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formation across the shallow valley. He was not there to see them falter, cut down like stands of ripened grain by long-range fire from the hills to north and south and double-shotted canister from batteries closer at hand. He did not witness the murderous rifle fire of Hancock’s Second Corps nor the flank attacks of Hays to the right and Stannard to the left. Nor did he see Gibbon’s triumphant regiments rise from the stone wall to hold aloft their shot-torn flags, nor the retreat of Pickett’s division and Pettigrew’s and Trimble’s shattered brigades, stumbling downhill past their own dead thick on the field.
    For Otis the day would be remembered for his one last fearful encounter during the double bombardment, half a mile away from the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge and a full half hour before the Confederate regiments moved out of the trees to begin their fatal assault.
    â€œOh my God, Otis,” shouted Seth, his voice hoarse above the roar of the guns, “it’s not you.”
    Once again Otis felt his knees fail him. A nine-pound ball flew over their heads with a sucking sound and slammed into a tree. The tree exploded in splinters of shredded bark. The noise of the artillery was louder than ever, a perpetual thunder from the pieces massed along the ridge. Otis could not see the guns, but their red flashes colored the smoke like the flames of a burning city, and there was a sharp smell of bursting black powder and the overheated barrels of the cast-iron guns. The entire force of the Federal batteries on Cemetery Ridge was roaring in concert, aiming a heavy fire across the valley, and solid shot kept falling into the trees from the guns on the other side. One shell shattered a rock not far from Otis, and the fragments spattered his face.
    He cried, “No, Seth, no,” and held up beseeching hands.
    But tears were running down Seth’s face as he lifted his rifle. He called out to Otis in anguish, “Charley’s dead. They killed Charley Mudge. Tom Fox was hit. Tom Robeson isn’t going to make it. Where were you, Otis? Where were you when they told us to cross that swale?”
    Seth’s rifle was shaking in his hands, but he was only four feet away and he couldn’t miss.
    Otis had no choice. He pulled out the six-shot Colt revolver he had won in a crap game—it had never before been fired by Otis Pike—and screamed, “Forgive me, Seth,” and shot him dead.

PART VII
    THE FIELD OF
BATTLE
    Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances ,
    Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)…
    Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us ?
    â€”W ALT W HITMAN

STRANGELY
BEAUTIFUL
    T he Gettysburg battlefield was lovely and green, the shallow valley between the battle lines pleasantly rolling. A split-rail fence ran down and up again from the equestrian statue of Robert E. Lee to the road below Cemetery Ridge nearly a mile away.
    It was a fine day. As they walked across the field Mary wondered if Pickett’s and Pettigrew’s men had been aware of the fragrance of the tall grass as they trudged in parade formation up the hill toward the Union guns, or if they had looked down at the wildflowers blossoming around their marching feet. But of course there was probably some other crop growing on the farmer’s field that day, not blades of grass intermingled with daisies and yarrow and clover. And surely the brimstone smell of the solid shot and exploding shell of the two-hour bombardment would have overwhelmed the scent of whatever it was that some innocent farmer had planted on this sloping ground earlier the same year.
    A five-rail fence ran along each side of the Emmitsburg Road. Homer’s bulk made climbing between the rails difficult, and he complained about being under fire at the same time.
    â€œWell, why don’t you duck?” said Mary, but it wasn’t