Grant Comes East

Chapter Eighteen

Near Strasburg, Pennsylvania

August 19,1863 7:00 a.m.

Tell General Lee all that you've seen here. Remember, if they start to close in, don't hesitate to destroy the dispatches. Now ride!"

Wade Hampton watched as the half-dozen couriers galloped off into the morning mist.

It had been a running battle throughout the night Just before dusk he had been hit by three devastating pieces of news, one on top of the other. The first was that the Yankees, flanking wide, had cut across the Conestoga River a half-dozen miles above and below his line and were pincering in. The second, that a brigade of their cavalry having moved the night before on a wide sweep, a fifty-mile ride to his north and around Reading, was falling onto his rear. The third, that his way out, the river crossing, had already been cut by cavalry now joined by a brigade of infantry, which had been moved down by rail from Harrisburg to Columbia. Additional units were blocking every other ford. He wasn't facing a lone regiment, or even a brigade of experienced troopers. He was facing an entire division of cavalry backed by infantry, and they were good, damn good, the best he had ever seen.

The morale of his men, so high and exuberant just the morning before, was beginning to crumble. Word had filtered through the ranks that their comrades with the First North Carolina had been cut off somewhere up toward Reading and wiped out. A prisoner released by Grierson just before dawn had come riding in, confirming the news, and bringing with him an offer of honorable surrender.

Like hell! If need be, he'd ride clear to the outskirts of

Philadelphia, shake them off during that long ride, then turn about and sweep down to the river. All his men had been ordered to pull in remounts and to move, to keep moving. These damn Yankees from the West might ride through Mississippi, but they were facing Wade Hampton now. He would damn well give them the ride of a lifetime, drive them clear into exhaustion, then leave them in his dust "Let's go," he shouted.

Even as the rattle of carbine fire sounded in the west he set off, heading east toward Christiana. It was in the exact opposite direction of where he had hoped to go, but that was finished for now. The race was on.

Washington, D.C. The White House

August 19,1863 7:00 am.

He's done what?" Incredulous, Abraham Lincoln looked at Elihu Washburne, who was holding a sheaf of dispatches in his hand.

"Yesterday morning, just before dawn, General Sickles started to move the entire Army of the Potomac across the Susquehanna. I passed through there late yesterday, asked by General Grant to look at the situation myself and then report to you, Mr. President."

"Merciful heavens," Lincoln sighed. "I don't know how much mercy is involved in this one, Mr. President I will confess, it was one hell of a show, what little I saw of it; massed bands, rations being handed out like there was no tomorrow. It was a regular circus. As I was leaving on the courier boat the Fifth Corps was embarking, with the Sixth lined up to follow."

"We've had no word from Perryville since yesterday, all courier boats stopped," the president commented inexasperation.

"General Sickles ordered a shutdown of all traffic; he claimed it was for security reasons, but I daresay it was to keep you and Grant in the dark as long as possible as well. I was able to get a boat because no one was willing to face me down on the issue, but it was a damn slow boat and took hours longer to get here."

"Shrewd move by Sickles," Lincoln sighed. "Does Grant know of this?"

"I would assume he does by now, but he didn't know about it when I left him."

"Did he order it? Perhaps after you left?"

"Absolutely not. He asked me to convey to you the usual correspondence you two have maintained over the last month. He was optimistic when I left him. Supplies are still coming in; he's still short of wagons and pontoon bridging; he's still waiting for some additional men; for example, that colored division, but things were going on schedule up until this thing with Sickles broke loose. Yes, he's aware that Lee is in front of Washington, but not overly concerned. As we discussed last month, Baltimore will force Lee to stay in Maryland, and Washington will serve as the bait for him to try an attack, most likely under pressure from Davis."

"Davis is no longer with the Army of Northern Virginia," Lincoln replied.

"Sir?"

Lincoln smiled and tossed over a copy of the Richmond Enquirer. Elihu scanned the front page and the report that the rebel president was back in the Confederate capital after a successful tour of the front.

"Why do you think he pulled out?" Elihu asked.

"That, my friend, is indication enough that Lee's move on Washington was a feint. Davis would never have left if an attack was pending that could have given him the glory of riding up here to the White House to take possession. No, he's back in Richmond, because Lee is not going to try to fight his way into Washington."

"But why?'

"Pressure in Tennessee, perhaps. Sherman will link up with Rosecrans within the week."

"And”

“As you know, General Grant will put Sherman in command there. Maybe word of that leaked. Perhaps his leaving is a cagey politician's instinct not to be here if Lee should suffer a defeat. Besides, with the weakness of Confederate communications, it was most likely impossible for him to run the government from a hundred and fifty miles away. But whatever the motive, it was proof enough to me that some of our people have been overreacting to the sight of rebel banners in front of Fort Stevens.

"Besides, to confirm it all, reports are coming in now from Heintzelman. The rebels abandoned their position during the night"

"Now, that is news."

"I'm surprised you didn't hear of it on the way over from the navy yard."

