Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

With General Lee

Noon

Gen. Robert E. Lee reached the edge of the ford, several companies of cavalry deployed around him in a protective circle, carbines and pistols drawn.

The Union position here had just collapsed, nearly a thousand men taken prisoner, nearly all of them Ord's men, including General Ord himself, with a scattering of colored troops mixed in.

The ground was carpeted with bodies, ambulances from both sides now picking men up, six and seven to an ambulance, to be taken into the Confederate lines. Several surgeons were at work in the field, awnings set up, a vast sea of agony around them.

He spotted Jubal Early, standing by one of the tents, leaning on one of his staff, pants leg torn off just above the thigh, blood streaming down from his knee.

Lee rode up and dismounted, going to Jubal's side.

"I'm sorry to see you are hurt, sir," Lee said.

"Think I'll lose the leg," Jubal said weakly.

"Perhaps it will not prove to be that bad," Lee lied, a quick look down revealed that a bullet had shattered the poor man's kneecap. That he was even coherent at this point with such an agonizing wound was a mark of the man's strength.

"I've turned what's left of my division over to John Gordon," Jubal said, motioning toward the creek, "but sir, frankly, I no longer have a division. It is completely fought out."

"You did well this day, sir," Lee said, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then returned to Traveler and mounted.

The Union prisoners were slowly shuffling to the rear, many of them detailed to help carry wounded from both sides. It was a procession of agony, men crying, many in shock, some looking up at Lee in wonder, more than a few in defiance.

He saw a small number of black prisoners, with one white officer, being herded off to one side, the men surrounding them shoving with rifle butts and bayonet points. Lee went over to them.

"What is going on here?" he snapped.

A surprised sergeant looked up.

"Sergeant, what is your name?"

"Len Gardner, sir, Third Louisiana."

Lee turned to Walter.

"Note that name, Walter. Sergeant Gardner, if I hear of any accounts of abuse of prisoners I shall personally hold you responsible."

The group ducked down as an errant shell screamed overhead.

The white Union officer stood up first and stepped to Lee's side and saluted.

"Capt. Averall Heyward. Thank you, sir. I think they were getting set to execute us."

"That's a damn lie," Gardner cried.

Lee looked at Gardner and fixed him with a cold gaze.

"I tend to believe this officer's word over yours," Lee snapped.

"Captain, take your men, fall in with the other prisoners. You will be well treated. Walter, write down the following:

"I have spoken personally with the Union officer bearing this note. He shall report to me after the action of this day to inform me of any abuse dealt to him or any other man or officer serving with the United States Colored Troops."

Walter jotted down the note and handed the pad over.

Lee signed it, tore the sheet of paper off, and handed it to the officer.

"As more colored prisoners come in, use this note to round them up and keep them with you. One of my staff will stay behind with you to insure all of you are treated properly. That note will serve as a pass to my headquarters after this battle is over as long as you give me your parole now not to try to escape."

"God bless you, sir," the captain replied and saluted. "And I give you my parole on my word of honor as an officer."

"And God be with you, Captain."

Lee turned and rode to the edge of the ford and then spotted Ord. The man was surrounded by several staff officers and a lone Confederate guard. He was wounded, hit in the arm, which was already in a sling. Lee approached him and dismounted.

"General, are you sorely hurt?" Lee asked.

Ord looked at Lee and actually grinned.

"Not as badly as your men are, sir. Pardon me, sir, but we gave you a hell of a fight here."

"That you did, General."

"We bled you out here. My boys put up a hell of a fight to the bitter end."

"You can be proud of them, General." "Thank you, sir."

"A question, General. Are any of the colored troops with you?"

"No, they are with Sheridan." "Sheridan?"

Ord grinned. "He took over Burnside's command two days ago. Maybe that explains why they are fighting so ferociously over there." Ord pointed toward the smoke-shrouded railroad cuts."

Lee remounted and rode off. He shook his head with anger. "We must not lose our heads, our moral compass as an army. If our men start executing prisoners now, then we have indeed lost God's blessing at a time that we need it the most. It will bring shame to our entire cause."

Lee edged Traveler into the water. His mount wanted to drink but he would not let him, the water was so tainted with blood. He pushed across, staff following. To his right, a quarter mile away, Robertson's Division was engaged in what was already being called the Hornets Nest. The railroad cuts for the Baltimore and Ohio had been turned into bastions. He could not see the fight from here. There was too much smoke, but the air was alive with bullets zipping and screaming overhead.

He paused and watched it with frustration. Taking that position now did not serve the plan. It was Frederick and the pass over the mountains that Beauregard should have focused on.

"Walter, send someone in there. Find Robertson. Order him to report to me now. I will be up on the road."

Several staff, escorted by a half dozen troopers, rode off.

