Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER TEN

Richmond, Virginia

The Confederate White House

August 25 Noon

Frustrated, President Jefferson Davis tossed the latest dispatches on his desk. It was turning into another hot day, and slipping off his coat he walked about the room, hands behind his back.

Something was brewing, that was clearly evident, but what he could not tell. The latest word from General Lee was dated from yesterday morning, indicating that Grant had indeed crossed the Susquehanna, that he appeared to be coming straight south toward Baltimore, and that Lee was preparing to engage.

He could sense the difficulty Lee was facing. The Richmond Examiner was still hailing the great triumph at Gunpowder Falls, predicting now that Washington would fall within the week and the war would be won.

His own experience, though, whispered to him that it would not be that easy. Lee's dispatch indicated they had sustained over eight thousand casualties, many of regimental and brigade rank. His leadership ranks were sorely depleted and the Army of Northern Virginia had always relied on its midlevel officers to give it a speed and flexibility the Union army did not seem capable of matching. The battle had been fought in hundred-degree heat. Of course, he'd prefer to rest and refit before seeking action yet again. Grant had disrupted that.

The disturbing part was all the other news. In the pile of dispatches was a report, taken from the telegraph line at Harpers Ferry, sent over to Winchester and from there to Richmond, with the information from an.outpost that a Union cavalry brigade had occupied Frederick. Another report had come in from a scout, who rode down from Green-castle during the night to Winchester, claiming that all of Grant's army was in the Cumberland Valley, heading straight to the Shenandoah Valley.

Did Lee know this?

The news from the west was of equal concern. Bragg had lost Chattanooga without a fight, pulled back, and yesterday turned at a place called Chickamauga, where Sherman had fought him to a standstill, Bragg complaining that had he been properly reinforced with but one more corps he could have destroyed Sherman. Bragg now claimed he might have to retreat as far as Atlanta if he did not receive sufficient reinforcements. He had already dispatched Joe Johnston's small force to Bragg, but sensed that would not help much. If anything, those two would quickly turn on each other.

Unless Bragg could somehow turn the tables on Sherman, Atlanta might be threatened in another month.

But if Lee could indeed destroy Grant, then take Washington as ordered, what Sherman did in the West would be moot. Lincoln's coalition would fall apart, and whether it was Lincoln or there was a coup and a new president was in place, the North would agree to peace terms. Word had yet to come back from France as well, but after the recent great victories in Maryland, he fully expected the French now to be in the fight within a month, putting yet more pressure on Lincoln.

The problem still remained, though: There were no more reserves. Governor Vance of North Carolina was supposedly holding back ten thousand militia, claiming they were state-controlled and needed for coastal defense. Other governors were doing the same. There were simply no more reinforcements to send to Lee.

He sat back down, picked up the copy of the Examiner, and again read the supposed details of the victory at Gunpowder River. For the moment, that was all that he could do.

The White House Noon

General Hancock, sir."

Lincoln stood up from behind his desk and came to the door to greet the general, who leaned shakily on a cane while trying to offer a salute.

Lincoln reached out, took him by the arm, and led him over to the sofa in his office. Hancock smiled, moving slowly, and sat down.

His features were pale. He was obviously in pain and had lost weight, a bit of a grayish hue to his complexion. At first look, Lincoln regretted the decision to order him down here. It was clearly evident the man had come straight from his bed in Philadelphia to be here.

"Your wound, sir?" Lincoln asked. "How is it?"

"Mr. President, if you are asking if it prevents me from doing my duty, then the answer is, I am doing fine."

Lincoln smiled at that reply, his first doubt receding a bit.

"Personally though, sir, and forgive the language, it hurts like hell."

"I can imagine," the president responded sympathetically. Curiosity got the better of him. "Is it true they pulled a ten-penny nail out of you?"

Winfield smiled weakly.

"Have it as a keepsake back home. That and a few other things pulled out of me, but the wound is healing, sir."

Lincoln looked down at the man's lap and noticed a bulge where a pad and bandage were wrapped around Hancock's upper thigh underneath his trousers. The wound was most likely still open and not yet properly healed.

"Either the rebs are getting short of standard canister ammunition or the nail came from the saddle," Hancock said.

"General, forgive me, but I must be blunt with you, sir," Lincoln replied, leaning over and gently patting Hancock on the knee. "Do you feel fit to take field command?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Lincoln looked straight into his eyes.

"How will you ride a horse, sir?"

Hancock hesitated.

"Well, sir, old Dick Ewell used a carriage. Both Grant and Lee did, too, after taking bad spills from their mounts. If that is the only constraint regarding your concerns, please dismiss them, sir. I want a command, and if given it, I will command." Hancock's voice deepened as he said "will."