"I took a carriage; my driver didn't say a word."

It struck Elihu how information was now so fragmented. Grant had no idea at this moment about the abandonment of the Washington front by Lee; Lincoln only this moment knew about Sickles's move. Damn it, most likely the only one who knew what was really going on was Lee, yet again.

"Another deserter came into the lines just after midnight," Lincoln continued. "Claimed the entire line was abandoned."

"One would think nearly all those deserters were nothing more than plants by Lee. Two days ago they were affirming the big attack was about to begin."

"I felt the same way," Lincoln replied. "Though most of those gold-encrusted popinjays over at the War Office hang on every word said by each deserter who comes in. This rebel though, I'm told, was a boy from Kentucky, sick of the war, just wants to go home. He said that at midmorning the entire army started to move, the last of them pulling out around nine last night So our General Heintzelman sent over a patrol around three this morning and they reported the entire line is empty except for a few detachments of cavalry busy stoking campfires. Lee has slipped off."

"And is now heading straight toward Sickles."

Lincoln sighed and nodded.

"I don't understand any of this at the moment," Lincoln said. "Yesterday there was dang near a panic in this city with the shelling, everyone, including Stanton, telling me that Lee would attack come nightfall. And now this."

"I think, sir, we've been humbugged."

"What?"

"Just that. Humbugged, sir, Lee knew his game and played it. He didn't dare attack directly. Yes, he might have taken the city, but he would have lost twenty, thirty thousand doing it. And then Grant, as we've talked about so many times, would have come sweeping down to finish him off. All along the two of you agreed that Washington and Baltimore would be the bait for the trap. Keep Lee in Maryland until Grant was ready with an overwhelming force to cross the Susquehanna and then finish him.

"It was a bold gambit on your part and you played it well. Not leaving the city, to hell with all the traitors and naysayers up north. In fact, this city being cut off was a blessing to you, and you stayed."

"But this move by Sickles?"

"The man saw his chance. In the end he is no different than McClellan, Halleck, McClernand out west, Butler, all the others. They might be loyal, though at times I had my doubts about McClellan."

"Don't speak too harshly of him," Lincoln replied. "When ordered to resign, he did so."

"And even now is maneuvering to run against you on a peace ticket next year. But as to Sickles. Look at it from his side. The Army of the Potomac, God bless them, was finished as a fighting unit after Union Mills. But those boys, after two years of bitter defeat, will not easily concede that they need Grant and his Westerners to help them now. Sickles played on that With Hampton raiding and cutting the telegraph lines, with Lee making all appearances that he was about to make his grand assault on Washington, even though you doubted it as did Grant, Sickles saw his chance and grabbed for it. He wants a final showdown with Lee, and he thinks he can win this war on his own. Then he can run for president as the victory candidate, the man who saved the Union when you had failed." "Damn it."

Lincoln slammed his fist on his desk, a display of temper so rare that it stunned Elihu. Lincoln looked up at him, hollow-eyed.

"Just once, just for once, can't we act together? We all have the same goal, I daresay even General Lee does, though the results he desires are different. We want this war to end. And yet we always seem to be working at cross-purposes to each other. If only Sickles had kept his horses reined in, if he had but waited one more month, he and Grant could have advanced together, working in unison to see it through."

Elihu smiled sadly.

"You are talking idealistically, sir, when we should be talking about the realities of running a republic."

Lincoln sighed and sat down. Picking up a pencil, he twirled it absently as he looked out his office window.

"We politicians are divided into two types in this war, in any war," Elihu said. "The majority, though they might proclaim that the dream of the republic motivates them at heart, are ultimately swayed by the advantage they can gain for themselves. They will proclaim to their followers that the good of the republic is the sole cause for their actions, and many will then follow.

"The second type, God save us, like you and Grant, are so rare. You two actually do wish to see this ideal, this dream, survive, and would give your lives for it without hesitation. Never confuse the two. I think it will always be thus, a hundred, a hundred and fifty years from now, if we survive; there will still be men and women who will proclaim their love of the republic, perhaps even believe it, but at heart are in it only for their own power.

"There is much of Sickles I like. He's a damn good general in his own right, but ultimately he is blinded by the light, the power, the dream that he can be the savior of this cause, and therefore he marched off yesterday morning, either to glory or disaster. But in either case, he will always say it was to save the republic."

"Stanton," Lincoln whispered.

"Sir?"

"It was Edwin who was behind this." Elihu nodded sagely.

"He could not accept my removal of Halleck. He felt I stepped on his toes in that. Halleck as well had poisoned him about Grant. Stanton was all aflutter over Lee being in front of the city again, now reinforced by Beauregard. I think in some way he must have goaded Sickles into action."

"That's what I was thinking as well, sir."

Lincoln sighed again, rubbing his eyes after yet another sleepless night.

"Is there any hope of recalling Sickles?" Lincoln asked.

Elihu shook his head.

