Grant Comes East

Chapter Twenty

Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia

August 20,1863 4:00 a.m.

'T'here had been precious little sleep, and with the JL announcement that Pete Longstreet had arrived, Walter had come in as ordered, bearing a cup of coffee, and gendy shaken him awake. As Lee stood and stretched, he wiped his brow; the night was sultry, hot, promising another day of killing heat. He pitied his men having to fight in this.

Walter handed him the tin cup, and he gratefully took it, gingerly holding the handle, blowing on the rim, inhaling the rich fragrance.

He caught a glimpse of Longstreet standing outside and motioned for him to come in. Pete looked haggard, eyes dark, blood staining his uniform. Venable had told him about their nearly getting overrun by the charge, of Pete in the middle of it, pistol drawn, dropping a Yankee at nearly point-blank range.

Pete was carrying a cup of coffee as well, and Lee motioned for him to sit down on one of the folding camp chairs.

"General Longstreet, a favor this day," Lee said.

"Anything, sir."

"Stay back from the fighting."

Longstreet lowered his head.

"It caught me by surprise as well, sir, that charge, the way they came in. I didn't expect it."

"Even if they didn't charge, you were within easy range of musket fire. I cannot bear to lose you, sir, you have become my right arm."

He chose that phrase deliberately and Longstreet looked up at him startled, features suddenly going red.

"Thank you, sir. I will of course follow your orders."

"Very good, General; now tell me what has transpired."

He briefly reviewed the previous day's action, Lee shaking his head as Pete described the breaking of Pickett's division and the relentless Yankee charge that followed.

"I thought all division commanders were clearly aware that we cannot afford the loss of a single man in such an action. Why did General Pickett press the attack so? Why did he not fall back as we discussed in our last staff meeting prior to the return march on Washington?"

"Sir, you know George. His enthusiasm for a fight was up; he thought he saw a chance to drive the Yankees."

"An entire corps or more?"

"I know. I should have come up earlier to supervise him, but the long march; frankly, sir, I'll confess I was on the point of collapse myself from the heat."

"Don't blame yourself. That is why we are supposed to have division commanders, men who can think independently when required, but also men who can balance that independence with an understanding of the broader scope of the plan. I am gravely disappointed in General Pickett for throwing such a fine division into a frontal battle when he should have given ground back slowly, leading Sickles into our main advance."

"I agree."

"I am not going to relieve him, but I shall indeed talk to him once this fight is over. Now, tell me, how bad was it?"

"The returns still are not in, a lot of stragglers, but I believe we lost close to five thousand men yesterday, roughly four thousand of those with Pickett. Garnett is dead, Kemper severely wounded and out of this campaign."

Lee sighed. Another division fought out Four veteran divisions fought out since June; Heth, Pender, Anderson, and Pickett nothing more than shattered wrecks. God, how much longer can we bear this cost?

"There is one positive side to this," Longstreet interjected. "Pickett savaged their Third Corps. We took some prisoners when they finally fell back, and word is that their First Division is now a hollow wreck."

'Trading man for man is a game we can never win," Lee replied.

"I know that, General, sir, but as you have told me repeatedly these last few weeks, this is a battle against General Sickles. That was his old corps and he had his pride in that corps. Well, sir, I understand that pride. His men took terrible losses yesterday, but ultimately they did drive one of our best divisions from the field. Sickles will be spoiling for a new fight this morning."

Lee nodded in agreement.

"Everything is set?"

"Yes, sir. We will engage just after dawn, then retreat as you planned."

Lee smiled, blowing again on the rim of his cup. Yes, Longstreet was right. It was a chess match, and Sickles would move aggressively forward, especially if he thought he saw the queen moving off the field. His passions would be up after yesterday's losses and the momentary glimpse of what he thought was victory. Lee understood that feeling; it had almost seized him as well more than once.

"Fine then, General. It's after four in the morning. Daylight will be upon us soon. God watch over you. I am going to join Beauregard on the left and I will see you at sundown when we close on Sickles's army."

Headquarters Army of the Potomac

August 20, 1863 4:30 a.m

Gen. Dan Sickles stepped out of his tent, stretching, looking out across the plains south of Gunpowder River. The smoke from a thousand circling camps hung low in the early-morning mist, men gathered about the fires, cooking breakfasts, orders ringing in the still air, companies beginning to form up.

All of it filled him with a deep pleasure, a love for all that this had given him. The smell of fatback frying, the wood smoke, the rich heavy air of an August morning, the shadowy glimpses of companies forming lines, companies forming into regiments, and regiments into brigades, all these were sources of satisfaction.

Men were beginning to load up, rolling up blanket rolls and slinging them on, buttoning uniform jackets. A group of men from one of his New York regiments were gathered in a circle, on their knees, heads bowed as a priest offered absolution and then communion. Nearby another group, Baptists probably, were standing with heads bowed as one of them read a Psalm.

Here and there a drum sounded, a few notes of a bugle; a flag was uncased and held up, officers rode back and forth shouting orders and encouragements. All of it sent a chill down his spine. A few years back he couldn't have dreamed that there would be such a moment in his life, and.he thanked God that it had been given to him. He loved this army more than his own ambitions. His pride in it was unbounded, and today he would do his all to see them served rightly, to give unto them the victory they had thirsted for across two bitter years, a victory they so richly deserved. Once achieved, nothing could ever take that away from them, no general out of the West, no president in the White House. No one could ever steal away again the honor of the Army of the Potomac.

Yesterday, in that final charge, he had sensed the moment when Warren had swept forward, thought that perhaps here was the moment when they would see the Army of Northern Virginia break at last, flee the field, the glorious banner, the Stars and Stripes, sweeping the field of all who dared to oppose it. It had been so close, except for that final shock, the cunning trap at the edge of the cornfield. He had to admit it was masterful, a grudging nod to old foes, most likely Long-street.

But that would not happen today.

All three corps were deploying now. His battered Third on the left, the Fifth to the right, again the Sixth in the second line. They would advance as one. If Lee wished a stand-up fight like yesterday, he would give it to him, but he doubted if Lee would stand. He knew the numbers. Lee could no longer afford such losses; he would give back, retreat, most likely falling back on the defenses of Baltimore. If they could but trigger the beginning of a rout, get Lee dislodged, just for once, and on the run, they could bowl him over and win the day, and in that winning of the day win the war.

And, thinking coldly, he knew it had to be today. Parker was still with him, still waving his orders. If he did not press the engagement at dawn, claiming he was forced into the fight, he would have to fall back as ordered. If he refused a direct order while not caught in the heat of battle, even his staunchest advocates would no longer be able to defend him. And once he pulled back, he knew Grant would replace him. He had to press it today; this was his one and only chance, and he smiled at the thought of it This was just the kind of gambit he reveled in.