He paused for a few seconds, looking off, past Lincoln.

"Especially after what they did to my boys of the Second Corps. I owe it to them to do everything possible to make sure our cause succeeds."

There was a cold edge to his voice. This man carried an anger, a bitterness, for what had happened to a command that all knew he loved.

Hancock looked back at Lincoln.

"Sir, at Union Mills, my corps was destroyed in a futile charge. I could have accepted that, even those who died, God rest them"-his voice came near to breaking-"could have accepted that if we had won. Sir, we could have won. I could see it just before I got hit. If all of Sixth Corps and Third Corps had gone in after my boys, we'd have taken that ridge and shattered Lee."

Hancock lowered his head, saying no more, as if lost in a nightmare.

Lincoln still wasn't sure, though, as he watched Hancock. The man could barely walk, even though he sensed his soul was afire to get back.

"Sir, it's been nearly eight weeks since I was wounded,"

Hancock whispered. "I survived it, I'm healing. I have to get back into this fight."

"The pain, though?"

"Yes, sir, there's some."

"Are you taking anything for that?" Lincoln asked, again being blunt.

"I did, sir. Morphine. I remember hearing how Jackson once said he didn't drink because he found he liked it too much."

Hancock chuckled softly.

"Well, sir, it was the same for me. I stopped it a month ago, right after the doctor finally probed and found the nail, draining the wound. No, sir, no concern there. My mind is clear, and I want back into this fight."

There was a knock at the door and Lincoln turned, a bit surprised. He had just come back to the White House, arriving in a shuttered carriage from the Naval Yard. The carriage had to force its way through a huge crowd gathered at the gate, and when he got out, the reaction was mixed: some cheered, others openly booed.

When he heard that Hancock was already at the White House, waiting to see him, he had left word they were not to be interrupted. After spending a few brief minutes with Mary and Tad, he had come to his office and asked for Hancock to be escorted in.

The door opened, it was Elihu Washburne, and Lincoln relaxed.

"Mr. President, thank God you are back."

"Just returned an hour ago," Lincoln said, standing up. "I was going to come over to your office immediately, but our good General Hancock was waiting to see me."

Hancock, as if to show his strength, stood up smoothly, a slight grimace wrinkling his face as he came to attention and saluted Elihu, who came over and shook the general's hand.

"You are well, sir?" Elihu asked.

Hancock chuckled softly. "The president and I were just discussing that, sir. Well enough to command is the right answer, I think."

"How were things with Grant?" Elihu asked, looking over at Lincoln.

— "Splendid," and he briefly described his journey there, what he had observed, and his return.

"Not so good here," Elihu said after listening patiently.

"How so?"

"Stanton for one. It will come out in the papers this evening that he is calling for Congress to reconvene and begin impeachment proceedings. Says that his removal was illegal. He's already filed charges about my orders not to let him into his old office, claims we've illegally seized personal property of his."

Elihu shook his head.

"I fired Halleck from his staff position, a couple of dozen others. All of them are howling for blood, and the papers are picking it up. They're arguing I have no authority to do so since I've yet to be officially confirmed by Congress as secretary of war."

"To be expected," Lincoln said. "I can stand the heat if you can, Elihu. You did what I hoped you would do."

"There's worse, sir."

"Go on."

"There are rumors floating that one or two others in the cabinet might side with Stanton, saying that you have lost the war and repeatedly exceeded your constitutional authority. Your authorizing me to act with the authority of the secretary of war without proper confirmation by Congress being an example."

"Who?"

Elihu looked over at Hancock.

"Gentlemen, if you wish me to withdraw." Hancock said. Lincoln shook his head.

"What Secretary Washburne is now talking about, General, will take weeks before anything happens," Lincoln said coldly. "Long before the Congress can do anything, the war will have been decided. That is why your being here is so important. We need your help to ensure the war is decided in our favor."

He walked away from the two for a moment, then turned back.

"Weeks before they can crawl out and do anything. Let them howl. Let them try and fiddle while Rome burns. I don't care, I tell you." His voice was filled with a cold anger. "My concern is of the moment, here, now, what we can do within the next two weeks before those howlers have any chance to act."

"Still, sir, eventually it will happen, and they'll come for your blood," Elihu said.

"I don't care now," Lincoln snapped angrily. "Let them impeach me. If we win, I don't care what comes next. I'll have done my job as I believe the Founding Fathers would have wanted it done.

"And if we lose"-he sighed deeply-"it won't matter."

He lowered his head, and his two companions were silent.

Lincoln walked over to a map pegged to the wall, motioning for the two to follow him.

He studied it intently for a moment, then turned to Hancock and smiled.