"All three of his corps are across the river by now, moving on Baltimore. Lee, as you just told me, is storming north to meet him. I think by late today they will meet. All I can say is, let's pray that Sickles somehow proves himself, though politically that worries me."

"How so?"

"If he wins, if he defeats Lee in an open fight, sir, his next conquest will be your office. He wants to be president."

Lincoln laughed softly and shook his head.

"By God, Elihu. If he does win, if he ends this war, I'll gladly give it to him as a prize. I'll do anything at this point to see an end to the killing as long as the Union is saved."

Near Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

August 19, 1863 10:00 a.m.

The day was hot. The sun had risen a dark-red orb, promising yet another August day of sweltering heat for Maryland. It was now more than halfway up the midmorning sky. Dan Sickles took off his hat and wiped his brow.

The men marching past, his old Third Corps veterans, had rested well during the night He had balanced the odds of calling a halt to the march. Press on and force-march into Baltimore, but then his men would be exhausted, or let them get six hours' rest, a hot breakfast so that if action did come they'd be fresh.

It was a hard decision, balancing one factor against another, and balancing what Lee might do or not do. For Lee to disengage from Washington, turn around and march north, would have taken all of yesterday. Moving one man, of course, was the simplest task in the world, but fifty thousand, with rations, ammunition, artillery, supply wagons, ambulances; even the best trained units would take the better part of a day to disengage, form up, and then put the head in front of the tail. If Lee was deployed for an assault on the capital, the roads for miles to the rear would be clogged with supply wagons.

Then, on the other hand, he just might fling himself north and thus exhaust himself, and if so, his men would have the edge yet again, having rested and eaten.

He had to wait for the Sixth to come up. If he advanced too quickly, with all his men and supplies funneling through the one river crossing, his army would be strung out across twenty-five miles of road. He wanted them compact ready to go in as a single force, and thus one other reason for waiting six precious hours.

Though he had been part of the old Meade crowd, Sickles had given the Sixth to Gouverneur Warren. The man had conducted himself well in the Gettysburg campaign, was popular with his command, and had a tremendous eye for ground. Warren had reported that it would not be until mid-morning before the old Sixth would be fully across the river and deployed to march. Behind them would come a thousand wagons and more, which would be infuriatingly slow in moving, as always. Though Stoneman had assured him that his small cavalry force would protect the flank, it would be just like Stuart to try and cut in and wipe out this crucial supply link, thus stalling his advance, making him dependent on the navy to move supplies into the various ports along the Chesapeake Bay. That would be a logistical nightmare when it came to cross-service cooperation, especially with everything based upon speed, speed that he planned to make the most of today.

Coming up over a low crest, riding near the head of his column, Sickles reined in, shading his eyes, scanning the land to the south. Downtown Baltimore was less than fifteen miles away. They had covered over half the distance. Several of his staff, who had climbed into a tree, were exclaiming that they thought they could see the church spires of the city.

The call went up for the advancing column to halt, the usual ten-minute break after fifty minutes of marching. Two miles an hour, if the roads were good, the center of Baltimore by late afternoon, a triumph in and of itself. And not a rebel in sight, except for the distant screen of gray cavalry that drew back a step with each step of his advance. There was the occasional pop of a carbine, skirmishers firing at long range, but Stuart did not seem intent on holding him back.

Curious. Usually there'd be a fight for each ford, each bridge, if still intact. The countryside was peaceful, civilians out lining the road, some friendly, reporting that the rebel cavalry had run like cowards, others sullen, just watching, saying nothing.

The only wrinkle-the first courier had come up an hour ago with the report that Ely Parker from Grant's headquarters had crossed the river at Perryville and even now was riding to meet him. His people would, as ordered, "lose" Ely, dragging him about in a frantic search to find the commander of the Army of the Potomac to no avail. By the time Ely found him, he'd be into the city, and there was no way in hell that Grant would then order him to retire.

It was a good day for a march and perhaps a bloodless retaking of Baltimore. Lighting a cigar, he fell back in along the road, empty for the moment of troops, and rode forward, the men raising a cheer as he passed.

Baltimore, Maryland

August 19,1863 10:00 a.m.

The endless, relentless column of Longstreet's corps flowed along the roads into the western edge of the city. The men had covered nearly thirty miles in just under twenty-four hours, and the exhaustion was showing. In the last few hours straggling had increased; old men, young boys, seasoned soldiers, pale-faced from diarrhea, a stomach complaint, or lung illness, were now falling out. Unlike Jackson, he felt some slight pity for these men, especially after their nightlong march, and he had ordered his provost guards to deal lightly with them, to give out passes and tell them to fall back in when they were able.