An orderly came up, leading his mount Already, in the predawn light, the skirmish lines were coming to life after their night of informal truce. The battle had begun.

The White House

August 20, 1863 5:00 am.

‘Good morning, Jim, how are you today?'

Lincoln walked into the kitchen, and at the sight of him the servants began to scurry. James Bartlett who obviously had been asleep, head resting on a table, looked up, startled, and came to his feet Lincoln smiled.

"Sorry, Mr. President, must have dozed off," James said a bit nervously, and Lincoln smiled again.

"Wish I could doze off like that It's been a long night" "Sir, would you like some breakfast?" James asked. "What do we have?"

"I could get you a nice slab of smoked ham, sir, a couple of eggs, freshly ground coffee." "That sounds good, Jim."

The servant looked over at the kitchen staff, who did not need to be told. Within seconds the ham was being sliced, eggs cracked into a frying pan. Lincoln sat down at the servants' kitchen table and motioned for Jim to sit as well. The man looked at him, a bit surprised.

"I'd like some company for breakfast Jim, join me."

"Sir?"

"You must be hungry, too, after a long night. Make that an order for two breakfasts and join me." "Yes, Mr. President"

The staff looked over at the two wide-eyed, saying nothing as more eggs went into the frying pan.

"Have you heard at all from your son and grandson?" Lincoln asked.

"Not a word in nearly two weeks, sir. I know they're drilling in Philadelphia; word is they are to become part of General Burnside's corps."

"Not a word?"

"No, sir, the last letter was dated two weeks back. They're in good health and they say the men of their regiments are eager to get into the fight"

Lincoln smiled. His letter to Jim's son was a secret; word would come back soon enough, and he could imagine the man's delight, this man who had known every president since Jefferson. It was not in any way whatsoever a calculated move, though he knew that everything a president did, from where he walked to whom he smiled at, was reported and commented on remorselessly. If a letter from a president to a colored soldier should become news, then so be it. It would show his own resolve on this matter and serve notice as to his intentions once this madness was finished.

They were coming down now, in this crisis, to a question of numbers, and the men of his breakfast companion's race might very well be the final weight that tipped the scales.

After the horror of the draft riots, he had carefully and quietly rescinded the draft in most places. Besides, Grant and others reported that the draftee troops coming in were worse than useless, an actual burden on the army, the bulk of them deserting, many of them, besmirching the honor of their uniforms by thievery, desertion, cowardice. The Vacant ranks must be filled, but in this country the tradition still was that it had to be volunteers. After the disasters of the spring and summer, draftees and bounty men were not the answer, and in fact would hinder this final effort.

It would have to be the men of color of this nation. The offer now was plain and clear. Not just emancipation, though he knew that if he was ever to honor the promise of the Declaration of Independence, full emancipation for all was a foregone conclusion. But what after that? There was a time when he had agreed to the idea of returning these men and women of Africa back to their homeland, filled with doubt that after the bitter legacy of slavery, and the way it polluted both sides, the two races could live side by side.

He knew now that was impossible. As he looked at Jim, who sat self-consciously across the table from him, as he looked into this man's eyes, he could see the divine spark, the core of humanity that made him an equal in every sense of the word. It was the quiet, humble courage of this man on the terrible day when it looked as if Washington might fall that had stiffened his own resolve. It was the look on the faces of the men of Colonel Shaw's regiment as they charged to the front, the pride in their faces when the following week he had received a delegation of them in the White House, that made him realize that all along he had been guided toward this path and understanding.

The promise had to be full equality, full rights, a place beside all men. This was now the great experiment of this nation. For more than four score years the experiment had simply been one of freedom-could common men govern themselves wisely? Most of the world had at first watched scornfully but now stood in admiration, and, for some, yes, even fear for all that this rule of common man implied.

Now that question had evolved to the more fundamental one-could they indeed create a nation in which all men did have full and equal rights? A new America was evolving; the poet he had met sang of it, of a brawling, growing strength, of farms, factories, cities, and villages filling an entire continent. Men and women from around the world were now flooding in, drawn by the promise of the dream, of those first lines of the Declaration. The Irish with their strange Catholic ways, which many hated, but it was the Irish who had stormed the heights of Fredericksburg and Union Mills, and surely their blood had bought them a right to this land. The Germans, the Scandinavians filling the woods of Minnesota, even the Chinese coming off the boats in San Francisco to work the gold fields. Was this not now the great experiment, and were not the son and grandson of the man sitting across from him entitled to it as well?

Though Jim did not know it, at this very moment his son and grandson, dressed in Union blue, rifles in hand, were most likely in Harrisburg, and in another month would march forth, and perhaps die in battle. Like the Savior, they would shed their blood for the sins of others, and he must see that there would be some offer of hope, some light at the end for them.

A servant put a plate down in front of Lincoln and then one before Jim. Jim was looking at him, saying nothing, as Lincoln silently mused.

"May I offer a prayer, Mr. President?"

"Of course."

The two lowered their heads.

"Merciful God. Please guide this man who sits before me. Guide him as he leads our nation to a just peace, a peace where North and South, former slave and former master, can sit together and break bread together in charity and peace.

And, dear Jesus, please extend Thy loving blessing to my son and grandson when they march upon the battlefield. If it is Your will that they should fall, let them die with honor in service to our country.

"We thank You for the blessing of this food. Amen."

Jim looked back up, gazing into Lincoln's eyes. Lincoln did not know what to say. Many had prayed over and for him over the years, but few prayers were as heartfelt as this one.

He knew that this morning, like so many other mornings of these last few months, the fate of the nation might be in the balance. Sickles's army might just win, but if defeated it could give Lee a free hand yet again, perhaps to turn back here or to even force the Susquehanna and march on Wilmington and Philadelphia.

But it was out of his hands now … and, strangely, he felt at peace.

"Thank you, Jim," he said softly. "Now let's enjoy our meal together."

Two Miles South of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 20, 1863 6:15 a.m

Dan Sickles reined in atop a low rise where a knot of officers were gathered. He recognized Birney, dismounted, a field telescope resting across the saddle of his mount. Dan rode up to join him. "Damn strange," Birney announced, pointing south. A constant rattle of musketry echoed around them, but the fire was light all along the line. It was more like an open field skirmish than a major battle fought at a divisional level. They had advanced well over a mile in the last hour across the same ground that the Sixth Corps had charged yesterday, passing the horrible wreckage and destruction of the previous day, but there had been no hard contact. The dreaded woodlot, where so many hundreds had fallen, was now in their hands after a brief, sharp skirmish, but of nowhere near the intensity of the day before.