"General Hancock. You are my man. You are to take command of the garrison of Washington. I am relieving Heintzelman today. He's a good officer but not up to what General Grant and I want done. We both agreed that you, sir, were the man to see it through."

"Sir?" There was obviously a tone of disappointment in Hancock's voice.

"Is anything wrong?"

"A garrison command, sir. I hoped I'd be returning to the field."

Lincoln smiled.

Near Boonesborough, Maryland

August 25 Noon

General Burnside, why are these men resting?" Grant snapped, riding up to where Burnside and his staff were gathered against the side of a church in the center of town. Several were sipping tin cups of coffee, others standing about as enlisted men worked a cooking fire, frying up some fresh cuts of pork, the slaughtered animal hanging from a nearby tree.

Burnside, obviously flustered by this sudden appearance of the commanding general, came to attention.

Grant glared down at him, breathing hard, his mount snorting and blowing. More of his staff were coming up behind him.

"Sir, it is noonday. I thought I could get better marching out of them this afternoon if they were fed a good meal."

"Did you not receive the dispatch from General McPherson?" Grant asked sharply. "I most certainly did, and it requested that you press forward with all possible speed."

"Sir, I am indeed doing that," Burnside said quietly, "but you can only ask so much of men's legs when their stomachs are empty."

"How far ahead is McPherson?"

"Sir, I'm not sure."

Grant lowered his head, an obscenity about to break out of him. He held back, drawing his mount closer to Burnside.

"The front man in your column should have been ten feet behind the last man with McPherson. Now you tell me you don't know how far ahead he is?"

"Sir, an hour or so ago I could see them cresting over those mountains," and Burnside pointed toward the South Mountain range.

"Then by heaven's, man, I expect to see your men cresting those same mountains and catching up! I'm going ahead to join McPherson. I expect you up to Frederick with all possible speed. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, sir," Burnside said icily.

Grant jerked the reins of his mount, turned back on to the National Road, and was quickly up to a gallop, heading east.

Burnside and his staff watched him ride off.

"Westerners," one of his men sighed. "Wait until he comes face-to-face with Bobbie Lee and the men are exhausted."

As Grant reached the east side of the village, he saw thousands of the colored troops, in the fields on either side, building fires, rifles stacked, backpacks off, the men milling about. It'd take a half hour or more, Grant knew, to get these men formed up, out on the road, and marching again.

Uttering a whispered curse and a frustrated "What does Burnside think he is doing?" he pressed on.

Monocacy Junction

12:50 P.M.

"General Lee, thank heavens, we were worried sick about you!" Jeb Stuart rode up to Lee's side, saluted, and then reached over in an uncharacteristic gesture and took his hand.

"I'm just fine, General Stuart."

"We heard about the wreck of your train. First reports were that you were trapped in it."

"Foolishness," Lee said, even as he thought of the fireman's scalded and mangled body. "I'm just fine."

Lee looked away from Jeb for a moment to take in the scene of destruction. The depot was burning, the water tower, punctured by a shell, was trickling water. Behind him the bridge was burning, teams of troopers were working around the edge of the fires, trying to beat them out with blankets, a few buckets of water hauled up from the river, shovelfuls of dirt.

One entire side of the bridge was completely destroyed. The smoldering remnants of two locomotives and what appeared to be a passenger car now lay in the river. The north side of the bridge was still tenuously holding together, a few stringers connecting the piers, but all planking and track gone.

Lee turned to Jed Hotchkiss.

"That's the bridge we needed?"

"Yes, sir?"

"No other crossings for rail?" "No, sir." Lee sighed.

"How long do you think it will take to get a track laid back across it?" Jed shook his head.

"Not my department, sir. We don't have the railroad men the way the Yankees do. But it looks like the stringers are still intact on one side. Put three, four hundred men on it, and maybe in a day or two we can have it back for at least one side with lighdy loaded trains."

Lee looked back at Jeb.

"Situation here?"

"We took out most of Custer's Brigade. Sir, he put up a darn good fight. That's him over there."

Lee looked to where a small knot of captured Union soldiers sat around a blanket-covered body, a lone Confederate officer sitting among them. As he looked at them, the Confederate officer stood up and saluted, most of the Yankees standing and doing the same.

"That's Captain Duvall, sir," Stuart whispered. "He and Custer were close friends back at the Point. Duvall was the one who sent the warnings from Taneytown and first tried to hold this side of the river. I think he should get a regiment, sir. He's ready for it, and he's earned it."

Lee edged Traveler over to the group, the last of the Yankees still sitting coming to their feet as he approached.

"My compliments, gentlemen, on your stand here," Lee said, returning the salute of a begrimed Union captain whose arm was in a sling. "I understand you fought with honor and bravery. My thanks to you for that flag of truce so our wounded could be taken off the burning bridge."