Longstreet reined in, watching as a regiment of boys from Georgia flowed by. Marching order had broken down during the night, the neatly formed columns of fours replaced by a surge of movement, men jumbled together, most with rifles slung over shoulders, the roadside now Uttered with backpacks, blanket rolls, strange booty picked up over the last month and now tossed aside. Quilts, books, surprisingly a box of cigars, a clock, newspapers most likely hoarded not as reading material but for more practical purposes, a brass candelabra, a woman's silk dress, a framed painting of a ship, cooking pots, the usual decks of cards and whiskey bottles, all of it littering the side of the road as they passed. Nearly all were stripped down now to just musket, cartridge box, canteen. They kept on coming, most exhausted beyond caring, some with a fire still in their eyes, for the Army of Northern Virginia was on the march and there was a battle ahead. Most regimental commanders had passed the order that the men could strip down in the heat, so uniform jackets were slung over shoulders, revealing white cotton shirts long since gone to dirty, sweat-soaked gray. Men who had stripped off their shoes in the countryside now grimaced as they marched over cobblestones, cursing, of course, when they hit horse and mule droppings.

A courier came up, shouting, "General Longstreet!" Ven-able guided the man in, a trooper with Stuart.

"What's the word?" Longstreet asked.

"Sir, General Stuart begs to report that the Yankees are advancing again. They stopped just after two in the morning."

"I know that; when did they start to move again?"

"Sir, their Third Corps has come out of Abingdon; their Fifth Corps, which stopped at around three, is now advancing out of Bel Air. They fell back in just before eight or so."

Longstreet smiled.

He had stolen a march on the Yankees, his men moving over thirty miles to Sickles's twelve to fourteen. He shook his head even as he smiled. In spite of the Yankee general's bombast in the papers, he was keeping to their usual pace, but of course that could change; there was a slightly unpredictable element to Sickles, in spite of General Lee's confidence in dealing with the man.

He looked at his men streaming by. He would prefer to give them a few hours' rest now, for the day ahead promised to be scorching hot and the few hundred he had lost so far to straggling could swell into the thousands by mid-afternoon, but his orders were clear, his destination clear.

He looked over at Venable.

"Get one of our boys with a fast horse to report this to General Lee. You know where to find him. Send another rider back to General Stuart and tell him that we are coming up fast and he should execute the plans that General Lee ordered. A courier to Pickett as well that he should know his orders and engage in the appropriate manner."

It was going to be an interesting day, a most interesting day.

One Half Mile South of Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

August 19,1863 Noon

Jeb Stuart, hat off, the heat intense, trotted over to the light horse batteries that were drawn up across the road looking down toward the Gunpowder River. On the far bank, several Union batteries were deploying. His own guns were already at work, shelling the Union guns. The skirmish line of dismounted troopers, pushing forward, was thickening as he committed his reserves from Jenkins's and Fitz Lee's old brigades. The men were confident, with casualties so far light. They knew the game they were about to play, and they would play it with relish.

Chew's, Hart's, and Griffin's Maryland batteries were hard at work shelling the opposite slope and the approach down the gentle slope to the Gunpowder River. To add additional punch, a heavy twenty-pounder battery of Parrott guns, captured and kept in reserve at Baltimore, had come up as well, their deeper, throaty roar distinctive on the battlefield. On the opposite slope regiments of Yankee infantry were deploying out into battle lines, ready to surge forward and charge the valley.

He was relishing the moment Independent command, far ahead of Lee and the infantry, a holding action, their old enemy in front of them again. This was going to be interesting.

The first regimental volley sounded, a Yankee regiment on the far bank of the stream letting fly at long range at his own troopers in skirmish line. The men saw the puff of smoke, dived for the ground; several were hit but the rest stood up and pushed forward to the bank looking down on the stream. The battle was beginning to unfold.

He looked back down the road toward Baltimore. Pickett was supposed to have come out just after dawn. Lee did not want to spring the trap too soon, so this would take careful timing. And yes, in the distance he could see the dust boiling up on the road; the infantry support was coming.

Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

August 19, 1863 12:30 p.m.

Dan Sickles raised his field glasses yet again, scanning the opposite bank of the river, the shallow valley dividing the two forces. It was beginning!

It was still dismounted rebel cavalry over there, but reinforced now by a heavy battery, most likely brought up from Baltimore. The boys from his beloved Third Corps were shaking out from marching columns to lines. With the thump of artillery, the distant rattle of musketry and carbine fire, the veterans of the old army knew that the elephant was waiting. They were to see battle again, and here, six weeks after Union Mills, was a chance to restore their pride. Some were nervous, wide-eyed, especially the new ninety-day regiments, but the old hardcore looked ready, and as they reached the crest, swinging from marching formation into battle front, they appraised it professionally, a tough advance, but against dismounted cavalry it might not be so bad, and the ground was shallower than Union Mills.

David Birney, the commander handpicked by him to run the Third Corps, rode up.

"So it's starting, is it?" Birney cried. "Looks that way. Stuart turned about a half hour ago. He chose some good ground."

"Think there's infantry behind him?" "Maybe. The garrison in Baltimore might come up, though I'd have assumed they would have waited in the fortifications. If it's the garrison, it just might be Pickett; word is that he was left behind." Sickles pointed to the distant dust on the road heading from Baltimore.

