Gettysburg

Chapter Six

11:50 PM, JULY I, 1863

WESTMINSTER, MARYLAND

Brig. Gen. Herman Haupt, Commander, U.S. Military Railroads, stepped off the engine cab before the train had skidded to a stop. Exhausted, he stretched, his back popping as he shifted from side to side. At forty-six he was beginning to show the first signs of middle-age portliness. His flowing brown beard was increasingly flecked with gray, and as was so typical of the army, he was wearing a uniform rumpled and stained from too many days of not changing. The uniform was pockmarked with cinder burns, his face streaked with grease and dirt.

The ride up from Baltimore had been a bone-jarring, five-hour ordeal, just to cover thirty miles of track. The track laying of the Western Maryland Railroad was typical of such lines: Slap the rails down as quickly as possible, and the hell with grading and curve radius. Just get the damn thing up and running, then worry later about smoothing things out.

There were no telegraph, no sidings, no fuel or water for the locomotives. He looked around at the small depot of Westminster and the utter chaos that confronted him. Meade had ordered all supply wagons for the Army of the Potomac to concentrate at this point, and it was his job to open up the rail line and organize a depot

Several miles outside the town, the train had started to pass open fields packed with wagons… thousands of them.

They were jammed into pastures, wheat fields, cornfields and here in the town the main street was jammed solid. Five thousand wagons, ambulances, reserve artillery limbers, and tens of thousands of mules. Their braying was a maddening cacophony that most likely could be heard clear back to Baltimore.

The sight of it all, the noise, were a shock; and if it wasn't for his innate sense of duty, he would have succumbed to the temptation to simply get back on the train and let someone else try to sort all of this out

A scattering of infantry was standing about, obviously bored with their duty, though at the sight of a general getting off the train they started to stiffen up a bit in a vain attempt to look soldierly. Civilians milled about gawking at the jam of wagons, and at the sight of him a delegation swooped down.

He turned and tried to get away, but they were upon him.

"General, are you in charge here?" a portly gentleman wearing a scarlet vest shouted, following after him.

He tried to continue on, walking back along the train, as if inspecting the wheels.

"General!"

Exasperated, he turned. It was always the same: Self-important civilians, who on one hand were damn grateful that the army was there to protect them, but in a heartbeat were ready to switch their song and start complaining.

"I'm in command of the military railroads supporting the army," Herman replied wearily.

"This, sir, is the property of the Western Maryland Railroad," the loudmouthed civilian replied sharply.

"The army has seized this line," Herman replied coolly. "It will be returned to civilian control once this campaign is concluded."

"Well, General, there are a few things we need to discuss. No one seems to be in control here. We had a terrible fight here two days ago, several men killed on both sides."

Terrible fight? This pompous ass should have been at Second Manassas and seen trainloads of the wounded, blood dripping through the floorboards, as they rolled back to Alexandria; his crews vomiting as they scrubbed the cars down afterward; then sending them back to Manassas to pick up another thousand.

"The streets are clogged with your wagons," the civilian continued. "There are soldiers and mule drivers who are drunk wandering about scaring the ladies of the town, and now there's word that the rebels have whipped the Army of the Potomac up at Gettysburg and are coming this way."

Herman looked around at the self-appointed delegation and sensed that more than one of them might very well be delighted with the last statement.

"And you want me to…?" Herman asked softly.

"Straighten out this mess, General. Straighten it out"

"Precisely my intent Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do, though I would appreciate some volunteers to. help unload the supplies I've brought up with me," Herman snapped, and without waiting for a reply he stalked off.

Of course they didn't follow, but he- could hear their raised voices as they began to argue with each other.

A small knot of officers was under the awning of the depot, nervously looking toward Herman as he approached.

"Who is in command here?" Herman asked.

"Ah sir, honestly we're not sure," one of them, a colonel, replied.

That was a bad sign, Herman realized. When things were going well, there would have been an instant argument as to who was, indeed, in command; when they were going wrong, no one wanted that responsibility.

"Well then, I am in command," Herman offered, and there were no objections.

"What's the situation?" he asked.

"Sir, you've got the supply wagons of seven corps in this town. Meade passed the order this morning for the army to abandon its supply train and have them concentrate here, while the troops moved north toward Gettysburg."

'Troops here in town?"

"Hard to say. Each corps commander detailed off a couple of regiments to accompany their trains. There're a couple of companies of cavalry here, and a heavy artillery regiment out of Washington came in as well. They're hauling those big four-and-a-half-inch guns."

Herman digested the information. Troops from seven different corps. Regiments assigned were usually units that were either burned out or not of the best quality. No corps commander would detail off his best when there was a fight brewing. Six, maybe eight thousand troops wandering around here, not sure what to do next No central command at all.

"Your name?"

"Colonel Benson, One Hundred and Third New York, Twelfth Corps."

Herman studied the man for a moment He seemed alright no liquor on his breath, unlike a couple of the other men gathered about

"Fine then, Benson. You're in command of the infantry for this supply depot"

"On whose authority, General?"

"My authority and the hell with what anyone else says. I run the military railroads for the army, and you are now under my command."

"And if my corps commander recalls my unit General? Damn it all. There's a fight brewing, and we're stuck down here staring at a bunch of goddamn mules."

As if to add weight to his argument a team of mules, frightened by a blast of steam from the locomotive, took off, braying madly, dragging a wagon up onto the tracks behind the train, the wagon tipping over, mules still tied to their harnesses kicking and screaming.

"You're with me, Colonel. I want the regiments from the various corps rounded up. I'm going to need men here, a couple of thousand at least to off-load trains that will be coming up shortly. I want a defense established around this town. I was up at Hanover earlier today and damn hear became a guest of General Stuart"

At the mention of Stuart's name, the other officers started to whisper excitedly.

"That's it exactly. If the Rebs figure out what we have down here, we'll have company soon enough; and as it looks right now an old lady could shoo us out of here with a broom. So get to work. Your men can start by off-loading the hospital supplies I just brought up."

He turned away without waiting for a reply and spied more supplicants, complainers, and the annoyingly curious closing in. Swinging around the back end of the train he had just ridden up from Baltimore, he headed toward a row of parked wagons half-filled with rations and climbed up into the nearest one, drawing the back cover closed.

