94.

I could do nothing but cower among my wooden crates, and listen as the guns came closer, and shake in my boots whenever I heard the Rebel Yell come from close by. I could think of nothing but defeat. If Lee overran my position, if the boxes were taken before sundown, I would be hanged, I knew it; when the South learned of what we’d done, there would be a noose for me, if I was not destroyed by cannonade or musket fire first! My head felt as if it were crumbling, as if the pressure on it was too great to bear. I was sure I would die of the noise, of the damned smoke!

And then the ringing in my ears grew louder. Or rather, all other sounds slipped away. Had I gone deaf? I leapt up and ran through the smoke to find some man, to ask him what had happened to me. I stumbled on a Major with a face stained black by powder burns. “What is it? What has become of us?” I demanded.

“Why, we’ve turned them back,” he said. He sounded as if he could scarce believe it. I matched his emotion.

Yet as I ran forward, to the very top of the ridge, I saw that it was true. The wave of gray was sweeping back, away from us. The guns chased them, and many men on the line were still firing their muskets, taking targets of opportunity. Yet the blaring of the bugles, and the great exodus of gray, showed it plain.

There was much confusion still, and many movements of troops and skirmishing. But it was over. By four of the clock it was over, the battle was done. And won.

My vampires had not been loosed. There was some discussion with General Hancock about sending them after Lee’s retreat, to harry him from behind. But General Meade, who had approved of my operation, sent personal word down: there would be no counterattack.

The Battle of Gettysburg was over. My men, my monsters, who would have been heroes, remained unused, and unfed.

—THE PAPERS OF WILLIAM PITTENGER