"I'd dearly love to thrash that arrogant bastard," Birney announced.

"Well, David, now is your chance. Force this stream; I don't want to get tangled up here. Send in the First Division."

"What about Sykes and the Fifth Corps to the north?" "They're coming out of Bel Air now, reporting the same thing, intense cavalry skirmishing." Dan shook his head.

"I want Baltimore by dark. Lee must be moving by now. If he gets into that city and the fortifications, it will be hard to drag him out. We've got to be in there by dark." He did not add that sooner or later Parker would show up with the order of recall, and it was crucial to have Baltimore in his pocket or it would indeed be hard to press on to continue the action.

Birney rode off and within a.couple of minutes bugles sounded, the cry going down the line of the hard-fighting First Division, Third Corps, to prepare for a frontal advance. The fight was definitely on.

Ellicott City, Maryland

Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia

August 19,1863 1:00 p.m.

The heat was becoming staggering as General Lee allowed himself a few minutes' break under a grove of pine trees, gladly accepting a glass of lemonade offered up by an elderly woman, the pitcher cold, dripping with moisture.

He felt exhaustion coming on after a sleepless night in the saddle, broken only by a half hour nap in a shaded glen just before dawn. The men of Beauregard's corps were marching past, all chatter having long since ceased, the roadside littered with cast-off debris.

His huge train of artillery was moving at a good pace, the roads well paved, veteran batteries mingled in with newly created units manned mainly by hastily trained infantry. Gun after gun rolled by, the horses lathered in sweat as they strained at the harnesses of Napoleons, three-inch ordnance rifles, ten-pound Parrotts, limber wagons, and forge wagons. Here would be a killing punch, well over two hundred guns, stretching for miles on the road. Across fields and narrow farm lanes to either side of the main road columns of infantry pushed forward, a tidal wave of humanity on the march.

The latest dispatch from Longstreet had just come in. The action was opening up on Gunpowder River, just as he had planned. If I had been forced to defend Baltimore, Sickles might be discouraged from attacking, and, worst of all, circle to the west, there to wait for Grant to come down, pinning the Army of Northern Virginia in the city. This fight had to be fought north of the city, while Sickles was alone.

He had authorized his generals to spread the word to the troops, to share with them, as Napoleon did before Austerlitz, what his plan now was, and that confidence was reflected as they pushed on. He had seen stragglers, most of them humbled, apologetic, asking but a few minutes to catch their breath, more than one of them staggering back up to their feet and falling back in as they saw him ride past.

His army continued to press on.

Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19, 1863 1:45 pm.

George Pickett, it was again the dream. His heavy division, reinforced by the two brigades that had missed Union Mills because of being used as garrison troops, swung out into battle line on the double, ignoring the long-range artillery fire bursting in the air, an occasional round plowing into the ranks.

It would be another Taneytown for him, and he gloried in it He understood his orders, to give ground slowly, but first he would at least let his heavy division show its mettle and tear into whatever the Yankees might throw at him; there'd be time enough later to fall back. Sword raised, he shouted for his Virginians to advance.

The Battle of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19,1863 2:00 p.m.

David Birney led the first division of his corps down into the shallow, open valley, sweeping around mill ponds, men plunging into the cool stream below mill dams and storming up the open slope. Atop the crest, the line of cavalry troopers fired a final volley, dozens of men dropping from the impact The attacking Union division barely wavered. They had taken far worse on many another battlefield.

The charge moved up the slope on the double, artillery fire shrieking overhead as a fourth Union battery deployed on the slope behind them. Stuart's men pulled back fast before the relentless advance of the Union battle line sweeping half a mile of front.

August 19,1863

2:10 pm.

Lo Armistead, sword raised high, led his brigade forward. His regiments held the center of the line, three of them advancing shoulder to shoulder; fifty yards behind were the other two regiments of his brigade, acting as immediate reserve, red St Andrew's crosses held high, the dark blue flags of Virginia beside the scarlet banners. A hundred yards behind them the two reserve brigades of Pickett's division advanced in similar formation.

He turned, walking backward for a moment, the sight sending a chill down his spine. The battle front of the division covered nearly a half-mile front, the lines undulating, breaking up for a moment as the men scrambled over fences, swinging around rough ground, passing a farmhouse and barnyard, pigs and goats scattering as troops knocked down a pen. Long-range shells from the Union batteries fluttered overhead, bursting in the air, plowing up ground, one shell exploding over his own Ninth Virginia. Several men dropped.

It was hot, damnably hot. Sweat poured down his face. He caught glimpses of individuals in the rank, some of the men grinning, their eyes afire with that strange light that imbued soldiers going into a fight; others looked frightened, features pale. Rifle barrels glistened in the glare of the August sun; the air filled with the sound of tramping feet, the clatter of tin cups banging on canteens, the distant shouts of officers and file closers, yelling for the men to keep their alignment, drummers marking the beat.