He was tempted to simply stretch out on the pile of cracker boxes and try to catch some sleep. It had been a mad, impetuous five days. When word had first come in that Lee was across the Potomac, he had gone from headquarters in Washington up to Harrisburg, there to examine the rail lines in case the Army of the Potomac should find itself campaigning along the Susquehanna. As the rebel army approached the capital of Pennsylvania, it was finally decided to drop the. bridges spanning that broad river, the one directly in front of the city burning even as Confederate raiders swarmed upon the opposite bank. Leaving Harrisburg, he had routed back through Reading, there stopping to confer with the governor, then to Philadelphia, then back to Baltimore and up to Hanover, nearly running into Stuart's cavalry on the way.

Hanover as a base of supply was out, with nearly twenty bridges destroyed by the raiders. Back to Baltimore once more and now here to Westminster, with rumors swirling that action had been joined at Gettysburg.

His sojourn of hundreds of miles in just five days did not strike him as anything unusual. The locomotive had changed everything. A journey that would have taken Napoleon, or even Scott in the war with Mexico, weeks to complete, could now be done in a day. This war ran on railroads, and it was his job to make sure it ran smoothly, at least up to the point where the railroad ended and the mule-drawn wagons, as ancient as the wars of Caesar, began.

Finding a lantern up at the front of the wagon, he struck a Lucifer on the side of a box of hardtack, lit the wick, and hung the lantern up. Reaching into his oversize haversack, he pulled out a small hand-sketched map of the region and spread it out on a box.

Gettysburg, of course, would be the place they'd collide. He had surmised as much back on June 28th while still in Harrisburg. A beautiful place, rolling hills, rich farmland, a good place for a defensive fight, and with its road network, a natural draw for both armies.

Once the bridges across the Susquehanna went down, Lee would inevitably turn southward, not wanting to get pinned against the west bank of the river. He needed to keep his line of communications open down the Cumberland Valley but at the same time seek out the Army of the Potomac. It would have to be somewhere between Carlisle and Westminster that the two sides would slam into each other, and Gettysburg fit the bill.

Strategy, however, was not his concern. It was railroads, the pulsing arteries of this new kind of war, that he must be concerned about; and that was why he was here at Westminster. Harrisburg as a supply depot was out now that the bridges were down. Hanover was out as well, thanks to the rebels burning most of the bridges along that line. And besides, Hanover was only twelve miles from Gettysburg and not truly secure. Only this morning he had discovered that fact when the train he was on nearly stumbled into a detachment of Confederate cavalry.

That was always the point of vulnerability for a railroad. A regiment of cavalry, in an hour, could wreak havoc that could take days to repair, even a lone bushwhacker with a crowbar could loosen a rail and take a train off the tracks. A depot, and the line behind it, had to be secure. He had to set up that secure base now. At best, the Army of the Potomac could operate for three days, perhaps five at the most, without a supply depot; but beyond that, it would get dicey.

The way this railroad was set up, it would be impossible. Impossible, however, was just the type of challenge he secretly enjoyed facing. Pulling a notepad out of his haversack, he began to jot down what was needed, ideas that had been forming on the gut-churning ride up here.

Given enough time, he'd love to put a thousand men from his Military Railroad command to work grading this line; a couple of weeks' work, however, and by that point the issue would hopefully be decided. No, focus on what can be done now.

There's not enough firewood here. Sending men out to bring in seasoned lumber for the locomotives would be problematic. A lot of good wood had most likely already been emptied out of farmers' woodpiles by the passing armies. Take it from the stockpile in the main marshaling yards for the Military Railroad at Alexandria; a couple of trainloads should see us through for the next several days. Water. There was no tank here, let alone a pump to bring the water up from the stream. We'll need to man haul it up from the creek below the depot Better get canvas buckets; a thousand should do it. He chuckled at the thought of the fat civilian hauling buckets up out of the creek. No, they'll all disappear once that kind of labor starts.

He began to jot down his list of priorities.

No telegraph to signal trains moving up and back on this single-track line. It'll take at least four to five days to string the necessary wire.

Without the telegraph and with no sidings, each train would tie the track up for hours. We must bring up extra locomotives and cars from the army depot and then put them on this line in convoys. Five trains, each with ten cars, four hours up, an hour to off-load, then three hours back. As soon as they clear the line, send up the next convoy of five trains. That will give us 150 carloads a day, 1,500 tons of rations, uniforms, ammunition, boots, fodder, grease, coal oil, leather harnesses, horseshoes, bandages, ether, crutches… all of the offerings to war produced by a thousand factories from Chicago to Bangor.

The bridges along this line will have to be surveyed, just in case Confederate raiders do get astride the line and bum them. Once measured, replacement timbers can be cut and loaded back at Alexandria, ready to be rolled up for repairs.

It will take eight hours to turn the trains around, if I can get enough men to unload them once here in Westminster. Too slow though for messages. And though it hurt his pride as a railroad man, he made a note to the War Office to retain the services of the Adam's Express Company. They had the fastest horses in the region, with riders trained to handle them. Ship a dozen horses and riders up here by the next train and use them to run messages and orders back to the nearest telegraph station outside of Baltimore and up to Meade at Gettysburg.

Ironic, he thought I actually lived there for a while, teaching college. He wondered if the battle had damaged the college or injured any of his old friends.

Next he drew up a quick report to the War Office, outlining what he had done over the last day, the damage observed to the rail line up to Hanover, and his decision to establish Westminster as the primary depot for the Army of the Potomac.

He double-checked the list of material requested, mentally comparing it to what he knew was stockpiled in the warehouses at Alexandria, already loaded aboard boxcars and flatcars.

What he was doing did not strike Herman as being all that unique. It was simply how war was now fought or should be fought with cool efficiency and the application of a nation's industry to a single goal, something that America, perhaps more than any nation in history, was now ideally suited for.

If the enemy burns a bridge, haul out the prefabricated replacement and drop it in place, and then keep the trains moving. If they burn a depot, set a new one up, as we did after Second Manassas. Just keep the tidal wave of supplies moving until finally they give up… or, he thought grimly, we lose our will.

That was impossible. He had come from a Europe that was divided, perpetually at war with itself. No, this place had to be different And once this was finished, I can go back to other things, other dreams, to run a rail line clear across the continent and then see a hundred new cities spring up in its wake.

A locomotive whistle shrieked, disturbing his thoughts. He pulled back the canvas cover of the wagon and saw that the infantry rounded up by the reluctant colonel had finished unloading the two cars filled with hospital supplies. Folding up his notes, he jumped off the back of die wagon and waded through the tangle of men, climbing up into the cab of the engine. His orderly, a captain according to the military but far more at home at the throttle of a locomotive, was busy studying the water gauge.