Dan came up to Birney's side, and his corps commander offered the telescope.

"Look down that road, about three or four miles, I'd judge."

Dan took the long tube, balanced it on the saddle, adjusted the focus slightly. Yes, it was a column of troops, some wagons mingled in, and they were heading south, away from the fight.

He handed the telescope back to Birney.

"There's no fight in them this morning. We push and they give. I know we have Hood's old division to our front, some contact with Early, and McLaws to our right, but nothing else; it's damn curious. Anything from the cavalry?"

Dan shook his head.

As usual, Stoneman's troopers were almost useless. They had gone into this campaign not fully mounted; after the horrible drubbing of the last month they were timid, slow, and now easily contained by Stuart, who ranged along the left front and overlapped the left flank as well.

"Prisoners?"

"A couple of dozen. Mostly exhausted stragglers. Word is they pushed all the way up from Washington in yesterday's heat and are played out Most of them are saying the rest of Lee's army is stuck south of Baltimore; they just couldn't keep up the pace of the march and the order is to now fall back into the city and dig in."

Dan took this in.

"Any other reports?"

'Two prisoners state the whole thing is a ruse, that all of Lee's army is out there. One of them says he's a deserter from a supply train and Hood is just waiting for us to close."

"Any civilians?"

"Very few; most lit out when the fighting started." Dan grunted, saying nothing, pacing back and forth for a moment, digesting the information. He had expected by now that they would have been into a full-scale, head-on fight, a toe-to-toe brawl where the Army of the Potomac would prove its mettle and drive the rebels from the field. Now this.

Was it a trap, or was he retreating?

Sickles wiped the sweat from his brow. Already the temperature must be well into the mid to high eighties. He uncased his field glasses, braced them, and scanned the ground ahead.

It was a broad, open plain, gently rolling ground, scattered farmhouses, a few small villages. A half mile away, wavering lines of blue deployed in battle order moved forward, a quarter mile ahead of them a heavy line of skirmishers, puffs of smoke marking their advance. In front of his own skirmishers he could see darker forms, giving back. Firing a shot or two, running, falling in behind a fence or tree to fire another shot, then falling back again.

Their retreat was orderly, unhurried, no sense of panic, as if they were following orders given before the start of the day.

He lowered his field glasses and continued to pace.

Hold, advance, or press on aggressively?

Was it possible that yesterday's fight had broken something in Lee? Their advance had revealed the extent of casualties inflicted, five thousand, maybe seven or eight-if that many, it would be a goodly percentage of Lee's best troops.

Could he have broken Lee's will to offensive action yesterday? If so, what a fitting testament to his boys of the Third, a laurel to a crown they so richly deserved.

But what now?

A small voice of caution whispered to hold up here, let Stoneman probe forward. Let his men rest through what would be a day of frightful heat, then push on in the evening.

But if he did that, Lee would withdraw into the fortifications of Baltimore, and there was the other factor.

He looked over his shoulder. Ely Parker was still trailing along behind his staff. There was no way he could order the man off the field; he was, after all, an official representative of the field commander. If I stop now, that man would again press me to retire as ordered, and it would be all but impossible to deny that order and keep my command. For that matter, unless he finished this with a resounding victory, Grant would most likely remove him anyhow.

No, he had to continue the advance.

He raised his field glasses yet again, focusing on the distant road. It was hard to distinguish, but it looked as if a wagon had just broken down. A dozen men were around it, disconnecting the mules, and then they simply upended it off the road.

Curious. It wasn't like the rebels to abandon a wagon like that. Were they actually retreating, with orders to abandon anything that could not be taken along? Already his advance had captured a half dozen guns-spiked, true, but still abandoned and captured.

Was this Chancellorsville again? Were they moving? He remembered the moment with deep bitterness. If Hooker had only unleashed him, he would have plowed into Jackson on the march and finished him. The same on the second morning at Gettysburg. — No, never again.

He looked over at Birney.

"They're retreating, that's clear enough."

Birney reluctantly nodded, saying nothing, features flushed.

"I want the advance redoubled. I want our main line to go forward quickly and establish contact. If they are retreating I think we can push them off balance, and once they are off balance we must drive them, sweep them up."

"It's going to be a killer of a day," Birney offered, shading his eyes and looking at the blood-red orb of the sun.

"The same weather for both us and them."

His gaze fixed on Ely, who said nothing.

"No orders from General Grant this morning?" Sickles asked.

"You know the orders, sir."

"I have a beaten foe in retreat, Colonel. My duty this day is clear. Once I'm finished, General Grant may come down and claim what he wishes."

Ely did not rise to the bait and the scornful looks of Sick-les's staff.

Sickles mounted.

"I want a general advance all along the line. Push the men on the double, if need be, until we establish contact I want to force them off those roads and to form a rear guard. Then we will overrun them. Gentlemen, this will be a footrace, and to the fastest runner goes the victory!"

A ragged cheer erupted as he spurred his mount and headed forward.

Ely reined up beside Birney, who was mounting as well.

"Do you think all of Lee's army is in retreat?" Ely asked.

"It's not my opinion that counts, Colonel," Birney replied coolly. "But I'll tell you this. This army has been misused too many times, mostly through temerity. We just might be on to Lee in retreat, his forces spread out We could see that at Antietam, at Second Manassas, at Chancellorsville-hell, in damn near every battle we've ever been in. If General Sickles is right, we could finish it this day, before they retreat into the fortifications at Baltimore."

"And what does General Lee think at this moment?"

Bimey looked at him, saying nothing.

"There is a third corps, Beauregard's. Have you marked their position?".

Bimey shook his head.

"I would be concerned."

"Every battle is a concern," Birney replied, now into his saddle, bringing his mount about, facing south.

"You might not believe this, General," Ely said, "but I actually do pray that your General Sickles is right"

"So do I," Bimey said with a smile. Spurring his mount, he galloped off, following his commander down into the open plains.

Six Miles to the West,

in the Valley of the Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 20,1863 7:30 am.

The vast columns were deployed, the twenty thousand men of Beauregard's brigades. For the men who had fought in the swamps and heat in defense of Charleston, this was nothing new, another day that promised temperatures near a hundred degrees. They had long ago grown used to it, or died. For the militia regiments, the home guards, some of them from the cool mountains of western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee, the last day had been a torture, their ranks already thinned by half from straggling, scores of their comrades dead, collapsing from heatstroke.