He turned, looking forward again. Cavalry troopers, some mounted, some on foot, were streaming back, a few turning to fire, smoke drifting across the field; the advancing and retreating Confederate lines passed through each other. The infantry offered some taunts, good-natured in general, about the cavalry getting out of the way now that the real fighting had begun, the troopers offering in mm shouts of encouragement.

Now he could see them, a wall of blue, coming up out of a low valley a quarter mile away, their battle line spreading out, flags marking regiments, a dozen flags at least, a division-wide front. He scanned the lines. This was going to be a straight-out, head-on collision, no fancy maneuvering, a knockdown battle out in the open. The ground a couple of hundred yards ahead dropped down into a shallow ravine. It looked to be marshy ground with high pasture grass, with the Yankees now advancing on to the slope on the other side of the marsh.

Both sides closed, coming straight at each other, their combined rate of advance covering over two hundred yards a minute. What had been a wall of blue was now emerging into individuals, officers out front, flag bearers holding colors aloft The range was now about three hundred yards. The ground ahead was sloping down. Lo looked over at Pickett, who was still mounted, in the lead. Pickett caught his eye, held his sword out sideways, signaling a halt

"Battalions! Halt!"

The cry went down the length of the front Kemper's Brigade to the left flank continued on for another twenty yards or so before they finally came to a stop. Across the gentle, open swale, the Yankee division was coming to a halt as well, range roughly a hundred and fifty yards.

On both sides across that open pasture, all could see what was about to happen. A loud murmuring rose up, some cursing, a few laughing, many praying. Lo, trying to maintain some dignity, moved back into the ranks, even as he shouted for the brigade to take aim.

A metallic ringing echoed, the slapping of the brass fittings on rifle slings as weapons were taken from shoulders, held high, then lowered into firing position. The clicking of thousands of hammers as the.58-caliber Springfields and Enfields were cocked.

From across the field, the Union troops were enacting the same ritual, gun barrels flashing in the sunlight.

A long, drawn-out pause, which was only a few seconds but to all seemed an eternity, some rifle barrels held stock-still, men planting their feet firmly, drawing careful aim, second rank leaning forward, poising their weapons between the left and right shoulders of the men in front of them in the first rank.

"Fire!"

The thundering, tearing volley raced across the front line, thousands of rifles igniting, a blinding sheet of smoke boiling out thousands of one-ounce bullets shrieking downrange at nine hundred feet per second, and almost at the same instant the Union volley swept in, the air buzzing with bullets, a sharp eye able to pick out piercing eddies in the smoke, marking the passage of an invisible round.

Scores of men dropped, some collapsing soundlessly; others picked up and knocked into the second rank, some screaming, cursing as they doubled over or, dropping their rifles, grabbed at a broken arm, or a thigh now gushing blood from a slashed artery.

"Reload!"

These were veterans, they had done this ritual before; they pulled open cartridge box flaps, drew paper cartridges even as they let their rifle butts drop to the ground. Tear cartridge with teeth, pour powder, push bullet into muzzle, draw ramrod. Thousands of arms were now reaching up, pushing rounds down, some resetting ramrods in the rifle stock, others slamming them into the ground to stand now like iron stakes. Raise rifle, half cock, pull out percussion cap, set cap, bring weapon to the shoulder, signaling they were ready.

"Volley fire, present!"

Again thousands of rifles were poised, another thundering crash. The Yankees, several seconds slower, volleyed in return, more men dropping, though not as many as before, both sides masked by smoke, the flashing of pinpoint lights in the yellow battle fog the only indicator that their opponents were still there.

Yet another volley and a volley in return.

"Independent fire at will!" The cry raced up and down the line.

Within a minute it was a continual roar of musketry, the faster loading three or more times a minute, the slower at two rounds a minute, some now fumbling, forgetting to prime with a percussion cap, others pushing the bullet down before pouring in the powder.

Men dropped, the file closer's cry a continual chant- "Close on the center, close on the center!" — while officers screamed for them to keep pouring it in. The continual roar was deafening, artillery from both sides throwing in both shell and solid shot, men screaming, crying, cursing, praying, shouting incoherently as the battle frenzy seized them. Lines might surge forward a dozen feet as if a spontaneous charge was about to be unleashed, then be swept back, as if an invisible wall of death awaited any man who stepped one foot farther.

No one could see, all were now firing blindly; the experienced, those with a cold logic still in their mind, took then-time, aiming low, searching for a flash of an enemy gun muzzle in the smoke, then swinging to aim at it Here and there the smoke would part enough to show a flag on the other side of the field, and then a storm of shot would rake into it the banner dropping, coming back up, going down again, the horror of this hitting on both sides, so that around each regimental color guard a dozen or more men would be sprawled out dead or writhing in agony.

Clips of meadow grass seemed to leap into the air as bullets cut in low, the grass leaping up as if an angry bee were slashing through the stalks at blinding speed. An artillery shell, winging in low as well, would plow up a terrifying furrow of grass and dirt, then plow into a volley line, bowling men over.