"Everything set Johnson? Enough wood and water to get you back down the line?"

"I think so, sir, but I tell you, this line is a hell of a mess. Not like the B and O, that's for certain."

"Make sure these get handed off," Herman said, folding up his plans and orders, jotting down addresses on the back of each.

"You staying here, sir?"

"Someone's got to get things organized around here." Johnson grinned. "Have fun, sir. It looks like a hell of a mess around here." "Not for long."

"Just don't get in any trouble like you did at Manassas. I like serving with you, sir."

Herman smiled. That had been a close shave, when the Rebs poured in behind General Pope and cut the rail line back to Washington. He had pushed a train down the line to try and find out what was going wrong and wound up getting chased by Confederate cavalry and nearly killed.

Giving Johnson his orders, Herman jumped down from the cab. Johnson eased the throttle in, bursts of smoke thumped from the stack, and with a gasping hiss the engine started to back up, pushing the two empty boxcars and wood tender behind it Someone had finally untangled the overturned wagon and mules behind the train, clearing the track. The shriek of the whistle set thousands of the noisy animals to braying, their cries echoing across the town.

Five thousand wagons, all those damn mules. Have to get that organized and quick, Haupt thought If a panic ever sets them off, it could turn into the biggest stampede in history.

The train eased around the sharp curve behind the depot and started back toward Baltimore.

Herman turned, looking around at the pile of boxes littering the side of the track, the hundreds of wagons parked in the fields and along the streets, the milling civilians, the infantry starting to drift back off into the dark.

He caught the eye of the colonel and motioned him over.

"In eight hours, trains are going to pour into this place. I need a thousand men ready to work in relays off-loading the cars. The whole timetable depends on getting the supplies off the cars as quickly as possible.

"I want a loading platform built; I'll sketch it out for you shortly. Next we need several hundred men to form a bucket brigade down to the creek. All locomotives will be topped off with water before heading back; that will be done at the same time we're unloading. The first two trains up will be loaded with firewood. They're to be unloaded and set up in piles along the side of the track. Teams of thirty men will then be assigned to each pile to load the wood on to each engine as it comes in.

"Next I'd like to get some kind of shedding up. It can be open sided, roofed with canvas, but I want the rations and ammunition properly stored. The far side of the shed should have a clear approach for wagons, which will then be loaded up. Traffic has to be sorted out and wagons cleared from the streets. They'll come in from one direction, load up, then head back out

"Finally, details to the churches, any large buildings. Hospital supplies can go in there for now. You have that?"

The colonel looked at him, obviously overwhelmed. "I'll write it all down," Herman said wearily, pulling his notepad back out

"And one final order, Colonel." "Sir?"

"A cup of coffee; in fact a whole pot if you can get it"

11:55PM JULY 1ST 1863

GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

Riding into the town square, Lee edged Traveler around a line of ambulances clogging the Hanover Road. Torches and lanterns hanging from porches cast a flickering glare on the chaos of vehicles, artillery limbers, dead horses, and a column of troops trying to snake their way through the confusion, heading to the skirmish line on the south side of town.

Dozens of civilians were out in the street many of them women. He remembered an old saying that when one became a parent all boys become your children. He paused for a second, looking down at an elderly woman reading a Bible to a tattered barefoot soldier, shirt gone, bloody, bandages wrapped around his stomach. The boy was in shock, trembling like a leaf, head resting on her lap. She paused, looking up. There was no hatred or anger, only an infinite sadness in her eyes, and he wondered if her own son was at this moment digging in on that hill south of town. He saluted and rode on.

A smattering of musket fire rippled from the crest of the hill, followed seconds later by the flash of artillery. A shell fluttered over the square, men pausing, looking up. A wounded soldier, eyes bandaged, started to scream hysterically until his comrades quieted him down.

"Walter?'

"Here, sir."

"Flag of trace. Send someone up to that hill. Offer my compliments to General Hancock and please tell him that this town is a hospital area. There are civilians here, and many of their own wounded as well. Also, we wish to remove our wounded from the front of the hill. Ask for a ceasefire till dawn." "Sir?"

Lee looked over at him.

"Sir, that is a concession to them, an admission of defeat."

"Just do it I'll not have these people suffer anymore over a foolish point of military protocol."

Walter saluted, turning back, shouting for an aide.

Was it a defeat? Lee asked himself.

Experience had long ago taught him that in the rear of a battle defeat and victory often looked the same. In the center of the square he paused, looking again to the hill, illuminated by the moon, which shown brightly overhead.

Defeat? Not possible, not with this army. They've checked us for the moment but in the morning we shall play a different tune.

He opened his jacket and pulled out his watch. It was time for the staff meeting, nearly midnight

He turned north, riding the short distance to the railroad station that had been designated as headquarters for the army, passing through the line of dismounted cavalry who formed a cordon around the low, single-story brick building. Dozens of horses were tethered or held by orderlies, nearly blocking the entry. The low buzz of conversation stilled at his approach, heads bobbing up, young fresh-faced privates dressed in homespun, staff lieutenants, some of them still sporting finely tailored uniforms of gray, battle-stained brigade commanders, all of them stood silent

He could sense the mood. They were exhausted. It had, after all, been a very long day, and the night was now half-gone. It had been a day that had exploded with high hopes and triumph and closed with bitterness.

His gaze swept them, each of the men stiffening slightly when they sensed that his eyes were upon them.

I could order them in now, right now, he realized… and they would do it I order men to die and they do not hesitate;

they go forth gladly, eager to be the first to fling themselves into the dark mist If they trust all in me, my God, I must not fail them. I must not

Slowly he dismounted, someone taking Traveler's bridle. He patted Traveler affectionately. "See that he has water and something to eat" Lee whispered. "A pleasure, sir."

Lee caught the boy's eyes, smiled. Again the reverent look. He wanted to pause, to ask the boy who he was, where he came from, what regiment he served with. No time for that now. I know what has to be done, and it's time to get to it

He stepped up onto the siding platform, past the sentries flanking the open doors, and into the waiting room of the station.

A table, a fine dining room table, most likely dragged over from the hotel across the street filled the center of the room, maps spread out upon it

The men hunched over the maps looked up as one and came to attention.

They were all here, Longstreet Ewell, Hill, Jed Hotchkiss, the chief cartographer for Jackson before his death, and finally, standing to one side, the errant Jeb Stuart His gaze held on Stuart, who stiffened and formally saluted.

"I am glad to see that you are well, General Stuart"

The room was silent He caught a glimpse of Longstreet standing to one side and could sense the barely concealed anger.