They had filed west and north throughout the previous day, following back tracks and farm lanes, a route that Lee and Jed Hotchkiss had ridden over the week before, while contemplating what to do if Sickles should indeed jump first.

Though Lee loathed analogies with Napoleon, especially when applied to himself and his army, he had to admit it was indeed something like Austerlitz. He had picked this ground long before the battle and analyzed it. He had conceded what Sickles would perceive to be the good ground, on the banks of the Gunpowder River down close to the Chesapeake. If he had fought him there, he would have held the good ground, to be certain, but it would have been a bloody, senseless fight, with severe casualties and little to show once Sickles was beaten and had retreated. Granted, he had lost five times the number he had wished for yesterday, but it had indeed lured Sickles across that stream.

And now Sickles was pushing south. A courier had just come in reporting that the Union commander had increased the pace of his advance, was pressing into the rear of Hood's and Longstreet's supposed retreat. In another two miles he would finally run up against what the rebel forces were already calling "the line," a hundred and thirty-five guns concealed behind a reverse slope.

Stuart was shadowing the flank, keeping any probing eyes back. All civilians, painful as it might be, had been rousted out, ordered, "for their own welfare," to abandon their homes and retreat toward Baltimore. In Virginia he would not have worried, but here in Maryland, one or two civilians bearing tidings of a rebel column having disappeared late the day before, marching to the northwest, might have been warning enough to stop Sickles.

Sickles was playing his hand as Lee thought he would. The tantalizing chance to finally catch the Army of Northern Virginia on the march would be too much for Wm to not grab for.

All they needed to do now was to wait for the sound of the guns.

August 20,1863 9:00 am

‘Sir, I think we got a problem ahead!" Dan looked over at the courier riding in, a cavalryman, John Buford's old division. "What is it?"

"Sir, we're moving ahead of the Second Division of the Third Corps, and we seen a hell of a lot of guns." "What kind of guns?"

"Artillery, sir, rows of 'em. Maybe twenty or more batteries. One of the boys climbed a church steeple to get a look around and he seen them down in the next valley. I was ordered to come back here and find you."

"Are they moving?"

"No, sir, that's just it. Their gunners are standing ready." "I'm coming."

Following the cavalryman, his staff trailing, they rode across an open pasture. Some stragglers dotted the field, men already dropping out because of the heat and exhaustion. A few wounded in the field, an ambulance up to retrieve them, one of them a rebel officer, sitting on the ground, holding a leg up as a hospital orderly tightened a tourniquet. The man grimaced, saw Dan, and offered a salute, which Dan returned.

"Hot day, General."

'That it is, Captain."

"Gonna get a hell of a lot hotter for you soon, General."

The rebel was grinning now, and Dan rode on.

He came to a split-rail fence, rode parallel to it for fifty yards until he found a place where it had been knocked down, a few more casualties, Union and Confederate together, sitting and lying under the shade of an apple tree, the men who had fought each other only minutes before now talking, a rebel holding a canteen for a young Yankee cavalryman, the boy gut-shot.

He rode up through the orchard, its lower branches picked clean even in the middle of a running fight; soldiers of both sides would forage even if the apples were still green.

More men ahead, a ragged combination of columns and lines, white insignia of the Third Corps, Second Division, on their caps. Few if any still had on field packs or blanket rolls. Many, against usual custom, had their bluejackets off in the heat, but they still carried rifles and cartridge boxes, which was all that mattered to him at this moment.

The column was stalled as he rode past. He caught sight of a regimental commander.

"Why are you stopped?" Dan shouted.

"Sir, we just got word from the skirmish line up front that there's trouble ahead."

"What, damn it?"

"Artillery."

"Then go forward and take it!" Dan shouted.

He pushed ahead of the column. Looking to his left and right he saw where the entire division was stalled, formation ragged, some still in battle line, some in column by company front, flags hanging limp in the still, humid air.

Ahead he could see a heavy skirmish line atop a low crest, each man several feet apart from comrade to left or right, some standing, others crouching. He rode up to them, men looking back as they heard his approach.

"Keep this line moving, goddamn it! We are going to Baltimore by tonight. Keep it moving!"

August 20,1863 9:10 am.

‘They’ve slowed Sir, Porter Alexander, at General Longstreet's side, pointed to the low crest six hundred yards away. A Yankee skirmish line was atop the crest having appeared only minutes ago, and the sight that greeted them had undoubtedly caused their coming to a halt.

Twenty-six batteries, a hundred and thirty-five guns, nearly all of them pieces captured at Union Mills, were deployed across a front of more than half a mile. Most of the gunners were new to their tasks, men pressed into the artillery from infantry service, each crew having but one or two veterans to try and train and direct the new hands. But the men were eager, like boys with a new toy. Their morale was good, many gladly proclaiming that if they had known how soft life was in the artillery they would have joined years ago. Then again, none of them had yet to endure a close-in fight, known the terror of mechanically loading while infantry took aim from fifty yards away, or the horror of what happened when a twelve-pound solid shot took the wheel off a gun, flying splinters tearing the crew apart.

Longstreet was silent, watching the opposite crest If the skirmishers were this close, it was evident that the advancing army was not far behind. Even now they would most likely be pushing around the flanks of this position. The feigned retreat was almost over.

"Now, Porter, give it to 'em now. Remember, this is a signal as well!"

Porter grinned and stood up in his stirrups, clenched fist held heavenward.

"Battalions, on my command!" The cry raced down the line. "Fire!"

9:11 am.

Even as Sickles shouted the order for his army to continue the advance, a deep thunder exploded to his front. It started in the middle, several batteries firing simultaneously, and then spread like a string of firecrackers along the entire front, thunderclap building on thunderclap into a continuous roar.

He was a man of courage, and yet instinctively he hunched over when, three seconds later, the blizzard of solid shot and shrapnel swept the crest of the hill. Shells detonated; solid shot skipped and screamed; skirmishers fell flat on their faces, hugging the ground; branches were torn from apple trees, whirling into the air. One of his staff went down, his horse torn nearly in half, screaming horribly as it thrashed about, its legs tangled into its spilled intestines.

The division he had ordered forward was coming up, the men protected by the low rise, but more than one fell from airbursts, from broken branches that drove through the ranks like javelins, thousands of splinters from trees raining down on them.

What is this? he wondered. How? Yet the sight before him, though cloaked with heavy smoke, was clear enough. The bulk of Lee's artillery was deployed here, in the center between the two main roads they were using for their retreat. Was he turning to fight?

The division came up, columns shaking back out into battle lines, men hunching low as they reached the crest and then hesitated, not sure what to do next.