He turned and continued up the field. Several of his escorts dropped from their saddles as they rode up the hill, weaving past a hospital area for the black troops. He detailed off another staff officer to stay with the hospital, bearing the — same orders he had given on the other side of the stream.

They crossed over the killing ground of the corner field, raced over the railroad tracks and up to the Buckeystown Road. Again chaos, wounded by the hundreds staggering back, fence rails down, crops trampled, a farmhouse on fire, wounded being pulled from inside even as it burned.

Turning onto the road he now saw the rear of Beauregard's divisions, pushing up, ranks thinned, a terrible bombardment striking into them.

Lee clenched his fist in frustration. Not against the guns. Not another Malvern Hill.

He wanted to go forward, but Walter rebelled, pushing in front of him.

"Sir, I am sorry, sir, but I cannot let you ride into that inferno."

Lee hesitated. Walter was right. The battle now hung by a thread, the orders he had so often given to his beloved generals, to stand back, to manage the fight, to not go into the middle of it, had to apply now to him, too.

"Send some men up there," Lee snapped. "Find Beauregard. Bring him back to me now!"

12:10 P.M.

'Feed it to them! There they are! Feed it to them!" Hunt cried. Gun after gun recoiled, sending deadly sprays of canister downrange to the rebel lines in the corn and grass, and they were returning fire. The ground ahead was a killing ground, casualties piled up by the hundreds, his gunners hard at work in the last fifteen minutes, following his order to retreat by recoil. After firing, the pieces were not rolled forward, but were loaded, in place, the elevation checked, and another canister round was blasted down the field. But canister was running short, many of the crews changing over to case shot cut with a half-inch fuse, blowing as they barely cleared the barrel. Those out of canister were converting back to solid bolts, the shock of one of those bolts passing through the ranks causing the enemy to scatter even if it struck down only one or two.

They were bleeding McLaw out, and his men were shouting with rage, sweeping the position with rifle fire, a good third of Hunt's gunners now down. He took a deep breath. "Hook up trail lines, retire by fire!" Caissons were backed up, cables run out to the trail pieces of the guns. A piece would fire, and the caisson crew would urge their horse forward a dozen paces while the crew reloaded, then the gun would fire again.

It was only a matter of time before they were overrun.

Rebel infantry was swarming about both flanks, horses were going down, stalling pieces in place, desperate crews trying to push their pieces back by hand, but they were still firing, holding them back.

"Feed it to 'em. God damn 'em. Feed it to 'em."

With Lee

12:30 P.M.

P. G.T. Beauregard came riding up, sweat streaming down his face in the humid heat, hat off, and Lee braced himself inwardly for the confrontation. "General," Lee said, "my orders to you last night I thought were clearly understood. Cross at the ford, establish contact, deploy, then sweep due north into the town and take it."

"Sir, it is not that easy," Beauregard replied. "If I had waited for McLaw and Robertson, we'd have wasted another hour, maybe two. I felt it was important to strike hard and fast."

"You hit without waiting. All four divisions at once, backed by a battalion and a half of artillery and a brigade from Jeb, should have overrun them in the first strike. Besides, you have let your command split. One division is wasted now containing that pocket down by the river."

"There is an entire corps trapped down there," Beauregard replied. "Destroy them and Grant's final offensive power is gone."

"It is costing far too much. You should have advanced, echelon to the north, aiming at Frederick. That and the road are the prize."

"It is too late to call back Robertson now; he is too hotly engaged, and his action protects my right flank."

"And the guns," Lee replied sharply. "Why are you sending McLaw straight at their guns?"

"That's all of Hunt's batteries up there, sir. Without infantry support. We take them and we cripple Grant."

"Sir," Lee said stonily, "you have lost focus. You are caught in the moment. Four of your divisions, angling toward Frederick, would have caused Grant to abandon the entire line, and I could have brought in Longstreet and Hood efficiently. Now we are split apart."

"So should I withdraw?" Beauregard asked sarcastically. "We have them on the run."

"No, you will not withdraw, but, sir, I am taking command here."

"Am I relieved, sir?"

Lee hesitated. If it had been nearly anyone else, he would have done so. But these were Beauregard's men, new to the Army of Northern Virginia.

"No, sir, you are not relieved, but I shall now ride with you. I want your men to echelon to the left and drive for the pass. I expect that within the hour. Now go see to your duty and we shall win this fight, regardless of loss."

Railroad Cut

12:30 P.M.

This was beyond anything he had ever imagined war to be. There was no place for the wounded; they lay where they fell. All were deafened by the slapping roar of the Napoleon whose crew had expended all their canister and case shot and was now reduced to firing solid shot, aiming low so that the ball would strike in front of the rebel infantry, kicking up a spray of ballast and splintered railroad tie, which hit with deadly impact.