"You'd have done the same, General," the captain replied.

"I'll see that you and your men are paroled as quickly as possible," Lee said. "Men such as you should be allowed to return safely to your families."

The captain looked up at him.

"Thank you, sir."

"Captain Duvall, my sympathies on the loss of your friend. Sadly, such is the nature of this war. I shall pray for you and for his family this evening."

"Thank you, sir," and there was a catch in Duvall's voice.

Lee motioned for Jeb to join him. Together they rode around the blockhouse, which was now serving as a field hospital, and up a gentle slope to the edge of the railroad cut, which was littered with bodies from both sides. Behind him, remnants of the covered bridge, sticking out of the water, still burned.

Uncasing his field glasses, Lee quickly scanned the town. He remembered it well, having ridden through it the year before during the Sharpsburg campaign. Well-ordered, neat homes, the citizens not necessarily pro-Confederate but at least respectful of him and his men.

Beyond, he could see where the National Road rose up, curving back and forth to the crest of the Catoctin Mountains. He could see puffs of smoke, hear a distant echo of gunfire.

"Do we have the heights yet?" Lee asked.

"No, sir. My first concern was to try and envelop Custer and at the same time seize the railroad bridge intact. I've detailed off Jenkins to push the heights, Jones to secure the town. Fitz Lee is bringing his brigade across the National Road bridge even now, and I've ordered them up to the heights."

"I know, I just passed my nephew while coming here."

"Sir, we could use infantry and artillery.".

"Scales is bringing his division across the ford just north of here and is halfway up to the town, but it will still take time to deploy and get them into action."

If only we had held this bridge, Lee thought. We could have brought the trains in, run them right up the siding to Frederick, and Scales would already be in action.

"What's up there?"

"What's left of Custer. I'd say two of his regiments got out."

"Surely we can gain the heights from them with what we have?"

"Sir, my boys rode all night." "So did Custer's."

"Sir. That's a steep slope fighting dismounted. It'll take some doing to get up it."

Lee reluctantly found he had to agree. "Any word of their infantry?"

"Nothing, sir. With luck we just might've stolen the march on them. We gain those heights with Scales and my boys, and Grant is bottled up in the next valley over. He'll bang his head against us all day along. That ridge makes our ground at Fredericksburg look like a billiard table in comparison."

Lee looked about at the ground, hay and winter wheat trampled down by the passing of both armies, smoke cloaking the river valley. Even as he watched, a thirty-foot section of the bridge gave way with a creaking groan and dropped into the river.

His engineering training allowed him to work a quick calculation. He'd have to find good timber, shore up at least one side of the bridge for a single track, get men to find rail, best bet being to tear some up from the spur line. It'd take a day, at least, maybe two. Bottle Grant up at the same time and force him to attack, filling him with the anxiety that he could very well escape back into Virginia once his pontoon train moved down to Point of Rocks. That would force Grant to come on.

"I want those heights, at least for the moment. I want to see what is going on over on the other side," Lee said. "Either we'll see all of Grant's army coming on, or nothing. If it's nothing, then we'll know that Grant is heading toward Virginia, or just perhaps moving behind the screen of militia to the north. We need to confirm that right now.

"Round up every extra man you have and send them up there. I'll set up headquarters back at the National Road bridge."

Stuart saluted and galloped off.

Though caught off balance for the moment, Lee found himself sensing that he was recapturing that balance, that with luck Grant was indeed coming in from the west. If so, he could now choose the ground and force Grant to come at him, the same as at Union Mills.

Braddock Heights-Catoctin Ridge

1:45 P.M.

Here it comes," McPherson announced, but no one needed to be told. The few hundred cavalry troopers with him, joined by his headquarters staff, were played out; barely a man had half a dozen cartridges left.

On the road below, a column of infantry was advancing with impunity. At such range, artillery would have torn them apart, but there was no artillery up here.

McPherson turned and rode but a few dozen yards to the west. Below him he could see his own column, dark blue, like a long coiling serpent moving across the valley between the Catoctin Range and South Mountains, the head of his column still a half hour away.

He had sent back several couriers, urging the column to press forward, but the race would apparently be lost by not more than a few minutes.

"They're deploying, sir!" someone shouted. Colonel Mann, one of Custer's men, who was dismounted, his horse dead, was pointing.

He didn't need to go back to look. They were most likely down to two hundred yards, lead regiments shaking out from column to line for the final sweep up to the ridge.

A scattering of shots echoed, and a dozen troopers, still mounted, came over the crest of the road, slowing at the sight of McPherson.

"Sorry, sir, we ain't got a round left, and don't ask us to draw sabers and charge,"

McPherson smiled and shook his head.