He could not leave this in his center, cutting his advance along the roads. If Lee was retreating, was this a throwaway gesture? Perhaps the guns captured at Union Mills? Or were there infantry in the woods beyond, ready to support?

His own artillery was coming up, but already he could see they would be outnumbered. It would take time to bring them forward, organize them on the reverse slope, then push them all up at once.

Could he take this directly? He calculated the odds. He would never be so foolish as to send men into a frontal assault against gun's. Though he cared little for Henry Hunt, he thought of him at this moment, wished he were here to offer advice.

Birney was by his side, wide-eyed. The faster of the gunners had reloaded, and he noted that it had taken them time, a minute or more. These were not well-practiced men.

"Birney, take your men forward!" Dan shouted. "But for God's sake, don't get into canister range. Stop before then, get your men firing, and sweep those bastards. If Lee wants to give us back our guns, by God, we'll take 'em!"

The battle line swept forward into the valley.

9:15 a.m.

'Up, men, up!" Beauregard shouted, saber drawn, riding across the front of the columns resting under the shade of the trees.

The unmistakable volley of guns from six miles away had come as a dull continual rumble.

General Lee, who had been anxiously looking at his watch every five minutes, and was on the verge of ordering Beauregard in, signal or not, breathed a sigh of relief. The signal meant that Sickles was fully engaged six miles to the southeast. Beauregard was now to slice directly east, rolling up the valley of the Gunpowder River.

The men, eager to begin, raced forward, following narrow woodsman's trails, a country lane, breaking through woods and briars, advancing on the double, unable to be restrained, and he rode with them. Again the joy of battle was filling his soul.

9:45

’That's it! Keep feeding it in, boys, you're breaking them, you're breaking them!" The volley line of the Second Division, Third Corps, fought like the experienced soldiers they were. They had been at it for over half an hour, advancing under terrifying fire to within two hundred and fifty yards of the rebel artillery, down nearly into the bottom of the swale, and there stopped. They had long since gone to independent fire at will, some standing, others kneeling. Orders were for them to take careful aim, to make every shot count.

And the casualties they were taking in turn were terrifying. These men were not getting hit by.58-caliber mini6 balls; what was coming back was solid shot and shells cut to one-second fuses to burst in front of them. Men were not just killed; they were torn to pieces by the frightful solid shot and jagged pieces of metal bursting over and around them

Still there was no infantry support for the rebel guns; they were out there, in the open, pouring in fire, the guns having recoiled in places more than fifty yards, gunners not bothering to drag them back up. The smoke parted for a moment, and he scanned their line; scores, perhaps hundreds of rebels were down. Several pieces were silent, abandoned, surviving crews doubling up. But still they kept at it, and he would not push his men into the murderous swath of canister that would greet them if they closed to under two hundred yards. Occasionally a rebel gun lofted a charge of canister in, but it had little effect at this range; shot scattered wide, though here and there an unlucky man would be cut down. No, they were saving that deadly dose for a final charge that Sickles was not yet ready to commit.

But his men were suffering terribly, the artillery fire improving at times in accuracy, solid shot striking just in front of a file, bounding up, obliterating two men in a rank and then bounding on up the slope. It was in many ways far more unnerving than facing a volley line, and the strain was showing. His men were now cursing, down on the ground, loading, trying to take aim, firing, then rolling over on their backs to pour another measure of powder down the barrel, not daring to stand up.

He rode along the volley line, shouting encouragement. Screaming for them to pour it in. He knew he should have left this sector by now, to check on the advance to either flank, but his attention was focused here. If they could finally overrun these guns, by God, what a victory that would be. Then he could plunge straight up the center and catch the rest of Lee's army in the rear.

A constant stream of couriers came in, many hunched low, frightened by the bombardment, reporting that the Third Division of the Third, supported by the Sixth Corps, was even now pushing around the flank of the guns. Another report from the Fifth Corps, that they were continuing to drive McLaws two miles to the north, asking if a brigade should be detached to catch the guns on the other flank, a request to which he agreed.

"Pour it in!" he continued to scream. "Damn them to hell, pour it, boys!"

9:50am

Back a quarter mile behind the line, reluctantly following the orders given to him by General Lee, Longstreet watched the struggle down in the valley below. Behind him an entire division was concealed-Dole's men, rested and waiting-but he would not spring them yet. The time was not yet right.

Overhead and around him a continual rain of branches, leaves, bits of bark floated down or whirled past, tens of thousands of minie balls, fired high, plunging into the woods.

"General Longstreet!" It was Venable. "I've just come from General Lee, sir. He wishes to inform you that the advance of Beauregard has begun. Do not engage until it is clearly evident that the Yankees are in retreat"

"Thank you, son. How are you?"

Venable grinned.

"Turning into one hell of a fight, isn't it?"

"And he's taken the bait," Longstreet replied, pointing to the battered line out in the middle of the field. "Hell, I might of taken it as well, the chance to capture so many guns unsupported by infantry. Masterful by General Lee. Now let's hope Beauregard pushes it!"

10:00 am

‘General Sickles!" Dan looked to his left; a courier, the Maltese Cross of the Fifth Corps on his cap, was riding down the line at a gallop. The courier, a captain, reined in.

"From General Sykes, sir!" He handed over a folded piece of paper.

To the General Commanding

9:25 AM August 20

Sir,

I've observed a large formation of Rebel infantry upon my right, coming out of the woods to my west two miles away. They are formed for battle and advancing on the double towards my rear. Sir, I must stop my advance and turn to face them. I recommend that you come yourself to observe. Flags indicate they are South Carolina, perhaps of Beauregard's corps. Please come at once.

(Signed) Sykes Fifth Corps

Dan crumpled the paper in his hand.

Goddamn! Was he being flanked?

He looked forward. Still no sign of their infantry. Was this the bait of a trap, so many guns that he would of course stop, engage, try to flank, commit his reserves? And now another whole corps appeared on his flank and rear?

He felt a shiver of fear. My God, am I being flanked? Did Lee just trick me, knowing I would pursue what I thought was a retreating army?

"How long ago?" Dan shouted, looking at the captain.

"About a half hour, maybe forty minutes, sir."

"Did you see them?"

"Yes, sir. I was with General Sykes. Division front at least, thousands of them, coming on fast, cavalry skirmishers to their fore."

"Did no one look toward those woods?" Dan asked.

"No, sir, our cavalry patrols were pushed back throughout the night. And, sir, our orders said to follow down the road in pursuit."

"Goddamn you, I know what my orders said!" Dan shouted. "But your flank, man, your flank, didn't anyone look?"

The captain did not reply.