Stuart started to say something, but Lee motioned him to silence.

"General Stuart there is time enough later for us to discuss what has happened these last few days. The hour is late. I am more concerned with what will happen in the morning."

Though he spoke softly, he fixed Stuart intently with his gaze, conveying with a single look that the issue would not be forgotten. The man had to be reined in but not broken. A touch of uncertainty at this moment would be good, making him more attentive to the task ahead.

Lee stepped up to the map table, taking off his gauntlets, laying them to one side.

Spread out on the center of the table was a sketch map in Jed Hotchkiss's bold hand of the day's battlefield.

Hotchkiss cleared his throat "Sir, as you can see, this hill, the locals call it Cemetery Hill, dominates the position south of town. Their First Eleventh, and we believe a division of Twelfth Corps now occupy that hill, along with sixty pieces of artillery.

"Their left flank, extending on what is called Cemetery Ridge," and as he spoke he traced out the position, "stretches south for a mile, up to this crossroads in the middle of a peach orchard, where the road to Emmitsburg crosses a road that heads west to Fairfield."

"These two hills behind that crossroad?" Lee asked.

'1 got a brief look at them just before dark, sir. The higher of the two is wooded. It appears as if they have established a signal station atop it One of my staff saw flags up there. The lower of the two, with a rocky race, is clear cut on its western slope, facing us, and giving them an excellent field of fire. This left flank, the ridge, the crossroads, the two hills are occupied by Dan Sickles's Third Corps and Buford's division of cavalry."

Lee nodded, finger tracing out the line.

"And their right?"

"The locals call this position Culp's Hill."

"Difficult ground," Dick Ewell interrupted. "In our last attack, one of Johnson's brigades swept across the face of it. The crest was occupied by a mix of First Corps and at least a brigade from Twelfth Corps. They're digging in."

"And our own left?"

Hotchkiss looked over at Ewell.

"It's up in the air, sir," Ewell replied hurriedly in his high, piping voice. "That's where the other brigade of Johnson got tangled up. Sir, I assure you, there was a division of Union troops deploying out there beyond Grip's Hill. We even took a couple of prisoners; they're Twelfth Corps."

"Are they still there?"

Ewell was silent

"Are they?"

"I don't know, sir. The men are exhausted; it's dark. If we had a couple of regiments of cavalry, we'd soon find out" and as he spoke his gaze shifted to Stuart

"We don't have them yet," Lee replied, saying each word sharply and clearly.

"My first brigade will be up before dawn," Stuart quickly interjected.

Lee looked up. "I am not looking for excuses, gentlemen. At the moment I am seeking answers."

The room fell silent the men around him looking pale and drawn as they stood beneath the flickering light of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling.

"I need to know if my flank is secure," he announced after a long silence. "General Ewell, inform General Johnson that I wish an immediate reconnaissance to our left Inform him as well that General Stuart's men will be coming up the road from Hanover, and that they are to link up and contain any threats developing in that direction."

Ewell nodded and stepped from the room.

Lee returned his attention to the map. Left, center, or to the right?

"What else do we know?"

"Their Second and Fifth Corps are coming up," Jed continued.

"How soon?" Again silence.

"How soon?" And this time his voice was sharper and more insistent

"We have to assume they will be up by morning," Longstreet finally interjected. 'To assume otherwise would be dangerous."

"I need to know what exactly is their disposition," Lee replied coldly. "I cannot continue this operation on assumptions. I hear no mention of their Sixth Corps; that's the strongest formation in their army."

"Sir, we brushed around them two days ago down past Manchester," Stuart announced.

"Manchester?"

Jed quickly pointed to the second map on the side of the table, which covered the entire region from Harrisburg in the north down to Washington and west to the valley.

"Here, sir, twenty-five miles to the southeast, nearly halfway back to Baltimore."

'Two days ago. They could be marching behind us even now."

"No, sir," Stuart quickly replied. "My main force is in Hanover. It is, in fact, sir, securing your left flank. No one is moving to flank you."

Lee looked back up at Stuart He knew the boy was reaching for justifications, to make it appear as if he had been performing a valuable service. Indirectly he had. Sixth Corps, old John Sedgwick's command, could very well be twenty-five miles off. Sedgwick might be popular with his own people, but his performance during the Chancellorsville campaign had been abysmal. By all rights Sedgwick should have been crushed against the river after the battle at Salem Church, Lee thought Only the incompetence of my own people saved him.

Sedgwick might still be a day away.

The silence dragged out Left, right or center?

Too many unknowns with the left An advance along that axis also drags us farther away from our reserves, communications, and supplies still on the other side of the South Mountains. Any maneuver would be clearly visible from Cemetery Hill as well.

The center? The vision held for a moment the flags going up the hill, heights crowned with smoke and fire and then the final shattering volley, the men streaming back. So close, so close. And now four thousand of them dead or wounded, the town a charnel house.

My fault I thought we could push them off. Just one more push. Perhaps if it had been better coordinated, all of Johnson's brigades going in at the same time as Anderson. No matter what the cause, though, four thousand men were dead or wounded for nothing. Tomorrow the Union will have even more forces on those hills, and our casualties would be even greater. I cannot let that happen again.

He kept staring at the map, gauging, judging distances, the ticking of the clock in the stationmaster's office, the steady undercurrent of the ever-present army outside, distant conversations, a horse whinnying in pain, the echo of a pistol shot ending the cries, the creaking of wagons passing, the moaning of the wounded suffering inside the jostling ambulances.

His finger traced across the map of the battlefield one more time. "Here."

There was a stirring as the men around him leaned over.

"Our left is uncertain. Besides, deployment to that flank will be observed from the cemetery. We tried the center…" and he fell silent

"It is here, on our right These two hills. Our advance to that position will be covered by this ridge," and as he spoke ' he pointed out the crest running south from the seminary.

"Deploy by dawn, advance en echelon overlapping the two hills, cutting off this road that goes back to Taneytown. Doing that we flank Cemetery Hill and cut them off."

No one spoke and slowly he looked up, his gaze meeting Longstreet's.

Longstreet said nothing, unlit cigar clenched firmly in the comer of his mouth. He caught a flicker of a gaze from Ewell, who had come back into the room. Hill, obviously ill, eyes glazed, stared at the map, saying nothing. Jed Hotchkiss, assuming the role of a lowly major in a roomful of generals, stood with gaze unfocused, eyes locked straight ahead.

"General?" Lee asked.

