I want you to know I’m glad you’re in my command, Davis!”
They reached the crest and found Colonel Gilmore bubbling over with excitement. “By heaven, Chamberlain, how in the world did you ever get the idea to make a bayonet charge?”
“We didn’t have any ammunition,” Chamberlain said simply. “Sir, this is Lieutenant Winslow. He led the charge, as you perhaps saw. I might mention that he’s new with our command. As a matter of fact, this is his first action.”
“My word!” Gilmore exclaimed, extending his hand. “You deserve congratulations, Lieutenant!” He stood back and shook his head in wonder, then spoke to Chamberlain. “Colonel, I need one more thing from you—can you hold your position until support comes? That won’t be long, I think, for I’ve already sent for Fisher. Should be here in a couple of hours.”
“Yes, sir.” Chamberlain looked around and asked, “Does this hill have a name?”
“Yes—Little Round Top,” Gilmore replied. “Don’t suppose you’ll ever forget
that
name! By the way, could I borrow the lieutenant for a short time? I must get a message to the Sixteenth Michigan.”
“Certainly,” Chamberlain said, and turned to go, saying over his shoulder, “Winslow, report back when you’ve finished the mission.”
He rode away, and Gilmore took a leather pouch from his saddlebag. “Just see that Colonel Harry McFarland gets this.” He waved toward his left and added, “You need not report back to me, Lieutenant. When you’ve delivered the message, just go back to your brigade.”
“Yes, sir,” Davis said, taking the pouch and guiding the horse around and toward a line of trees covering the base of a rise. As he rode along, he had flashbacks of the battle, and found himself gripping the reins so tightly that his hands cramped. He was stopped several times by sentries, but had
no trouble finding the Sixteenth Michigan. The colonel was a tall man with pale skin sunburned to a bright red. He took the pouch, read the message, and said, “This won’t do!” He read it again, then shrugged. “Lieutenant, you’ll have to take this to Major Shultz. He’s down that slope in the forward position—right at the base of those trees. You see them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Deliver this to him, and then you can go back to your unit.”
He turned away, and Davis moved across the line of men on the brink of the hill, noting that they had taken heavy losses. The slope was not steep at first, but when he was no more than 200 hundred yards from the crest, he came to a steep bank that ran straight across his path. He hesitated, not certain of his way, then moved his mount to the left. He followed the ravine for a quarter of a mile, but found no place to cross. Finally the ravine ran into a clump of scrub timber, and he thought he saw it flatten out. He ducked as he pushed through the timber and out to a small clearing. He sighed with relief when he saw he could cross.
Just as he reached the ravine, a voice came from his left: “Hold it right there, Yank!”
A shot of fear coursed through him, and he drove his spurs into the horse in a furious retreat. Four Confederates stood behind him, their rifles trained on him.
One of the Rebels stepped forward, a smile on his face. “Well, boys, guess what? Looks like we done caught us a courier! Now just step down off that hoss, sir, and let us relieve you of all that hardware.”
There was no option—and Davis complied. After taking his gun, the leader said, “Well, lookee here!” He snatched the leather pouch out of Davis’s pocket. “We got us a prize! Harry, you and me will take this feller back where the officers can question him. Tim, you and Simms stay here.”
Thirty minutes later, Davis was in front of a tent, being questioned by a large bearded Rebel general. Only when one
of the officers said “General Longstreet, look at this order” did Davis realize he was in the presence of the second ranking general of the Confederacy. He knew Longstreet had replaced Jackson, and was the man Robert E. Lee depended on most.
Longstreet read the message, looked up at Davis, and asked, “What’s your outfit, Lieutenant?”
Davis knew vaguely that there was nothing wrong in giving that information. “The Twentieth Maine, General,” he replied.
Longstreet eyed him for a moment. “When did you come into the line?”
Again Davis saw nothing wrong in answering, so he said, “Last night.”
The general grimaced. “You see, Armistead,” he said to an officer nearby, “I knew we’d moved too slow!” He looked back in Davis’s direction. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give us the other units perched on top of that hill, would you, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t.”
With a curt nod, Longstreet commanded, “Put him with the other prisoners, Major Lennox.”
Davis was hustled away by a short, fat major and handed over to a sergeant, who took him through the Rebel lines to a group of prisoners, perhaps twenty in all. They were kept inside a rope corral with ten soldiers keeping guard.