"Birney!"

"Here, sir!"

"Birney, I'm going up to the Fifth Corps. It might be Beauregard on our flank up there. Press the action here in the center. Keep pressing…"

His words were cut off.

The solid shot screamed in, brushing the flank of his horse and then striking his right leg just below the knee. In the split second it took to pass, the twelve-pound ball, moving at just under seven hundred feet a second, struck with frightful energy. It tore the bone of his lower leg out of the joint of his knee, severing ligaments, arteries, tearing cartilage, whipping the lower leg back at a ninety-degree angle, popping it out of the stirrup.

The angle of the shot carried the ball into the right rear quarter of his horse, shattering its hip, exploding out the back of the tortured animal in a spray of commingled blood, muscle, and bone both from horse and rider.

He gasped in surprise. There was no pain, just a terrible shock. All feeling, sound, sensation, thought were blanked out for a second. Instinct drove him to pull the reins of his mount, which was rearing back and then beginning to collapse onto its right side.

Though he did not see it, the courier from Sykes, who had actually felt the brush of the ball, was already leaning out, grabbing the horse's reins. Birney, on the other side, did the same, his shoulder getting dislocated as the horse pitched and fought

More men came up, struggling to keep the horse upright General Sickles, blood now draining from his face, numb, remained stock-still, frozen in part by fear, in part by the realization that his body would not react that he could not control the struggling animal beneath him.

Hands reached up, grabbing him on the left side.

"Get him down, gently, get him down!"

He started to collapse, sagging. He thought he should pull his right foot from the stirrup. He actually thought he had done so. Somehow they were dragging him up over the saddle, then lowering him to the ground.

He caught a glimpse of the courier, still holding the reins of his horse with one hand, pistol in the other. The man cocked his pistol. He wanted to shout a protest It was a good horse, a damn good horse, a gift from the governor.

The man pushed the pistol against the ear of the dying animal and fired, the poor thing collapsing in a heap.

He looked around. Men were kneeling by his side, Birney, arm hanging limp, struggling to dismount; a private was gazing down at him, wide-eyed, frightened.

The fear came into him, and like all wounded men he tried to sit up. He still wasn't sure where he was hit.

Please, God, not my stomach, not that. I'll lose an arm, a leg, but not in my gut. Seen too many die. He tried to tear at his jacket, to open it up, but hands were restraining him.

"Let me up!" he gasped, and they released him.

His body was still numb; he couldn't tell where he was hit, how bad.

He sat up and looked down at his body.

It was the leg and when he saw it was when the pain hit.

Strange how that worked, he thought His right leg was dangling off at an angle, shreds of muscle and ligaments all that was holding it to his body. A pool of blood was spreading out from the torn stump.

He took a deep breath.

'Tourniquet!"

Already a doctor from his headquarters staff was up by his side, leather bag opened, hands trembling. "Get a tourniquet on that, damn you," he gasped. "I am, sir."

The man wrapped the strap around his leg above the knee and started to turn the screw that would tighten it He felt the strap bite in, dig deeper; he gasped. Damn it. It hurt almost as much as the wound. Still deeper. His fingers dug into the ground, he gritted his teeth, eyes focused on his life blood still pouring out. The pulsing stream lowered, dribbled, became a slow, oozing flow.

He looked over at the doctor.

"Sir, I've stopped it for the moment, but I've got to get you back, tie off the arteries." "And my leg?"

The doctor looked down at the torn remnant and then back at Dan, shaking his head.

'Take it off now, damn it. There doesn't seem to be much left to it anyhow."

"Would you want me to give you ether first, sir?"

Dan looked up at the ever-growing crowd gathered around him, hearing distant shouts that "the general" was down.

No, he was Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac. As he looked at his men, he knew that for them, there was still one more duty to perform this day, whether this day would be one of victory or defeat. He would do it with the style he had always shown.

"Anyone got a good cigar?" he gasped.

The private who was closest to him fished into his breast pocket and with a trembling hand drew out a thick Havana. A shot screamed in, bursting overhead. All ducked for a second, but no one was hit. The private pulled out a match. Dan bit off the end of the cigar, spat out the stub, and nodded. The private struck the match and Dan puffed the cigar to life. "Who are you, Private?"

"Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir."

"Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours."

Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day." Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. "Cut away and be quick about it." "The ether?"

"I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!"

Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.

"Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!"

"My ambulance!" the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.

Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.

He knew he should think, should pass orders as to what must be done next. Shock was taking hold, he had to focus, and his focus was now on but one more gesture.

Hawkinson and the doctor came back, carrying the stretcher. Eager hands reached out, lifting him off the ground, bringing him up, turning to head for the ambulance.

"No, damn it, stop!"

"I'm taking you back to the rear, General," the surgeon shouted, ducking low as yet another shot winged overhead. "No. Now up on your shoulders, boys, on your shoulders."

"General, are you mad?"

It was Birney, dislocated arm cradled against his side.

"Eight of you, on your shoulders with the stretcher. I want the boys to see me this day!"

The surgeon started to cry out in protest, but Hawkinson shouldered him aside.

"Goddamn it, you heard the general, now who's with me!"

Men pushed in, shouting, eager for this moment, and together they hoisted Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac, up high, struts of the stretcher resting on their shoulders, the general above them, cigar clenched between his teeth, sitting up, stump of his leg held high. At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up.

"Now down the volley line!" Dan cried. "Walk me down the volley line."

The strange procession set off, moving in behind the fighting men of his old Second Division, and at the sight of his approach the men looked up, fell silent, those on the ground coming to their feet; hats came off, men began to shout.

"Give it to 'em, boys!" he screamed hysterically. "Remember you're the Army of the Potomac! Now charge and give it to 'em! Remember you are the Army of the Potomac …"

"General Sickles, your orders!"

It was Birney, nursing his dislocated arm, running alongside the stretcher. Dan looked down at him but his eyes were wild, filled with battle lust, this final march of a warrior to some Valhalla, like departure from the world of mere mortals.

Birney fell back, watching as his old general was carried off, disappearing into the smoke. Around him men were on their feet, shouting madly, clenched rifles raised, and then, incredibly, they started down the slope, heading toward the enemy guns.

"For God's sake, General, who is in charge here now?" Birney saw that it was Ely Parker by his side. "Colonel?"

"I heard that report. You are being flanked. You must get this army out. Who is in charge here now?"

Birney drew his sword with his one good hand.

"I don't know, Colonel," he gasped. "I don't know. But I can tell you this: when it's over, tell General Grant we died game. We set the stage for what he will do after we're gone. Now, Colonel, get the hell out of here."