"You did good, boys, the best I've ever seen cavalry fight. Get yourselves out of here."

The sergeant leading the group saluted and led his men down the road to the west.

One of McPherson's staff came up, leading his horse.

"They'll be on the crest in a minute, sir."

McPherson sighed, mounting, watching as Mann rallied what was left of Custer's men, pointing to the rear.

"Sir." One of McPherson's staff was pointing down the road. A knot of officers, riding hard, was coming up the slope. Behind the officers he could see that the head of the column was double-timing, men running, sunlight glinting off of rifles. With field glasses raised he could see as well that with every yard gained a man was staggering out of the column and collapsing from exhaustion. Men were shedding blanket rolls, haversacks, but still pressing on.

The officer in front… it was Grant, of course.

As a volley rang out behind him, he turned and looked back and saw the first of the rebel infantry, mingled in with dismounted reb cavalry, reaching the crest.

Suicide was not a gesture he cared for today. He spurred his mount, starting down the slope, staff about him, Custer's men, most on foot, some mounted, staggering along.

Grant spotted him, leaned into his mount and, with his usual display of brilliant horsemanship, came up the slope at a gallop. McPherson rode down to meet him.

"What is happening here?" Grant shouted, reining in hard by McPherson's side.

"Infantry just on the other side." "How many?"

"Full division. It stretches all the way back to Frederick. Lead regiments deploying into line."

Grant looked up to the crest of the road and then back to their own troops, still coming on at the double, several hundred yards away.

A few shots whistled past them but Grant ignored the threat.

"Can we take 'em with your men?"

Grant pointed back to the great blue serpent weaving across the valley.

"Hell, yes," McPherson replied.

"Lead them in. I'll head back down and urge them on."

He leaned over and shook McPherson's hand.

"Stay healthy, James. And you did a good job, moving your men forward. Half an hour later and Lee would have had this ridge for good."

Grant turned and rode off, McPherson grinning. That man already assumed they were going to sweep the rebs off the crest.

By heavens, if he believes it, then I'm the man to do it, McPherson thought, even as he rode down to the head of his column, shouting for the boys to keep moving but to shake out into line of battle.

Braddock Heights

2:00 P.M.

"Come on, South Carolina, form up here!"

Sergeant Major Hazner, following the lead of Colonel Brown, urged his men on at the double. Men were doubled over, panting, some peeling off blanket rolls and dropping them even as they ran up the steep grade of the road. Then they broke to the right, climbing over a post and rail fence, and then into a tangle of second-growth trees, low branches whipping back into men's faces, the column turning into a pushing, shoving, cursing crowd.

To their left a volley rang out and Hazner could see the smoke swirling up from the road. Cavalry troopers were mingled in with the infantry, firing with carbines; some had pistols out, waiting for the range to close. Shouts ahead; a staff officer, hat oft and sword drawn, was waving to Brown.

"Fall in here. Fall in here!"

The ground began to slope away, dropping down. They were over the crest and Hazner felt as if his legs were about to buckle and give way.

"What the hell is going on?" Brown shouted to the staff officer.

"We got the crest, but by God, they've got infantry, thousands of 'em, coming up the road. Get ready, they'll hit any minute. Scales says we got to hold this ridge!"

The staff officer saluted and, turning, ran northward, shouting for the next regiment behind the Fourteenth South Carolina to fall into line.

The men were already loaded, Brown shouting for all ten companies to fall in by line, Hazner pushing the men along.

Another volley from the left, then a switching over to independent fire. Must mean they are close, Hazner thought.

Directly ahead, the second-growth timber gave way to an orchard, and as he looked that way, he stood goggle-eyed. He could see them, see them clear back to the next mountain range, which had to be five or six miles off. A long column of blue that seemed endless, surging forward, weaving its way clear up to the crest beyond.

"There's thousands of 'em," someone gasped.

"Just worry about the ones in front of you," Hazner shouted. Even as he spoke he saw Yankee skirmishers on the far side of the orchard. They were moving slow, either cautious or exhausted. A few stepped out into the orchard and dropped within seconds from the fire going downslope delivered by the regiment astride the road.

More skirmishers appeared, dropping down behind the fence bordering the other side of the orchard. Puffs of smoke, but so far none in the direction of the Fourteenth.

"Get down, men, get down," Brown shouted.

No one needed to be told what he was thinking, and all were grateful to collapse to the forest floor. After the heat of the climb up the road, the cool leaves, ferns, and undergrowth were a blessing. Some of the men pulled their canteens around, lifting them to drink. Hazner said nothing, but if they came begging for water an hour from now, the hell with them.

