And so
the swaying flags fell down under trampling men and the lost wall was
won. The fight was over. Men fell in scores, asking quarter. The flanking
fires had been merciless, and the slope was populous with dead and
wounded men, while far away the smoke half hid the sullen retreat of the
survivors. The prearranged mechanism of war became active. Thousands of
prisoners were being ordered to the rear. Men stood still, gasping,
breathless or dazed. As Penhallow stood breathing hard, from the right
wing, among the long silent dead of Cemetery Hill, arose a wild hurrah.
It gathered volume, rolled down the long line of corps after corps, and
died away among the echoes of the Pennsylvania hills. He looked about him
trying to recover interest. Some one said that Hancock and Gibbon were
wounded. The rush of the _melee_ had carried him far down the track of
the charge, and having no instant duty he sat down, his clothes in
tatters. As he recovered strength, he was aware of General Meade on
horseback with an aide. The general, white and grave, said to Haskell,
"How has it gone here?"
An officer cried, "They are beaten," showing two flags he held.
Meade said sharply: "Damn the flags! Are the men gone?"
"Yes, sir, the attack is over."
He uncovered, said only, "Thank God!" gave some rapid orders and rode
away beside the death-swath, careful, as Penhallow saw, to keep his horse
off of the thirty scattered flags, many lying under or over the brave who
had fought and lost in this memorable charge.
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