If not for the barrier, all within the cut would have been swept away. The worst casualties were up on the slopes of the ravine, the men exposed to fire from the flanks even as they fought to keep back the rebels circling in from both sides. Men of several regiments were mingled together at the barricade, some of them whites from the next division who had brought up more ammunition and decided to stay.

"Granddaddy was at Oriskany;" one of them kept saying with a grin. "It was like this. Injuns just circling all around, whoopin' and hollerin'."

Several times the rebs surged to within yards of the cut, threatening to push the men on the lip back down. If that happened, it was over, but the men had held them back, the rebs going to ground.

"Raining, thank God," someone announced.

Washington looked up, felt a few soft splashes on his face, a light drizzle-cooling, a true relief.

12:35 P.M.

Grim, near to shaking with fear, Sergeant Hazner kept low, back in the same gully he had been in the day before when the train exploded. They had been ordered down from their dug-in position an hour ago, to try to force the ruined bridge or, at the very least, to enfilade the railroad cut just west of the depot. A few had made a valiant rush onto the ruined bridge, jostling across broken ties, then trying to catwalk across the stringers in the midsection. Not one had made it.

So they had settled down to a steady, raging fire, adding to the smoke and confusion. The artillery above them pounded the opposite position. The blockhouse, which had guarded the entry into the cut, had finally collapsed in on itself after repeated hits, but even in the ruins the Yankees hung on, firing back.

Men were dropping, but no ground was being gained, no advantage to be found, just a steady wearing down by both sides until finally exhaustion, lack of ammunition, or the fact that there was no one left to fight would decide it.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 12:40 P.M.

Grant stood at the edge of town, field glasses raised. The town was directly behind him. McPherson's boys were hard at work, piling up barricades across the streets at the south edge of town.

Looking up toward the pass, he saw only a few wagons coming down. He had ordered all wagons to stay on the far side of the mountain except those bearing small-arms ammunition or artillery rounds.

A few shells were winging over toward the road, fired from a rebel battery deployed out on the left of their line. It was very long-distance fire, but nevertheless an indicator of what would be coming.

Banks's support division was up, filing in with McPherson's men.

Every regiment was now engaged, or soon would be. He had no reserves left. Banks's men up by the National Road were now reporting an assault supposedly led by Longstreet and backed by a dozen or more batteries.

Lee was indeed pushing all out.

Down below he could see the first of Hunt's guns coming back, drivers lashing their exhausted horses, emerging out of the smoke. The artillery fire within the smoke was slackening.

More guns came out, bouncing across the fields, and then he spotted Hunt. He sent a staffer down to lead him in.

Hunt looked like he had come out of a blast furnace, uniform scorched, face bleeding from a blistered burn, an eye nearly swollen shut.

"Sir, beg to report, I had to pull the guns back. We were getting flanked on both sides and nearly out of ammunition. By God, we emptied everything we had into them."

"You did fine, Hunt, held them up an hour or more."

"What a slaughter, sir, never seen anything like it. Worse than Malvern Hill, Gettysburg even. But they just kept coming. No ammunition left. We've been firing continually since just after dawn. I'm sorry, just couldn't get ammunition up fast enough…"

He bent double, breathing hard, and Grant remembered this man was still recovering from the typhoid.

"Get your guns to the far side of town. Post them up to guard the road to the pass."

"Yes, sir."

Grant walked back and forth along the street that led down to Buckeystown, men to either side of him dragging out tables, fence rails, a busted-up sofa with its owner, behind the two men, howling in protest, anything that could stop a bullet.

A light drizzle was coming down, pleasant at first, cooling, actually cutting the smoke down a bit.

He could see them. They had stopped for the moment, positioned just north of where his headquarters had been. He took out his field glasses and in the diminishing smoke could make out some details.

Three divisions. The one that had overrun Hunt, on the right, re-forming ranks. The second, to the left, the third moving behind the second to reinforce their left. It was taking time, valuable time. Their guns were moving up the road, going ahead of the infantry and swinging out into an open field. In a few minutes they would start shelling him.

He turned to look out across the rest of the field. The Hornets Nest was an inferno. Rebs had it completely surrounded but so far had not closed in for the kill. If anyone would hold it to the end it would be Sheridan. It was tying up a lot of the Confederates. Those men should be focusing here, he realized.

To his left gunfire raged along the northern flank. Rebs were across the river just below the National Road, trading long-distance volleys with Banks's men. The rebs had moved a lot of artillery support up on that flank and were heavily pounding the infantry guarding the bridge, perhaps in preparation for a frontal assault directly across.

Grant took it all in. Lee's attack had degenerated into three separate uncoordinated fights.

He could afford to lose the center completely, even if not one man came back from Ninth Corps; they had more than traded their numbers. Banks's fight was almost a different battle, without coordination on their own left. The guns trapped on the far side, if moved over in support of the main attack, might make a difference, for his own artillery had been worn down to exhaustion.

