Infantry appeared at the top of the cathedral's southern steps.Īfter covering nearly twenty miles, Giordino spotted the rungs of a ladder crawling up one wall. The horsemen who followed hacked with their swords to clear a passage through the wounded and dying. A fallen sword clanged and scraped across the stone. The volley flayed into the narrow space, tumbling horses in blood and pain. Starbuck wondered where the Georgia regiment had gone and where the rest of the Brigade was hidden. The Northern guns had the range of those trees now, and the green summer woods were filled with the whistling menace of shrapnel. Smoke poured off the hillside where rebel guns were emplaced, but those cannon were of no use to the beaten men west of the turnpike, where the Yankee line had crushed the standing corn to drive Jackson's infantry back into the timber on the valley's southern crest. To the east of the turnpike a furious artillery battle was deafening the evening air. Medlicott hesitated, unhappy to take responsibility, then diffidently suggested that the two companies should retreat further through the trees.
It was Mozart that he was playing, and it had all the gaiety, the velocity, and the sheer loveliness of everything Mozart wrote. I had never known music like it, the rawness of it, the intensity, the rapid glittering torrents of notes that came out of the strings as he sawed away.
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