Longstreet took the cigar out of his mouth and finally shook his head. "We were thinking of something different, sir."

"'We'?"

"Before you arrived here, sir." Ewell shifted uncomfortably.

Pete fished in his pocket for a match and struck it against the side of the table, puffing his cigar to life.

"You know that I always seek the advice of my commanders," Lee replied evenly. "Go ahead."

"Our opportunity for a decisive victory here is finished, sir."

Lee could feel his features flush. He lowered his eyes, looking back at the map.

"I don't see it that way, General Longstreet," he finally replied.

The tension in the room was palpable, hanging in the air like the smoke coiling up from Pete's cigar. No one dared speak.

"Do you know why we are here?" Lee finally asked. "Sir?"

"Here, gentlemen, here," and his voice rose slightly as he stabbed down with a fingertip, pointing at Hotchkiss's map of Pennsylvania and Maryland.

No one spoke.

"Three weeks ago, before we started this campaign, you know that I met with President Davis. Gentlemen, you might be filled with confidence, it is fair to say that our President is confident, but I tell you we are starting to lose this war."

"Sir, that is not true," Stuart interjected heatedly. "Those Yankees run whenever we… hit them."

"General Stuart, hear me out!"

Stuart, crestfallen, lowered his head.

"Dispatches from Richmond arrived only three days ago indicating that Vicksburg will most likely fall within the week. You've seen the newspapers we've taken up here; they're already proclaiming the victory.

"In central Tennessee, Bragg is falling back. Before the summer is out, Chattanooga will be threatened; and if that falls, Atlanta will soon be on the front line. A Union army has landed before Charleston, and even now they are closing the ring on that city.

"General Stuart, I have already heard that you captured a hundred and twenty wagons outside of Washington and that is what slowed your march."

Stuart puffed up slightly, but a glance at his commander warned him to silence.

"How desperate are we for supplies when a hundred wagons and their mules become a major prize?"

No one spoke.

"Don't you see that they can replace those wagons in a day? If tonight we had captured that accursed hill and had taken every gun on it, a day later their foundries would cast a hundred more guns to replace them. Their blockade is strangling us as surely as an executioner's rope."

Lee stepped back from the map table, arms folded, right hand absently rubbing his left shoulder. "We must finish this, and there is only one way to do it Ours is the only army of the South capable of ending it We must seek the battle of annihilation. We must bring out the Army of the Potomac and crush it No more Fredericksburgs, Chancellorsvilles, or Manassases. We must achieve a Saratoga, a Yorktown, a Waterloo."

As he spoke the last words, Lee brought his clenched fist down on the table, startling Ewell, who looked at him with surprise. -

"Defeat the Army of Potomac in detail, force the surrender of their commander, then march on Washington. Even then it will not be over. But it will turn the tide. Such a victory will break the political alliance that Lincoln is barely holding together in Congress. Perhaps, with the Lord's blessing, it would mean, as well, that England and France will at last recognize our government and move to lift the blockade."

He paused, lowering his head, attention again fixed on the map;

"That is why we are here," he whispered. "It's not to seek a half victory; it is to end this war now."

He nodded toward the open window racing the Carlisle Road.

"Those boys out there, they are not immortal. They are mere flesh and blood. They have trusted us with their lives; and we, gentlemen, God save us, are empowered to trade those lives for what we believe in. I will not trade one more life for half a goal, half a victory that simply leads to defeat.

"Realize this. We have but one good fight left in us. We lost fifteen thousand men at Chancellorsville." He hesitated, "And we lost Jackson… then we let them get away. We cannot afford one more battle like that That is why I want it to end here, today."

"General, today we lost eight thousand men," Longstreet said softly, voice calm, almost like a distant echo.

"God save us, I know."

"And taking those hills south of town, we'll lose eight thousand more."

Lee looked up at him.

"Don't you mink I know that as well? Our goal is their army, to defeat it to finish it and there will be a bloody price in the doing of it"

"We fought a good fight here today," Longstreet replied, "but the final price, sir, that last charge negated our gains."

"We smashed two of their corps," Lee replied sharply, and then hesitated. 'They also lost John Reynolds, one of their best"

"A good man, John." Hill sighed, the first words that had escaped him.

'They checked us though, sir," Pete continued, pushing in. "The last assault…"

His words trailed off. Lee knew. Pete was always talking about the defensive, of letting them attack.

"That hill, sir," Longstreet finally continued, "I couldn't have picked better ground. Sir, you spoke against just such an assault only this morning up at Cashtown, and yet we nevertheless charged into such a position just before sundown."

Lee nodded, looking at Longstreet. Yes, that was true. That morning seemed like an age ago. Yes, the land before Cashtown was indeed the same. He nodded for Pete to continue.

"I came to agree with you there, sir, back at the base of the South Mountains. Yes, we do need to seek the final battle, but what happened here this evening ended that chance for this battlefield. Sir, the Union army is concentrated here. We try to flank to that hill south of town here, and in an hour they can shift an entire corps to it, and we are faced with the same problem yet again…"

Lee started to speak, to point to the two hills south of town; but as he looked at Pete, he fell silent

Jackson is gone, he realized yet again. I always listened to Jackson, trusted him; even when he foiled before Richmond, I still listened. If this were Jackson before me, offering an objection to a plan, I would listen. I must realize that; otherwise why have commanders who can think? I know now I must take more direct control of this army. His gaze drifted to Hill, then to Ewell, then finally back to Longstreet Longstreet is now my right arm more than any other.

"Go ahead, General Longstreet"

"You were focused on that hill, that cemetery. We all were. It was so damn close. We just had to get to the other side, and we thought we could win. Sir, I, too, was caught by it I saw the tail end of the assault and for a moment I believed we would take it; then their guns, sir, their guns just shredded our lines. And, sir, those guns will still be there tomorrow morning, dug in deeper and resupplied."

Lee nodded slowly. "But I must ask, sir, what is on the other side of that hill?"

Longstreet looked over at Stuart and then to Jed Hotchkiss. "They have two lines of retreat from the far side of that hill" and as he spoke Longstreet traced out the roads back to Westminster and Taneytown. "Sir, it would have been yet another partial victory. Some, perhaps most, of the Yankees would have gotten out along those two roads. And then we would have to fight them again."

He pointed down to the map of Gettysburg and the hills south of town.

"We do this attack tomorrow; and after we take those hills, then what? The road to Baltimore will still be open, and they will retreat Even if they abandon the army's immediate supply trains, they will get out dig in someplace else, and men we'll have to attack yet again."

