'I'll send Berdan up, give him a regiment for additional support" Sickles announced.
Henry looked over at the general. "Sir, I remember hearing your orders were to dig in along this line, not to push for-" ward."
Sickles just looked over and grinned. "Hunt, when you get back to headquarters, tell his High Almighty that we might have a problem developing. Also, I think we should put a little more strength down forward, into that peach orchard by the road to Emmitsburg. This hill's a good spot, but my right flank is on low land, no clear fields of fire. If we move out to that orchard and the next ridge, we'll have a better position in case something is developing."
"Sir, orders were to deploy along this line," Warren observed. "I was sent here to survey this position for defense, not half a mile forward."
Sickles grinned, saying nothing.
Henry nodded. "I'll report it," Henry finally offered.
"I'll ride with you, Hunt," Warren announced.
"Hunt, take an extra one," Sickles said, and he produced another cigar and tossed it over. "One of my old constituents keeps me supplied."
Henry nodded his thanks, and with Warren by his side they struggled up to the crest. Their mutual staffs were already mounted, and Henry wearily swung into the saddle. For a moment he was disoriented, not sure which way to go. He had come up this way before dawn, and the lack of sleep left him feeling light-headed, dizzy.
"This way, Hunt," Warren said, and they started down the slope.
Henry looked back over his shoulder. Sickles was deep in conversation with an officer wearing the distinctive green uniform of the Sharpshooters.
‘I don't trust him," Warren announced.
"Who? Sickles?"
"Exactly. He hates Meade. He most likely vented it on you the same as he did me. It'd be like Sickles to go off half-cocked."
"Do you think something is up?"
"I came up here to survey the land, Hunt, same way you came up here to lay the guns."
"Still, after what happened last night, Lee won't back off. Not now." Even as he said the words, Henry thought of Sick-les's comment that we danced to Lee's tune.
"I need some sleep, Warren. Let's just hope nothing happens."
"Where do you think it will happen? Frankly, I hope Lee tries to take those two hills. With Sickles's corps on top, it will be a damn killing ground, just like last night"
Last night The memory of the rebel flag bearer cut in half, the carnage piled up in front of his guns.
"Where do you think it will hit?" Henry asked.
"South," Warren sighed. "This place is too good. He won't do us the favor of coming straight in. I think he's moving south and coming around our flank,"
"Sgt Major Quinn!"
Sgt Maj. Michael Quinn, First United States Sharpshooters, knew something was up. Colonel Berdan had come riding into their camp at the base of the rocky hill, shouting for an officers' meeting.
Tossing what was left of his coffee on the ground, Quinn started over to where the officers of the regiment were gathered in a circle around Colonel Berdan. There was no need to be told; the regiment was going out
Captains were breaking away from the group, shouting orders, as Quinn approached Berdan and saluted.
"Quinn, we're ordered to do a reconnaissance in force. I'll be at the center of the line. I want you down by the right flank. Sickles thinks there's something going on a couple of miles to our front So push in and don't let any of the boys wander about I want us to go in there hard and fast"
"Yes, sir."
'Try and gain a high point where you can see something." Quinn, shifting the plug of tobacco in his cheek, grinned. "Shoot straight Quinn."
"Always do, sir."
Berdan swung up onto his gray horse and started out, his tamed Sharpshooters deploying into open skirmish order behind him.
The men were skilled, well-seasoned professionals. All the foolishness about keeping alignment, forming into lines, advancing by command was beneath them. They were better than that, and they knew it Let the others fight the way their granddaddies did, standing in volley line. The Sharpshooters were a new kind of soldier for a new kind of war.
As the three hundred men fanned out, each set his own pace, moving quickly without urging. It was hard to tell the difference between officers and men. The uniforms were the same, dark green trousers, jacket and green forage caps. Each man was armed with a long Sharps rifle, breechloading, and every one was deadly accurate, expected to hit nine out of ten times at three hundred yards. Besides the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes, each man carried an additional forty to sixty rounds in pockets and haversacks.
Quinn, running back to where his gear rested against a towering oak, swept up his rifle and canteen, then sprinted down to the right of the line, falling in with some of the men from E Company.
"So, Quinn, what're we hunting?" a corporal asked.
"Recon forward. Old Dan thinks the Rebs are moving to our front"
Coming up out of a shallow swale, they passed across the edge of a wheat field, the golden stalks hanging heavy, ready for harvest, then dropped down through a narrow band of forest and rough ground.
The pace was swift No orders needed to be given, just occasional glances toward Berdan riding in the middle of the line, which was spread out across a couple of hundred yards. Looking back, he could see where a lone regiment was coming out as well, their flag dark blue with a state seal. It looked to be Maine, most likely the Third. One regiment in support then. Most likely not much, just a little skirmishing ahead, something to get the blood moving.
A pheasant kicked up from the edge of the trees as they emerged into an open pasture, the ground sloping up toward a peach orchard. The man next to Quinn aimed his rifle at the bird.
"Bang!" he cried, and several men laughed, another sighting on a second pheasant and doing the same.
Directly ahead was the cavalry, Buford's men. They were starting to pack up, saddling their mounts. In the past, cavalry had been certain to draw hoots of derision, the usual jibes of "Hey, ever seen a dead cavalryman?" but not today. Word had spread about what Buford's boys had done, and the Sharpshooters approached the camp respectfully, several offering compliments. One of the troopers tossed Quinn a peach, which he grabbed and stuck into his haversack for later.
A cavalry lieutenant rode up to Quinn and nodded, falling in by his side for a moment.
'Take care up ahead, Sergeant. Some of my boys think there's trouble brewing."
"We'll see to it, sir. Aren't you boys joining us?"
"We're ordered down to Westminster, supposed to secure south of here first, some place called Taneytown. Some supplies and such moving through there. So the place is yours now."
The lieutenant fell away as they reached the edge of the orchard. The post-and-rail fence lining the road was down, consumed as all such fences had been for firewood. Crossing the road, Quinn looked to his left and saw Berdan hold up his hand then point, angling them a bit on the oblique, with Berdan now riding straight up the road that headed due west
Well, the old man wasn't going to fool around. Follow the road west and we're bound to run into something. Quinn pushed to the right a hundred yards before turning west again.
They passed a couple of cavalry troopers coming back off the line, one of them cradling an arm that looked to be busted.
"Son of a bitch got me while I was trying to piss," the trooper grumbled, and the men around Quinn could not help but laugh.
"Lucky he didn't shoot off your short arm," a wag replied.
The trooper cursed them all and rode on.
They pushed up over a low crest, and at that moment the old senses began to kick in for Quinn, that strange prickly feeling that he had just stepped across into another world, a place where the game of hunter and hunted was played for real.