But the sight of them drinking got to him. He took a few sips himself, the water a bit muddy, having been scooped up while they crossed the Monocacy. They waited, fire from behind the fence building in intensity, still directed toward the regiment astride the road and open yards of the small homes and tavern atop the crest.

"Check your caps, boys," Hazner said, even as he drew up his own rifle, half-cocked it, and saw that the percussion cap was still in place. He waited, glad for even a few minutes to catch his breath, the trembling in his legs stopping, but hunger hitting him so, that he reached into his haversack and pulled out a piece of hardtack.

As he reached in, his hand brushed against the journal of his comrade, Maj. John Williamson, dead at Union Mills. Why he still carried it was beyond him. It was an extra pound, its details, its questionings too disturbing, but somehow it was still a link to a childhood friend he could not quite let go of.

Two months ago John was still alive, the two of them marching side by side up the Cumberland Valley, filled with hope that soon the war would be over. John had died at Union Mills, shot through the head.

Brown leaned up on one elbow to survey their line. The regiment was little more than a third of those who had marched that day back in June. Gone were the men lost at Gettysburg, Union Mills, and in the disastrous charge in front of Washington.

Always they were told the "next one" would be the "last one." Though he found it hard to believe in a God who cared, who intervened for those who prayed, still he could not help but utter a silent wish, Let this be the end of it.

He looked down the slope while biting off a piece of hardtack and saw a flicker of red, white… a Union flag. A regiment was coming up. Shadowy glimpses of men in dark blue, shaking out from column into line, moving up to the edge of the fence row.

"Get ready," Colonel Brown hissed, crouching low, moving down the length of the line.

The flag emerged from the other side of the orchard, held high, a state flag beside it, Hazner could not tell which one.

The men approaching gave out three "Huzzahs!" as they knocked over the split rail fence, stepped into the orchard, and with poised bayonets started through the orchard.

"Up, boys, up!" Brown shouted.

The regiment stood.

"Volley fire on my command! Take aim!"

The two hundred rifles of the Fourteenth South Carolina were lowered, aiming downslope. The Yankee regiment, angling toward the men holding the road, had not expected this. Their colonel, out front, still mounted, shouted something, pointing his sword toward the Fourteenth.

"Fire!"

Dozens of Yanks dropped. Miraculously, their colonel still kept his mount.

"Reload! Independent fire at will!"

The Yankees, as if guided by a single hand, raised their rifles to their shoulders and took aim.

"For that which we are about to receive…" a wag in the line shouted, even as the Union volley hit. They had the advantage of being up slope, protected by the trees, but still a dozen men dropped or staggered back from the volley line. Hazner was showered with bits of bark and tree sap from a spruce he was standing next to.

The fastest had already reloaded, and now the fight was truly on. Fire rippled up and down the line, men shouting, cursing, laughing, tearing cartridges, capping nipples, taking aim. The calmer ones braced their rifles against a tree before firing.

Hazner stepped back from the volley line, walking its length. He spotted young Lieutenant Hurt, so green at Fort Stevens, now calmly directing his men to pour it into the men around the colors. Smoke cloaked the orchard. Then the return fire slackened.

A cheer went up from the Fourteenth, the Yankees were falling back. But they did not retreat far. Once out of the orchard they stopped, some of the men taking a few dangerous seconds to grab fence rails and pile them up as a barricade before dropping behind them.

Well-aimed fire began to slam into the ranks of the Fourteenth. Some of the shots were high, but some were hitting, men grunting, cursing, or silendy collapsing.

"Down, boys!" Hazner shouted.

His men needed no urging. They hunkered down behind trees, rocks, some crawling up the dozen or so yards to the edge of the orchard, tearing down the fence that flanked it on their side, piling the rails up the way the Yankees did on the other side, a hundred yards away.

Within a few minutes a deadly game was on. Both sides seasoned, both knowing how to fight, trading fire across a narrow orchard, neither willing to give any ground.

Braddock Heights

2:30 P.M.

General Lee, I must urge you, sir, please come up on foot," General Scales begged, standing between him and the incoming fire sweeping the crest. Lee could not help but nod in agreement. To take Traveler the few dozen yards to the crest would be madness, for him, his staff, and his beloved mount. He swung down out of the saddle.

On the road beside him men from Scales's Division were continuing to push up the road. He had passed them on the ride up here, too restless to remain any longer at the bridge.

As he rode by, the men struggled to cheer, but they were moving fast, doubled over, pounding up the steep slope to the roar of battle, which now swept the crest.

"Sir, please come no further. It's too dangerous up there."

Lee smiled and simply stepped around Scales, who came back to his side and deliberately placed himself in front of Lee.

"Sir, if you insist, please follow me then," Scales said, and crouching down slightly, he led the way.