Lee, staring again at the map, did not speak.

"Sir, it's defensive. This ground is defensive. Beyond that there is no barrier we can pin them against to finish it Jeb and his boys might dream of a glorious sabre charge to wipe them out once we get them running, but it won't happen."

"Sir, we could finish it if you would break them up," Stuart said heatedly.

"No offense, Jeb, but you are not Murat and this is not Napoleon's army. Those days are finished. These Yankees are not a mob running away, armed with smoothbores, where they can only get one shot off before you are into them. The rifle has changed all that They might be broken, but you try and charge and they'll shred you at two hundred yards."

"We don't need a discussion of tactics now," Lee interjected.

"General Lee, I beg you to step back and take a look, a long careful look at what'you are proposing tomorrow and what will be the result even if we do take those hills."

Lee was silent gaze locked on the maps.

"Sir?"

He finally looked up.

"Most likely at this very moment General Meade is looking at nearly the same thing. He knows where we are. He knows our line of communication traces back to Chambersburg. Given that we are deep inside their territory, enough civilians have most likely slipped through to tell him that my own corps is still stretched out between Chambersburg and Cashtown, while Hill and Ewell are already up here.

"We know that Hancock was in command of that hill today. He held it He will wish to continue to hold it That is most likely what he is advising Meade to do at this very moment. We could ride out of here now, sir, go to the south end of town and listen to them digging in up there. They are digging in on Culp's Hill as well and down along the ridge that stretches to the two hills south of town.

"It's the good position; the roads leading in are good; all he has to do is dig in.

"Let him," Longstreet announced, voice becoming animated. "Then we know exactly where he is. Sir, he will pour into this point like water going down a funnel, and they will pour up die roads from here, here, and here. That sir, is what Meade will see and what Meade will do."

Lee held up his hand, a quiet gesture, not dismissive, simply indicating a wish for silence.

Again he could hear the ticking of the clock, the rattle of an ambulance passing outside the window, the first of a long train of ambulances coming down from the cemetery.

Four thousand men tonight, he thought And the price tomorrow? If it was worth it, then I would pay it; but if Pete is right would I have but a half victory here even if we did win… and at what cost?

The silence continued. His gaze locked onto the map.

The wrong decision here, and the men being carried past the window would have shed their blood for what? By attacking, does that redeem the mistake of the last charge or just add more to the bill, and without meaning, without results?

Take control back. That is what I resolved to myself back at Chambersburg three days ago. But instead this place, this ground, is now taking control of me. And that realization was fundamental and startling to him.

He noticed that someone, without comment had placed a tin cup of coffee by his side and, without taking his eyes off the map, he took the cup and sipped.

The pendulum of the clock continued to drift back and forth, measuring out the seconds with a tick-tock steadiness.

He looked up. "General Longstreet what is your proposal, sir."

Longstreet, normally so rigid in his presence, exhaled. There was no smile, just the slightest of nods, and he stepped to Lee's side.

"Sir, go south of those hills. Here," and he pointed forcefully to the sketch map, the Rocky Hill and the high, wooded hill anchoring the south of the Union line. "A mile, two or three if need be. Swing around their right, sir. Cut the Taneytown Road without a fight Move toward the Baltimore Road, here, sir, above this place, Littlestown. We do that sir, and it will dislodge them from here without a fight and then we pick the ground."

Lee nodded thoughtfully but said nothing, gaze still on the map, the soft murmur of men talking outside and the clock continuing its steady beat

As Lee studied the map, it seemed as if some lines of movement stood out sharply, like traces of light in his mind, while others faded to a distant blur. Numbers shifted and played in his mind… rates of movement which division where, supply lines, which roads were macadamized and which were but dirt lanes. And of the other side? If they are coming here, then what are their lines of communication? Where is their railhead? They always marry their line to a railhead. Where is that?

The lines on the map led to that point, and in his mind he saw other lines, as if cut with fire, radiating out from it

"Have any of our supply wagons come through the gap back to the Cumberland Valley yet?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No; sir. General Pickett is still with them," Longstreet replied, "but they have orders to start in the morning to come here."

Lee said nothing. Looking over there on the map, the road from Chambersburg down to here, that line now standing out sharp in his mind as he studied the map, then another line southward, back toward Greencastle, on the Maryland-Pennsylvania border. Another line on the map seemed to shine out now, due west to east from their railhead, to the South's base of supplies.

"Dear God," and for a moment he was startled, for the words had escaped him, a barely audible whisper, and all in the room were surprised, but none commented.

He took another sip of coffee, put the cup down, adjusted his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, then looked up at his men.

They were like a frozen tableau.

"We are fighting the wrong battle here," Lee announced, his voice steady.

"Then we flank the hills?" Longstreet asked.

"No, General Longstreet."

"Sir?"

"What you just said, sir, a few minutes ago." Lee looked over at the clock and realized that he had been lost in thought for at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

"And that is?" Longstreet asked quizzically.

"About them pouring into Gettysburg like water down a funnel. You are right, General Longstreet They will all be here by tomorrow morning. Though we do not know for certain the location of their Second Corps, or their Sixth Corps, that is what Meade will do; he will concentrate here and dig in. You are right in that sir, and they will be ready for us no matter where we strike here.

"Though your plan, sir, is along the right lines, I think we should be more audacious, General Longstreet" And then he traced a line across the map far to the south, Emmitsburg, Taneytown, and then finally Westminster.

"General Longstreet you spoke with great clarity just now, sir. We have all become focused on here, on this place, these roads leading to Gettysburg, these surrounding hills, and have forgotten how we have fought in the past at Chancellorsville and especially Second Manassas.

"If they are here tomorrow, what is behind them? Not just behind the hills, sir, that you suggest we flank, but farther back, ten miles, twenty miles?"

No one spoke.

"Nothing, except their supplies, which are most likely based at Westminster."

He traced his finger on the map, estimating distances, his generals gathering closer.

"Jed, how far would you estimate?" and his cartographer leaned closer to watch.

"Here at Gettysburg, back to Fairfield, then Emmitsburg, then straight to Westminster."

Jed studied the map for a moment. "Thirty-five miles, but that's a rough guess, sir."

"Jackson did over fifty in two days when he marched around them at the start of the Second Manassas campaign," Lee replied, and he chose the analogy deliberately, looking over at Longstreet

He could see that the comment hit a nerve with Longstreet, who stiffened slightly and then made direct eye contact with Lee and held it

"Westminster is their supply head; it is the closest railroad," Lee continued, still looking at Longstreet "Move toward that gain the march on them, and it will be like Jackson taking Manassas Junction. We will have their supply line and be between them and Washington. Panic will ensue.