Birney, sword raised high, disappeared into the smoke, following his men.

On the Banks of Chesapeake Bay,

near Gunpowder, Maryland

August 20,1863 3:30 p.m.

“The Chesapeake Bay, sir," Walter Taylor announced.

Lee nodded, lowering his head. Numbed by exhaustion, he struggled to get his right foot out of the stirrup. Traveler, trembling and lathered in sweat, remained still. An orderly ran over and ever so gently helped Lee to swing his leg up over the saddle and dismount.

For a moment he had no feeling in his legs, the sensation frightening. Forgetting all sense of protocol and decorum, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and, when the first cooling breath of air hit his sweat-soaked body, he almost staggered, head light, nausea taking him. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away, the world spinning as he doubled over and vomited.

Walter was by his side, holding him by the shoulder, shouting for someone to fetch towels, something cool to drink. He tried to wave them off. He slowly righted himself.

"War is for young men, Walter. I'm getting rather old for this."

"Sir, many a man half your age has collapsed today," Walter offered.

Lee felt weak, frighteningly weak, fearful for a moment that he might faint.

Walter and two others led him up to a wide, open porch, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun. The porch was packed with men, most of them wounded, Yankee prisoners who looked at him wide-eyed, a few coming to their feet, respectfully saluting. He was ashamed that they should see him thus, but his body no longer cared about propriety.

A woman came hurrying out of the house, bearing an earthenware pitcher, cool droplets coursing down its side, a white towel in her other hand. Her ivory-colored day dress was deeply stained with blood. It was obvious she had been tending to the wounded when he rode up.

"Madam, I thank you for the charity you've shown to these men," he gasped as they guided him to a wicker rocking chair. Walter had his coat off and they sat Lee down. The woman upended the pitcher, soaking the towel, then ever so gently wiping his face and the back of his neck. The cool water hit him like a shock, and for a second he feared he would vomit again, something that would have mortified him. He leaned over, gagged, but fought it back.

Another woman was by his side, a colored servant, kneeling down, holding an earthen mug.

"Cool water, General. Just the thing you need; now drink it slowly, sir."

She held the mug as he took it with trembling hands, slowly swallowing, the servant looking at him, an older woman, his age, perhaps older, smiling, nodding her approval, whispering as if he were an ill child taking his medicine. He drained it and she took the mug.

"Now you let that settle for a moment and if it comes back up, I don't want you to feel no shame. It'll take the heat out of your body."

"Thank you, thank you," he gasped.

She smiled, refilled the mug, and offered it to him even as the mistress of the house continued to wipe his neck and brow.

"Now you can hold your own mug, sir, but sip slowly; you'll be all right in a few minutes."

She stood up and scurried off, going back to a Yankee lying on the porch, kneeling down to wipe his brow with the hem of her dress, her face filled with the same beatific compassion she had shown him.

His staff stood around him in respectful silence. He waited a moment, another spasm of nausea hitting him, not as strong as the last. He fought it down without gagging.

He felt something cool running down his back, and looked up at the woman; she was slowly pouring a trickle of water down his back.

"Thank you, ma'am; your kindness is a blessing."

She nodded, eyes lowering.

"I am sorry, ma'am, if we have inconvenienced you this day."

She started to turn away, then hesitated.

"I have a hundred dead, dying, and wounded in my house, sir," she announced, her voice beginning to break. "Is that an inconvenience? There are two boys I don't even know dying in my daughter's bed."

He could not reply.

"For God's sake, General, when will this madness end? Is it worth it anymore?"

She stood frozen, as if horrified by her outburst. The pitcher dropped, shattering on the porch floor. All were silent, and she looked around at the Confederate staff, the Union wounded.

"Put an end to this!" she screamed, and then, gathering up her apron to cover her face, she fled back into the house. Her black servant watched her go, gazed upon Lee for a moment, then turned back to the Union soldier she was tending, lifting his head up, cradling it in her lap, and, leaning over, she began to whisper in his ear. And Lee could hear, ever so faintly, her words

'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…."

He lowered his head again, filled with remorse, exhaustion, even a sense of loathing for all he had seen this day, this day of yet another victory. He finally raised his head and looked down toward the Chesapeake.

Thousands of Yankee soldiers were swarming down into the bay, the docks at a small port filled with them. Along the low heights, scattered commands were coming up from his own army. He had lost sight of Beauregard long ago, within the first ten minutes after the attack had swept into the flank of their Fifth Corps, but he knew that the man had proven himself today, driving with relentless passion, as if eager to assure beyond all doubt his ability to lead, even when General Lee commanded the field.

An hour after they had struck the flank, the entire Union formation began to give way, and then just collapsed. The shock of the surprise blow had been part of it. He knew that the weather had played to him as well. The heat was killing. Chances were that when the tally was finally done, maybe one out of five of the dead would be found with no mark upon them. But in that moment, when some believed victory was near, and others faced defeat, exhaustion created by the heat would drive those filling with despair over the edge.

The Fifth had broken, but their disengagement had been masterful, their General Sykes yet again guiding his men out of the trap, pushing relentlessly back northward, back toward the shelter of Perryville and the gunboats on the Susquehanna.

As for their Third and Sixth Corps, they were into the sack now, swarming down to the broad, open bay. Many were casting aside their guns, if for no other reason than to dive into the tepid waters of the bay to seek some relief.

Someone had already ordered up a rescue force. Dozens of small boats were coming into the dock to take off the broken Army of the Potomac; a lone gunboat was visible, coming down the bay.

He sat back in the chair, saying nothing, watching the spectacle as his men, all formation gone, pushed down toward the water.

He saw General Longstreet riding up and breathed a sigh of relief. Longstreet dismounted and his face was filled with concern as he stepped on to the porch and took his hat off.

"Are you all right, sir?" Longstreet gasped.

"Just the heat, General. I'll be fine in a minute."

"Sir, you are staying put right here for the rest of the day," Walter Taylor announced forcefully. "I know your surgeon will order it once he comes up."

Lee nodded his head in agreement As he had ordered Longstreet to protect himself, he knew he should do the same at this moment.

"Sir, I can see to what is left," Longstreet said.

Lee nodded.

"What did it cost, Pete?" Lee whispered.

Longstreet lowered his head, looking over at the Yankee soldiers on the porch only feet away from them.

"Go on, General. They are our guests for the moment; talk freely."

Longstreet found that, as he spoke, he could not look at Lee; instead his gaze was fixed on those who had faced them this day.

"They fought us with reckless courage, sir. I've never seen anything like it before. Word is that General Sickles lost a leg. We might capture him, I'm not sure.