They angled off the road to the left and slipped behind a small tavern.

"From the top floor you can see what is happening, but please do not stand close to the window, sir."

Lee walked into the building, which was already transformed into a hospital, dozens of men on the floor, and followed Scales up the narrow steps to the second floor. When Scales opened a door, several cavalry troopers near the window looked back at their guests in surprise, the sergeant leading the three coming to attention.

"Good log walls, General, is stopping the bullets," the sergeant said, "but this window is mighty dangerous."

Even as he spoke splinters of glass from a windowpane sprayed back onto the bed in the middle of the room.

Lee nodded his thanks and approached to within a half dozen feet, and raising his field glasses, he looked out.

Smoke obscured the road directly below, but what he saw beyond was what he had come to find out. A corps at the very least, the column visible clear across the valley and back up to the mountain beyond.

"It's their Seventeenth Corps," Scales said. "We've taken a few prisoners. James McPherson is their commander."

Lee sighed inwardly..

It was far too bitter, and he looked away for a moment. James was brilliant, tough, a good leader. He'd push straight in, sensing that if he let his opponent consolidate his hold on this ridge, the campaign was already over, the initiative now on the Southern side.

He remembered conversations with the young cadet about military history, about Napoleon's use of mass at the crucial point of battle. McPherson would not wait; he'd come slamming in; he was already doing that. Studying the road again, Lee saw the regiments were shaking out of column and coming up the slope in battie line, moving fast.

"Sir, when can we expect reinforcements?" Scales asked, interrupting Lee's thoughts.

"Sir?"

"Reinforcements?"

"Hood's old division is coming up. They took trains from Baltimore and should be getting off now."

"Back where we dismounted?" Scales asked. "That's several hours of marching."

Lee nodded, saying nothing.

"Artillery, sir, a few batteries would be mighty helpful."

"Back with the trains as well."

Scales fell silent as Lee raised his glasses again.

He scanned the advancing columns of blue. They were moving hard; he could see scatterings of men by the roadside, collapsed. McPherson would be calling for double time to bring up his men; his corps would be exhausted by the time they reached this crest. Back at the opposite crest, the South Mountain range, Lee saw that the road was empty except for some wagons. A break in their column of march? Maybe there was an opportunity presenting itself. Catch McPherson by himself and defeat him in isolation.

He watched, ignoring another shower of glass that sent Walter Taylor nervously to his side, almost blocking his view.

"Let them come," Lee said quietly, his voice almost tinged with sadness. "Let them come."

"Sir?" Scales asked.

"Hold as long as you can," Lee said, "but don't overex-tend. I want your division intact, sir, not a wreck. Hold as long as you can then pull back."

"I don't understand sir."

"If we hold here, McPherson will finally halt, build up, and then come on in full strength against your one division. But there is a chance we can actually lure McPherson in. He is impetutous when he feels he is winning. We lure him over this ridge and then hit him with our reserves coming up."

Lee stepped away from the window and began to outline his plan.

Below Braddock Heights

3:00 P.M.

James McPherson, hat off, shouted for the next regiment in line to break to the right, cross the field, and deploy into line. The men were pale with exhaustion. The Second Brigade of his Second Division was now up and deploying out.

The fire coming from the crest was murderous, but through eddies in the smoke he could see his own volley lines, extending out farther and farther to either flank as each new regiment fell into line.

They were stretching them out up there. The rebs must be damn near as tired as my boys going up that slope. Just one good push and he'd be through them; he could sense that.

The Third Brigade was now approaching, men moving fast.

"Straight up the slope, my boys!" McPherson shouted. "Straight up till you're engaged, then give them hell!"

Braddock Heights

3:35 P.M.

The men of the Fourteenth South Carolina were starting to run short of ammunition. They had been trading fire across the orchard for over an hour. Nearly a quarter of the men were down.

Hazner, crouched behind a tree, struggled with his ramrod to pound another round down the fouled barrel of his gun. Reloading he rolled over on to his stomach, leveled the barrel against a log, and waited. The smoke parted for a moment; he caught a flash of black, a cap, aimed carefully, and fired. The hat disappeared and he grinned. He might not have hit the man, but he sure had given him something to think about.

The orchard between the opposing sides was shredded. Two regiments fighting it out on either side had most likely fired more than twenty thousand rounds back and forth during the last hour. Trees were nearly stripped bare, apples exploding so that there was the interesting scent of cider, more than one man commenting that they wished they could crawl down there and gather up some of the shattered fruit. The trees inside the woodlot they were deployed in were torn and splintered, a few smaller ones actually toppling over.

The fire from the other side began to slacken and then stopped.

"Everyone load, hold fire," Brown shouted.