Men's eyes stung from the blinding smoke, faces streaked black from the mixture of black powder, sweat and saliva. Uniforms were caked with dirt, powder, sweat, blood.

Lo stalked up and down behind his regiments, saying nothing, watching as the volley lines gradually contracted on the center, the fallen dropping almost in an orderly row, wounded streaming back to the rear. Twenty or more rounds per man had been fired, and still there was no slackening of fire from the other side. It was impossible to see; all was blinded by smoke, the only indicator of the enemy presence the continual buzz of bullets slashing overhead, the cries of his own men being hit the dim pinpoints of light from the other side of the pasture.

He heard a shouted command to the rear, looked back, and saw Garnett's brigade, which had been advancing behind him, filing off to the left on the double, moving to extend the line, whether to flank or to prevent being flanked he could not tell. He caught a glimpse of Pickett galloping past

It had been going on for at least fifteen minutes now, a stand-up, knock-down brawl. He had heard the orders, to engage after they crossed the Gunpowder River, hold briefly, then start to fall back, luring them in. Shouldn't they start?

"General Pickett!" he shouted, trying to be heard above the thunder of battle, but George rode on, standing in his stirrups, eyes afire with that strange light of battle.

The rate of fire from his own line was slackening, not through lack of will, but after such sustained fire guns were fouling, barrels so caked with the residue of black powder that men were grunting as they pushed down on their ramrods. Some had stopped shooting, were pouring precious water from canteens down the barrels, their guns so hot that steam would come bubbling out as they then hurriedly ran a swab down the bore, filthy black water cascading out of the barrel. Inverting the gun would make the gluey mess dribble out-then another swab to wipe it dry, pour in another round, and resume firing.

And still the enemy fire slashed in.

August 19,1863 2:45 p.m.

Birney stalked the firing line, a Pennsylvania regiment in front of him standing solid, musket fire flashing up and down the line. To his right he could see another rebel brigade swinging into battle front, extending the line. Already his own Second Division was racing behind the volley line on the double, men panting and staggering in the heat lead regiments shaking out from column into battle front, rifles held high as they formed. A roaring volley erupted: Each regiment fired as it came into place. "Birney!"

It was Dan Sickles, riding up on his black charger, staff trailing behind, the flag of the commander of the Army of the Potomac held high. He pushed his way through the column of the Second Division, the men cheering him as they raced by, Sickles standing in his stirrups, hat off.

"Give it to 'em! Remember Union Mills and give it to 'em!" Sickles roared.

He came up to Birney, grinning.

"How is it here?" Sickles shouted.

"Damn hot, sir. That's a full division across this pasture."

"Can see that, Birney. Blue flags, looks like Virginians; it has to be Pickett He's left Baltimore wide-open, the damn fool."

"Did you expect Pickett this far north?"

"Of course," he lied. "That madman can't miss a fight."

He stood back up, raising his field glasses, but the smoke was hanging thick in the humid, windless air, a smothering, choking blanket filled with the stench of rotten eggs, strangely, a smell Dan reveled in.

If the Virginian was going to stand and fight, why not in the fortifications, why out here, a dozen miles north of town? Even Pickett would not be so foolish as to pit his lone division against three entire corps. It could only mean that Lee was coming up. But how fast? When would he gain the field? Surely not by this afternoon, unless he had been willing to push his army forty miles in this grueling heat

He smiled. If so, let him; his men will be exhausted and then we'll make it a stand-up fight.

"I'm putting the entire Third Corps in here," Sickles announced.

Birney nodded his head in agreement instinctively dodging as a rifle ball hummed by so close that he could feel the wind of it on his cheek. Dan laughed.

"If it's got your name on it, Birney, it's got your name, no sense in dodging."

Grinning, he rode off.

Five Miles South of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19,1863 3:00 p.m.

Longstreet could clearly hear the rumble of battle in the distance. Coming up over a low rise he could see the cloud of smoke on the horizon billowing up, tiny puffs of white erupting in the air from shell bursts. A courier had just come in from Stuart, who had shifted to the left, reporting that the Union Fifth Corps was pressing forward on the road from Bel Air, approaching the upper end of the Gunpowder River Valley. Stuart had committed all his reserves, and the fight was beginning to spread.

Now was the moment of choice-push his lead division, McLaws's, up to Stuart or over to Pickett. Pickett had five full brigades now, the heaviest division in the army. Capable, for a time, of standing up to a Union corps. No, McLaws would extend the fight to the left and hold the Union Fifth Corps in place till the rest of the army came up. It would be a bloody, uneven match for the next three to four hours, until first Hood and then Beauregard arrived. A courier had just come up from Baltimore; the army was moving hard, but the rate of march was slowing in this killing heat, and stragglers were now falling out by the thousands. Pickett should be giving ground now, slowly falling back onto Hood.

Grim as it was, hard as the casualties would be, it would suck Sickles in, give him more confidence, play to his arrogance.

He passed the orders for McLaws to move forward to the left and prepare for battle.

Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19,1863 3:15 p.m.

Though only a colonel in the presence of a major general, Ely Parker found it nearly impossible to conceal his rage. He knew without doubt that his so-called guides had been leading him on a wild-goose chase throughout the morning and into the early afternoon as they weaved back and forth on the two main roads leading south from the river crossing. Over the last hour the thunder of battle had continued to swell and finally, ignoring the shouts and threats of the staff sent to fetch him along, he had ridden off, heading for the center of the battle, knowing that the man he sought would be there.

A mile back from the battle line he rode past dense columns of troops, swinging out from the road, tramping cross-country on the double, heading down across a shallow ravine to ford a stream and then back up the opposite slope. Seeing one of their command flags, he recognized it as the Second Division of Third Corps and fell in with them, riding as fast as his exhausted mount would carry him. Coming up over the crest he reined in for a moment Several hundred yards to his front a long volley line was dimly visible in the smoke, blazing away, wounded by the hundreds limping back, ambulances already up, stretcher-bearers at work, loading the men in.

He had to admit it was a magnificent sight. The volley line seemed solid, no faltering in their work, flags waving back and forth. Puffs of dirt kicked up around him as spent rounds smacked into the ground and ricocheted off, his horse dancing nervously as one nicked its leg.

He pushed on, carefully watching the line, looking behind it and then he spotted the flag of the army commander. Spurring his mount for one last effort before his quarry rode off, Ely Parker of General Grant's staff galloped up and reined in hard. Sickles was surrounded by staff, giving orders, pointing to various details of the fight, one of his men holding up a rough sketch map that Sickles was examining. Without observing protocol, Ely pushed his way in.

"General Sickles, I am Colonel Parker, adjutant to General Grant."

Sickles looked over at him and actually smiled.

"In a moment, Colonel, I am busy now."

"Sir, I have been led back and forth by your staff to no avail for the last eight hours looking for you. We need to speak now, sir."

"In a moment," Sickles barked and turned away.

"Brewster, keep extending your line to the right, push it out; I want to get enfilade into their left. Now move!"

Brewster saluted and galloped off, and Dan turned to yet another officer.

"Get back to Warren, tell him to push his first division up at the double to reinforce Birney. Those men have fired sixty or more rounds; their rifles are fouled; they need to be pulled back to clean weapons, reload, get water and a few minutes' rest I want that fresh division on the line within the half hour!"

More staff galloped off. Dan snapped his fingers to yet another staff officer, who pulled out a flask and handed it over. Dan briefly hesitated, then took a drink, turning slightly as he eyed Parker. He screwed the lid back on the flask and then finally spoke.

"Well, Colonel?"

Ely glared at him coldly.

"Sir, I've been sent by General Grant. I have written orders for you to withdraw back to the north side of the river and then to report to his headquarters in Harrisburg."

Dan threw back his head and laughed.

"Should I do this right now, Colonel? This very instant?"

"Those were the orders I was to convey to you."

Dan edged his horse closer.

"Goddamn it, man, do you know how stupid you sound at this moment?"

"Sir, I am carrying orders from the commander of all Union forces in the field."

"Again, do you know how stupid, how idiotic you sound?"

"Are you calling General Grant idiotic, sir?" Ely snarled, features turning dark red.

"You're an Indian, aren't you?" Dan asked.

"What the hell does that have to do with it, sir?"

"I would think that one with your blood would enjoy a good fight. Well, my brave, you got one right here," and Dan pointed to the volley line.

"I am in the middle of an all-out fight at this moment That's Pickett over there, Stuart a couple of miles to the northwest. We are holding and we are savaging them and we will beat them. Now do you honestly expect me to order a general retreat?"

Ely said nothing. Tragically, he knew Sickles was right. The fight was on; there was no way to disengage without the threat of a rout. The long hours of delay thrown in his path had given this man enough time to get into a tangle he could not get out of, short of victory.

"General Sickles, you acted without authority; in fact you acted in direct contradiction to the plan that General Grant had laid out to you at your last conference with him. I know, sir, for I was there, if you will recall."

To his amazement, Sickles actually shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

"War changes all plans, Parker. If your Grant was here, he'd agree and order me to push in everything I had. The old plan is off and the Army of the Potomac is back in the fight and we will win this day. Now if you will excuse me, I have a battle to fight"

"General Sickles, I believe that once this affair is over, you will face an inquiry from General Grant as to the arbitrary and irresponsible nature of your actions."

"Let him. Just tell him, though, to first check with the secretary of war."

Stunned, Ely could say nothing.

"Now stay out of my way, Chief Parker. Though if you want to fight, be my guest If you want to see how the Army of the Potomac can win battles when properly led and not held back on a leash, stay and watch."

Laughing, Dan spurred his mount and rode off. Ely remained behind, oblivious to the constant whine of bullets passing overhead. There was nothing he could do now to stop this, and considering the respective skills of Lee and Sickles, he feared what was to come.