"I cannot speak for what you saw against the Fifth Corps, sir. But their Third and Sixth, when they knew they were trapped, fought it out to the end. I think we'll bag most of them down there," and he pointed to the bay, "but, General, it was a bloody, costly fight. We might have lost another five, maybe eight thousand more than yesterday."

Lee lowered his head, the shock of his losses a visceral blow. Why did each victory have to be so costly? Combined with yesterday, maybe ten thousand or more gone from the ranks.

He sighed, wiping his face, and then leaned back, grateful for the cooling water that had been poured down his neck and back.

He looked over at the wounded Yankees, who gazed at him, some warily, some with hatred, some with respect. A major, catching his eye, stood up and formally saluted. The man grimaced with pain, clutching his side with a bloody rag. Lee rose up and walked over to him, returning the salute.

"General Lee?" the major asked weakly.

"Yes, I am he."

The major nodded, saying nothing.

"You are sorely hurt, sir," Lee said. "Please sit down; my medical staff will see to you shortly."

"I'll be fine," the major whispered. "I want my men taken care of first. Just assure me of that, sir; it is all that I ask."

"Major, I am sorry for your injury. I will pray that you return safely to your family."

"Thank you, General. Just take care of my men. They're good soldiers."

"I know they are good soldiers; you should be proud of them." He said the words loud enough so that all on the porch could hear.

"I regret the divisions that force us to fight each other now. I hope, sir, when this is over, we can again be friends."

The major swayed slightly, then stiffened.

"Major, rest assured your men will be treated with honor. As quickly as arrangements can be made, all of the men of the Army of the Potomac, wounded or not, will be paroled and exchanged. Till then, the kind owner of this house and my medical staff will look after you."

"Thank you, sir," the major whispered. An elderly sergeant stood up and came to the major's left, protectively putting an arm around his side, and helping him to sit back down.

Lee turned away and walked back to Pete, motioning him to fall in by his side.

"We can't handle twenty thousand or more prisoners," Lee said softly. "I can't detail more men off as escorts to take them South. I'll have Walter find a printing press, we'll run off parole notes, and let those people go. The exchange can free thousands of our boys now held up in Elmira and Camp Douglas."

Pete nodded in agreement.

"Unfortunately, the men we will get back with the exchange will not be fit to fight immediately."

"I don't care about that, though I wish it were different. We must make the gesture; besides, it is the only thing we can do now."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you for your efforts this day, General Longstreet. This time you were the anvil, and you've gained us another brilliant victory."

"The cost though," Pete sighed. "I am leaning toward relieving George of his command. He badly mishandled his division yesterday."

"General Longstreet, we walk a fine line, at times, between daring and foolhardiness. We praise when it works; we blame when it doesn't. Maybe it could be said that General Pickett's actions emboldened Sickles to press forward into the trap, maybe not. I suspect that will be yet another issue historians will argue about long after we are gone. I'll review the issue later when we have time, look at the ground, talk to Armistead and the other brigade commanders, then decide."

"Yes, sir."

"It is Grant now that we must think of." Pete smiled.

"This will put a twist in his tail."

"Yes, but the question is, How will he jump now that his tail is twisted?"

"I think, sir, he just might hold north of the Susquehanna. He's lost maybe upward of a third of his total available field force this day. I think the assumption was fair that he planned to move in a concentrated manner: Sickles along the Chesapeake to hold our attention while he crossed over the South Mountains and sought to engage us. After this he might very well hold back till spring to build up sufficient force."

Lee looked across at the bay. A heavy line of his infantry were sweeping down toward the docks. Rifle fire snapped and rolled as last-ditch survivors from the Union side turned and continued to fight. A battery of artillery clattered past the plantation, moving at a swift canter, horses panting, lathered in sweat, deploying out into a field a hundred yards away, preparing to shell the harbor. The killing was still going on. Even in its death agony the Army of the Potomac was still kicking back; a shell winged in to detonate over the heads of the deploying battery; several gunners dropped.

Lee shook his head.

"No, General Longstreet. He will move. But it will take him time to absorb the shock of this defeat. His plans now are in disarray but Lincoln cannot afford a stalemate into next spring. For that matter, nor can we. If Grant does not move, we will eventually turn back to Washington, tighten the noose, and then try to starve it out through the winter. Lincoln and Grant both know that would be my next step now that the Army of the Potomac is gone.

"No, sir, he will move, but it will take him time to absorb what happened. I'll give him a week, two weeks, perhaps, but I do want it to come.

"We'll move up toward the Susquehanna tomorrow; there is still their old Fifth Corps to bag. Once there, we'll see what develops. If he does move, we'll try to catch him in mid-crossing; if not, we turn back on Washington yet again."

The battery in the yard below opened up, solid shot arcing up, plummeting down, geysers of water soaring up around the docks swarming with men. It had to be done, but still it was sickening to him. Why couldn't they just lay down their arms? He'd take their paroles without question and then send them safely home, as long as they pledged to no longer fight. But no, this was his old rival, the valiant Army of the Potomac, so badly led on so many fields, yet its men still willing to fight to the bitter end.

He had yet to face Grant, to see a single soldier of the much-heralded western armies, but he sensed now that they were of the same stern stuff as the Army of the Potomac and, for that matter, his own men. Yes, perhaps more like his own for they were not tainted by defeat; they would be eager to match wits and fire against him, general against general, regiment against regiment, man against man.

"We have been blessed with two stunning victories, General Longstreet; we must make it a third to finish this once and for all."

He turned and slowly made his way back to the porch to sit under the shade, his body trembling with exhaustion.

As he gained the porch he saw a knot of Union soldiers kneeling by the side of the major he had spoken to only minutes before. The man's face was gray, eyes closed.

He was dead.

The major's head was cradled in the sergeant's lap. He could sense the bond between the two. The fair young officer, the old tough regular who had nursed him along and now held him in death.

The sergeant looked up at Lee.

"How many more like this, General Lee?" the sergeant asked.

"I am sorry," Lee whispered. "I pray no more."

The sergeant shook his head.

"No, sir, there will be more."

"I know," Lee admitted sadly and turned away.

He looked back down toward the bay. His advancing infantry were almost to the docks. He could catch glimpses of Union flags still held aloft, knots of men refusing to quit gathered around them, fighting to the end. More batteries were unlimbering just below the plantation, firing down into the harbor.

If only it was Grant down there, and this was the final battle. Then he could find solace in knowing that this, indeed, was the last day.

That was what he must now seek. Lure Grant across the river in a week or two, once his men had been well rested, refitted, and reorganized after this grueling fight. Seek out Grant… and end it