"All of the Yankees will be concentrated here at Gettysburg. They'll have to turn around and force march back. It will be a mad tangle. That is the disadvantage this town hides. Getting in is easy; getting back out quickly, that will be a problem. And while they do that, we simply dig in and get ready to receive them."

"How are these roads?" Longstreet asked, at last breaking eye contact with Lee to look at Hotchkiss.

Lee smiled inwardly. Longstreet was rising to the challenge, the bait. It would become for him an issue of pride, to match Jackson and what was now the immortal legend.

"Emmitsburg to Taneytown to Westminster is a good pike, sir," Hotchkiss replied. "Solid bridge over Monocacy Creek."

"I crossed through Westminster, sir," Stuart quickly interjected. "Excellent roads. You could move an entire corps along them without a problem."

Lee held up his hand, indicating for everyone to remain calm. For a moment this afternoon he thought that final victory was, indeed, unfolding before Gettysburg. He realized now that if he had not launched that final, desperate evening assault he would have rejected Longstreet's reasoning, which had triggered this new line of thought, believing that come dawn the fight could be pressed to a successful conclusion on this ground. He knew now that Longstreet, without a doubt, was right Today, exactly one year later, he had fought Malvern Hill here at Gettysburg on July 1st. He would never make that mistake again.

The battle here at Gettysburg was finished.

"We turn this back into a battle of maneuver, gentlemen, the thing we have always done best the thing that our opponents have never mastered. But let me say it before all of you quite clearly. I am not seeking a half victory. By abandoning this field, some will see that as an admission of defeat something we have never yet done, completely abandon a field. In so doing we return to a war of maneuver. We cut their line of supply while at the same time continuing to secure our own line of supply by moving our wagon trains back down to Greencastle. The ultimate goal must be to force the Army of the Potomac to territory that we choose and then fight a battle to finish this once and for all."

He looked carefully at each one in turn. 'That is what I will expect from you, what our country expects from all of us, and nothing less is acceptable. We are here to win not just a battle."

He paused for a moment

"We are here to win a war."

He looked around the room. Ewell's gaze seemed a bit distant; most likely he was still in shock after the debacle before Cemetery Hill, but Longstreet Stuart and even Hill had stirred. In their eyes was that light, that terrible fire he had seen before in men anticipating battle and knew could blaze within him as well.

There was a final gaze back at the map of Gettysburg, then over to the other map, his glance catching a creek north of Westminster… Pipe Creek.

He took a deep breath and pushed the map of Gettysburg aside.

Perhaps the fate of our nation rests on what I've just done here, he thought, but that thought held only for a moment until finally, like the map, he pushed it aside as well. Such thoughts, at such moments, could only serve to cripple one's will, and there was a campaign to be planned.

2.00 AM, JULY I, 1863

CEMETERY HILL

"It's General Meade."

Henry Hunt, who had fallen asleep sitting against the wheel of a caisson, stirred, looked up blankly. Hancock stood above him, silhouetted by the moonlight

"Better get up," Winfield said, and leaning over, he offered his hand.

With a groan Henry took the hand, and came up to his feet.

"How long did I sleep?" "An hour, maybe two." "Sorry."

"You needed it" "What about you?"

Hancock chuckled. "No rest for the wicked."

In the bright moonlight Henry could see the cavalcade, a troop of cavalry riding escort guidon of the Commander of the Army of the Potomac shining silver in the moonlight staff officers trailing behind as Meade trotted around the side of the gatehouse to the. cemetery and came up the hill. One of Hancock's staff rode down to meet them and pointed the way.

Henry stretched, absently tugging at his uniform, trying to smooth it out. His mouth felt gummy, the taste sour. His eyes were scratchy. As he stretched, every muscle and joint ached in protest

He caught the scent of coffee and nodded his thanks as a sergeant approached bearing a hot cup. He blew on the rim, took a scalding mouthful, and rinsed his mouth out; then he took a deep swallow, the coffee jolting him awake.

Still a bit disoriented, he looked around. In the moonlight it seemed as if the grounds of the cemetery were a seeming mass, a strange, almost frightful sight, as if the graves had opened and the dead were rising up.

The men were digging in. Shovels flashed in the moonlight; lunettes were going up around the guns rimming the crown of the hill. Shattered caissons, upended wagons, dead horses, empty limber boxes, anything that could stop a bullet or shell were being piled up, strengthening the defensive line.

Farther down the slope, he could see dozens of lanterns, slowly bobbing and weaving about, stretcher parties working to bring in the wounded.

"Lee asked for a truce a couple of hours ago," Hancock announced. "Their boys and ours are down there helping the wounded. Damn, Hunt, there are places you can barely move the ground is so covered with bodies."

He had a flash memory of the flag bearer torn apart, the ground smeared with blood, entrails, parts of bodies. Lowering the cup of coffee, he caught a scent of the air. It was a mixture of raw, upturned earth (cemetery dirt, he. realized coldly), the still-clinging sulfur smell of burnt powder, but layered in was the stench of open flesh, bodies torn open; and though he knew it was his imagination, he felt the air already held the first sickly sweet smell of decay, the flesh preparing to go back into the ground from which it came.

He gagged, then, embarrassed, mumbled that the coffee was strong.

Meade approached, Winfield stepping forward to meet him, offering a salute. Henry put his cup down on a caisson lid and came to stand by Winfield's side.

"Winfield, Hunt, glad to see you're both alive," Meade offered as he dismounted.

"How are things on the road?" Winfield asked.

'Usual. Total chaos. God, is there anything left of Eleventh Corps up here? I swear I saw every last one of them halfway back to Taneytown."

"Some of them held," Winfield offered. "Ames's brigade put up a hell of a fight"

"I heard. Too bad about Ames."

Henry didn't know, and he looked over at Winfield.

"Reb stretcher party brought him in an hour ago," Winfield offered. "He died just after they carried him into our lines."

"Damn," Henry whispered. "A good man."

Meade said nothing, walking up to the line of guns ringing the crest carefully stepping around the tangle of bodies that still Uttered the slope. "So they came up this far?"

"Right to the mouth of the guns," Winfield replied. "Henry's people tore them to shreds."

Again the image of the flag bearer, cut in half. Henry pushed the thought away.

"Winfield."

"Sir?"

"Is this position worth holding?"

