During this interval Gen. Lee called his generals together for counsel. They discussed the situation for some time, which had grown serious. Lee's losses had been heavy in killed and wounded, and his stock of ammunition was growing low.
After considerable discussion Lee mounted his gray horse, rode off a few paces to a slight elevation, and lifting his field glass to his eyes looked intently at the long lines of blue that stretched along the slopes, in the hope of finding some weak point which he might attack. Then returning to his officers he said in a firm voice: "We will attack the enemy's center, cut through, roll back their wings on either side and crush or rout their army." Then he said: "Gen. Pickett will lead the attack."
Pickett was a handsome young Virginian, a splendid rider, a brave commander, and one of the most picturesque figures in the Confederate army. Bowing his head in submission, he mounted his horse, and tossing back his long auburn locks, rode off and disappeared among the trees. The other officers soon joined their several commands, and Gen. Lee was left alone with his staff.
There was ominous silence everywhere; even the winds had gone away, and the banners hung limp on their staffs. The birds had all left the trees, the cattle had left the fields, and the small squadrons of cavalry that had been scouting between the two armies retired and took position on either flank. Yonder in front, stretching along the slopes, lay the blue lines of the enemy, like a huge monster asleep, while behind were the hilltops, all frowning with wide-mouthed cannon loaded to the lips.
Soon long lines of gray came stealing out of the woods like waves out of the sea. Long lines of gray moved over the fields like waves over the sea. These were Pickett's men; and Pickett, handsome Pickett, was at their head riding in silence.
The polished steel of the guns, as the lines rose and fell over the uneven ground, caught the rays of the bright July sun, developing a picture of dazzling splendor.
I wonder what was passing through the minds of those boys (their average age perhaps not much over twenty) as they moved step by step toward those bristling lines of steel in their front?
They were thinking of home. Far over the hills, "Way down south in Dixie."
Step by step came the gray, nearer and nearer, when suddenly there was a sound that shook the hills and made every heart quake. It was the signal gun.
Simultaneously with the sound came a cannon ball hissing through the air, and passing over the heads of the advancing columns, struck the ground beyond.