“Hey, Lieutenant!” he was greeted almost at once. “What outfit?”
“Twentieth Maine,” Davis replied. He found that most of them were from Sickle’s Corps. One of them, a rawboned, red-headed lieutenant, came to stand by him. “Name’s Ezra Lee. You hungry?”
“No.”
The brief monosyllable drew a look of sympathy from the other. “Know how you feel. Felt that way myself at first—thinking of going to a Rebel jail for who knows how long. But we’ll make it. How about a drink? We got a bucket over here.”
“Sure. I’m Davis Winslow.” Davis went with him to where one of the guards gave him a drink of tepid water. He had not realized how thirsty he was, and when he had downed all he could, he said to the guard, “Thanks, soldier.”
“You’re right welcome, Lieutenant.” The guard was a small man with a bristling black beard. “We’ll put you two with the other officers—soon as we catch us a few,” he commented. “You can sit here if you’ve a mind to.”
Davis sat down, and saw Lee hesitating, unsure if he should force himself on the newcomer. “Sit down, Lee. Tell me what’s been going on.”
Lee hadn’t talked very long before Davis realized the man was a strange mixture of pessimism and optimism—comically so. One of the first things he said was, “Well, if we do die in a Reb prison camp, we won’t have to be sceered of gettin’ shot in a battle, will we, Winslow?”
“Guess that’s sure enough,” Davis grinned slightly, and this encouraged Lee to keep up a patter of conversation until they were moved about two hours later to the rear and put with another group of prisoners. One of them was Captain Perry Hale from Ohio. On the heels of this move, a Confederate lieutenant announced, “You men are moving out. If you try to escape, you’ll be shot, so don’t try it. Sergeant Willis will be in charge of your guards. Sergeant, get them out of the area at once.”
Willis was a strong-looking man with a Springfield carbine in his large hands. He called out, “You heard the lieutenant—get movin’.”
They left the area accompanied by eight guards and a wagon of supplies. Soon they were on the road leading out of Gettysburg. They were marched hard until late afternoon, when they halted and cut firewood to make a quick meal of bacon and coffee. After the meal, Willis announced, “We’ll have to chain you up for the night.” The news shocked Davis, but he realized the squad had no choice. All the men, except the officers, were fitted with a pair of handcuffs. One long
chain was run through the chain loop of each man’s handcuffs, then anchored at each end to a sturdy tree and left loose enough to allow some freedom of movement.
Then Willis called, “You officers, come over here. If you three will give me your promise not to escape, I won’t have to chain you up.”
“No, sir,” they all said.
Willis wasn’t surprised. “Well, you’ll have to be chained then,” he said and put the manacles on them, with a shorter chain that allowed freedom to lie down.
“Where will you be taking us?” Hale asked. He was a sturdy man with pale blue eyes and a large mustache.
“You three will go to Libby, I reckon. The rest will go to Belle Isle.”
In the North, both Libby and Belle Isle had been reputed as having inhumane conditions. Some even said it was better to get shot than captured by Johnny Reb.
Davis slept that night, and the next day they started their long, monotonous journey to Richmond. They marched all day, stopping at noon for a brief meal, then at night to eat and sleep. It was broken by one fragment of good news. A Confederate courier caught up with them on his way to Richmond. As he drank coffee, the Yankee officers heard him say, “We got whipped. The Yankees held on to that hill, and we had to retreat.”
Hale whispered, “Well, we won anyway!”
When they entered the outskirts of Richmond many days later, the enlisted men were taken by the squad, while Sergeant Willis and one other guard took Davis, Hale and Lee to Libby Prison, a huge warehouse converted into a prison.
As the steel door clanged shut behind him, Davis was overwhelmed with a shroud of black despair. It seeped into the depths of his spirit with a crushing weight he’d never known before.
The prison was packed to capacity, but the three Yankee men stuck together, finding a bond with one another that
was forged during their long journey. Each was given a thin blanket, and assigned to a large room, already packed with hungry-looking men. They ate thin soup and a single piece of cornbread, then lay down for their first night in Libby.
As Davis lay there in the foul-smelling air, listening to the grunting snores of the inmates and the cries uttered in their sleep, he found himself wishing he had been one of those who had died at Little Round Top. The future stretched out before him—a bleak line of spectral days, grim and cheerless, without end. Never again would he bask in the warm sunlight, never again breathe the exhilarating fresh air.