Henry could see Winfield's features crack into a grin. "It's Fredericksburg in reverse. By God, I hope they come again tomorrow. We have the ammunition now and two more batteries. Let them come."

Meade nodded, looking down the slope toward the town. "So he asked for a truce."

"Right thing to do," Hancock replied. "I was thinking of offering one myself but didn't have the authority. It's ghastly down there. Some of our men were crawling down to offer them water; a couple got shot doing it I'm glad he offered."

"Not like Lee to make a concession of defeat like that"

"I don't think it was a concession, sir. It was a Christian act"

Meade grunted, saying nothing for a moment. "Think he'll come again?"

Winfield folded his hands behind his back, looked down, and kicked at the ground for a moment.

"Not like Lee to concede ground, especially after he's given blood for it like this. Here, at this point? I don't think so. His stretcher bearers and doctors down there, they'll talk and tell everyone we're digging in even now. If he couldn't take it at dusk with damn near two divisions, he must know he can't take it tomorrow. He must figure we're bringing more men up."

Winfield looked over expectantly at Meade.

"Your corps and my old boys from the Fifth should be coming up by dawn. That only leaves John Sedgwick out of the fight for tomorrow."

"When can we count on him being up though?" and Henry could sense the slight tone of doubt in Hancock's voice. There were some men who swore by" old "Uncle John," especially the boys who served under him. There were others though, men like Winfield, who thought he was too cautious and too slow when speed was needed.

"His men should be forming to march even now. I expect them no later than mid-afternoon. But you haven't answered my question."

Winfield hesitated again, attention focused on the town, which was ablaze with light.

"Bobbie Lee's like a pit dog. Once he sinks his teeth in, he worries you to death and won't let go. Sank his teeth into us today, and we broke a couple of them off. That will only serve to get him mad and want to jump in and bite again."

"So you think he'll come at us again tomorrow right here."

"I didn't say that, George."

Meade sighed, features sour, and he rubbed his forehead.

"Sir, I do believe there'll be a fight tomorrow. If we had John up, I'd even say go in after them. Dan Sickles came up here a couple of hours back and we talked. He says the right flank of the Rebs is in the air and wants to push up west and north."

"Dan Sickles always wants to go pushing when he should be sitting still, damn the man!" "Just a thought," Hancock replied. "So you think he'll hit again."

"He has to. He damn near won a major victory today and then threw it away by getting too bold at the last second. He needs to retrieve that tomorrow. He knows just how important morale is with his army. Damn it, he seems to run on little if anything else at times other man sheer brass. He'll come at us."

Meade nodded. "Fine men. It will be here."

Winfield said nothing for a moment "I didn't say it would necessarily be here, this place."

"Then what the hell are you saying?"

"Watch the flank. With Lee it's always the flank."

"And you said this was a good position."

‘That I did."

'Then for once let us have him try our flank while we have the location^ Make this hill the center anchor of our line. Artillery up here can dominate everything for a radius of a mile."

Meade looked over at Henry, who nodded in agreement

"We leave Sickles on the left but come midmorning we refuse that line, anchor it back. I remember two hills down there, about two miles from here."

"The Round Tops, locals call it" Henry offered. "The smaller is clear cut excellent artillery ground."

"Fine then. Refuse that flank, pull it back from the crossroads, and anchor it with concealed batteries on those hills. We put Fifth Corps behind the hills as reserve. Winfield, your corps behind this position as reserve covering this hill and that position over mere," and as he spoke he waved toward Culp's Hill.

"This is a good site; the roads coming in are good; we'll have our full strength up by late tomorrow; then let Bobbie Lee try and dig us out."

Winfield was silent.

"Don't you approve?"

"It's an excellent position, sir. But I wonder if Lee sees it that way," Winfield said. "What do you mean?" "This situation, does he see it as too good?"

"Lee's instinct is to attack. He knows we are here," Meade replied sharply. This whole campaign was to bring us out from Washington in order to engage us in the open. Fine, we want it, too. One thing Lee does not understand is that we are in Pennsylvania now, and the boys will fight like hell to defend it. From everything I heard about this evening's fight both of you saw that"

"Yes, they fought like hell," Winfield offered.

"He'll come on, and here's where we dig in. Hunt come dawn, start bringing up the rest of your reserve. I want a firm anchor on the left flank, that hill you mentioned. See what guns you can put on top of the hill to the right of here as well.

"Winfield, I want to meet with all corps commanders in a half hour. There's a house just back down the pike a quarter mile or so; meet me there."

"Yes, sir."

Meade extended his hand. "Winfield, you did well today. Damn well."

"The men did, sir."

Meade grunted and stiffly remounted. Without further comment he trotted off, guidon fluttering behind him.

"I wonder if I should have said more," Winfield said softly.

"Sir?'

"What do you think, Henry?' "About Lee? Tomorrow?" "Yes."

"Remember, I served under him at Fort Hamilton." "I know; that's why I asked."

"A subtle mind, we all know that Something gets him angry though, and he could be bull-headed. We saw that this evening."

He looked down at the town. A distant cry echoed, a high, pleading shriek that died away.

"Goddamn war," Hancock whispered. "When in Christ's name is it ever going to end?'

"Maybe when the last of us is dead."

Winfield looked over at him.

"You didn't answer my question, Henry."

"Nor did you answer Meade's."

Winfield chuckled softly. "Because I couldn't. When it comes to Lee… — I just don't know. I'm certain about the flank. That has always been his way. In fact, he surprised me a bit today with the last attack. I'd have shifted, gone for the low ground between here and the Round Tops. I think he got worked up, thought he could push us and we'd crack. Now he knows we won't

"We whipped him good today. Let's hope it gets him so damn mad that tomorrow he comes straight in across those fields," and he pointed toward the open land west of the hill.

"I think it will be one of two things," Henry finally replied.

"Go on."

"Chancellorsville. Distance is about the same. Swing behind the seminary, head southwest come out below the Round Tops, then cut in. The flank, just like you said. If so, I'll be on that hill, and by God he'll pay."

"Or?"

"Second Bull Run and he'll march fifty miles to get into our rear."

Hancock stood silent hands folded behind his back. He finally looked over at Henry and smiled. "Henry Hunt pray for another Chancellorsville. If Lee tries that on us again, this time we'll bloody him'good."

Henry said nothing. Picking up his cup of coffee, he took a sip and grimaced. It had gone cold. He drank it anyhow. Two hours' sleep was enough. It was time to get down to the rocky hill, Little Round Top, and start digging in.