It was obvious something was building. They were going to try another charge.

A distant hoarse cheer, the Yankee "huzzahs" given three times, rolled up the hill.

A staff officer, this one mounted, came through the woods toward the Fourteenth, Brown standing up to meet him, but making it a point to keep a tree between him and the Yankees.

"Column coming up the road. Enfilade it, but then you are to pull back."

"Fall back?" Brown asked, obviously confused. "Hell, sir, just get me some more ammunition and some water. We'll hold."

"Orders from General Lee himself. He doesn't want this division torn apart. We're pulling back into Frederick. Rally your men in the center of town."

The officer turned without waiting for a reply and rode to the north, toward the next regiment in line.

Brown turned. "You heard him boys. We're pulling back. Wounded who can walk, start moving now."

A couple of dozen men who had been resting just behind the volley line struggled to their feet and began staggering back. Those who could not move looked toward Brown beseechingly.

"Sorry, boys," Brown said sadly. "We got to leave you. Don't worry. The Yankees will take good care of you."

"Yeah, right," one of them hissed. "Point Lookout for us if we live."

"Here it comes!" someone shouted.

Hazner turned and saw the head of a column coming up the road. At the same moment the regiment they'd been facing across the orchard stood up and came out into the open, advancing at the double.

'Take aim straight ahead, boys," Brown shouted.

Hazner agreed. To hell with the column. It was the men they were facing they had to worry about.

"Fire!"

A ragged volley swept the orchard, dropping another dozen, but this time the Yankees did not slow; they just kept on coming.

"Fall back, men, stay with me!"

The Fourteenth moved woodenly at first. After the long march, the bitter fight, they were exhausted. Behind them the Yankees, sensing the breaking of their opponents, let out a cheer, and seconds later a volley ripped through the woods, the Fourteenth losing a half dozen more.

Hazner reached the crest of the ridge. Along the road to his right he could see where troops were falling back, cavairy mounting up, infantry pushing around them. A thunderous fire erupted from the road, a sharp volley sent into the advancing column, and then those men turned and started to run.

Over the crest, Hazner, falling in by Brown's side, started down the slope. It was steep and he ran like a drunken man, nearly tumbling over, men around him cursing, panting, some tangling up in the brush and falling, getting up again.

Behind them he could hear taunting yells. Looking back, he saw where the Yankees had gained the ridge. Some were pushing on, others stopping to reload.

Ahead and below the town of Frederick was two miles off. Beyond, he could see smoke cloaking the river valley and a distant column of troops moving along the National Road.

Brown staggered and tripped, cursing as he hit the ground. Hazner pulled him up, the colonel's hands badly skinned from the tumble.

"Come on, sir," Hazner cried, "but by damn, there better be a good reason for this."

Braddock Heights

3:50 P.M.

"McPherson!"

James was atop the crest, glasses raised, studying the ground ahead. A half mile downslope he could see where the rebels were swarming along the road and fields, heading back toward Frederick. Beyond the river he could already spot another column coming up.

Grant came to his side, grinning.

"Good work, McPherson."

"Cost us," James said quietly. "We fought entire battles out west and lost fewer men than I just did taking this ridge."

"It's only started," Grant replied coolly. "Are you pressing them?"

"My boys are exhausted, sir. I've double-timed them for miles, threw them into this fight. They need a few minutes at least. We got the good ground now. Isn't that what we wanted?"

Grant was silent for a moment, field glasses raised, studying the terrain ahead.

'That bridge is out of artillery range from up here. We give Lee time, he just might get it back up again. Besides, if we sit up here, he will not come at us."

McPherson looked over at him.

"We just had a meeting engagement up here, both sides equally tired. If we dig in here tonight, what will Lee do tomorrow? Attack?"

McPherson found he had to agree.

"No, sir, of course not."

"I want him to fight us. We've got to grab hold of him and stay in contact. I don't want him to have time to think, to maneuver, to repair that bridge, to think about the Potomac River at all. We give him good bait, though, and he'll bite it and then hang on to us the way I want."

"And that means my corps, sir, doesn't it?"

Grant grabbed him by the forearm.

"You know what to do. But you, personally, don't go doing anything foolish. Push down there and grab hold of Lee. I'm setting up here for the moment. Give your boys twenty minutes to catch their breath, try and find some water, then send them in. I want that town and the river beyond."

McPherson knew without even having to ask what Grant was ordering him to do. To stick his corps out forward and let Lee bite into them. He thought of all the quiet afternoons he had spent with Lee at West Point, the admiration he had always held for him. He wondered if Lee knew whose corps this was that was about to come down to meet him. It was going to be one hell of a bloody mess this day.

McPherson saluted and rode off.