No, it was going to be here, right here, today, that it would be decided. The three Confederate divisions deploying out, forming up. They just might knock me back and secure the Catoctin Road.

He had already decided that if the road was threatened, he would not try to pull back over it. That would turn retreat to utter rout. He'd order the supply wagons on the far side to turn about and evacuate back to Hagerstown, while he extracted the army to the north, following the pike up toward Middleburg and Taneytown.

That would draw Lee after him, even while Sykes came up and Hancock, in his turn, threatened Lee's rear. At some point the combined weight of his three converging forces would outweigh Lee, no matter what happened here in the next few hours.

He felt calm, and he tried to convey that calmness even as the legions below him continued their intricate maneuvers, shifting an entire division to the left of the assault. The first of their guns opened up, solid shot winging in, smashing into buildings at the edge of the town, brick flying, windows shattering.

All he could do now was wait.

With Lee

1:00 P.M.

Patience, he thought. Patience, just a few more minutes to get it right. Lee remained silent, watching as Beauregard's Division that had been down on the right flank filed behind their comrades drawn up a couple of hundred yards ahead. The maneuver was relatively easy. They had already been formed into battle line, so it was simply a matter of having them face left and start marching. But over a mile of ground had to be covered, over hillocks, through half-trampled corn, pushing over ground devastated by the Yankee artillery that had smashed into McLaw. It was taking time, and the men were tired.

The other divisions had advanced slightly, in echelon to the left, meaning that as they moved they did not advance straight ahead, but rather at a forty-five-degree angle to the left.

Lee was still on the road, Beauregard by his side. The man was fuming, embarrassed that the general commanding had seen fit to come down here to take direct control of his men.

"I still wish we had more," Lee announced and he looked back to where Robertson's men were attempting to storm the railroad cuts. Scales had yet to get across on the other side.

"I ordered Robertson to break off an hour ago," Lee snapped. "He should be coming up."

He turned and looked at Walter.

"Perhaps the message didn't get through," Walter offered. "Then send another."

"Sir, might it not be too late now?" Beauregard offered. "That will take another hour."

Lee looked over at Beauregard and reluctantly had to agree. It was indeed too late now to bring Robertson up, and even if he did, after so many hours of protracted fighting, Robertson would need several hours to rest and refit his men before going into another assault.

"Walter, get another courier down there. Tell Robertson, if he feels he is on the edge of a decisive breakthrough, to go ahead. Otherwise he is to stop the attack. Those people down there are pinned and it is useless to shed more blood trying to dig them out. We can take care of them after we defeat Grant and seize the town."

The long, sinuous column of troops marching behind Lee stopped. All up and down the line they turned and faced right, poised for a straight-in assault on the town about a mile ahead.

The formation was at last as he wanted it. Two divisions wide in the front. Two brigades of each division forward, a third brigade deployed two hundred yards to the rear.

The secondary line, three brigades wide, deployed two hundred yards farther back, behind the reserves of the first line. The guns ahead were keeping up a steady fire into the town with hardly a Yankee gun firing in return.

He wished he could see Longstreet having broken through on the other side, the bridge there taken, his men closing in on Grant from the other side, but there was precious little movement, other than those troops who had forded the stream below the bridge but were being held back.

He could not wait any longer. The tattoo of rain was beginning to pick up. It did not look as if a downpour was approaching, but if it came down any harder, in a few hours movement might be difficult.

He turned in his saddle and his heart swelled.

So it had come down finally to this: a grand assault, in the old tradition of the great charge, to finish the battle. He had broken their right, pinned their center. There were no more reserves for Grant.

Grant's men must be exhausted, all the more so after the pounding and pullback.

Flags were held up all up and down the line. Three divisions, perhaps upward of eighteen thousand men, shoulder to shoulder.

It had all come to this, Gettysburg, Union Mills, Washington, Gunpowder River. One more charge, one more glorious charge and we break them forever and the war is won.

Win this charge and the enemy behind me will be but an annoyance to sweep away. The men down by the river are trapped. We destroy Grant this day and three days hence we will be in Washington, the war won.

He thought of Arlington. I could be home in two weeks.

He thought of Shakespeare, Henry V. Yes, indeed, this might be our Saint Crispin's Day.

Like Napoleon at Borodino the moment had come to break the enemy by frontal assault.

Jeb Stuart was by his side, hat off, grinning.

"General Stuart, you will command the left of this assault. Remember it is echelon to the left, keep obliquing to the left to flank the edge of the town and secure the road. General Beauregard, the right division will go into the town."

"Sir, I object," Beauregard replied haughtily. "Stuart is commanding my division, and I am commanding men I do not even know."

"Sir, it is either that way," Lee said testily, "or I shall command it myself."

"Yes, sir," Beauregard replied carefully.

"I will be with the Third Division and commit them to one of you or the other. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir," Jeb said with a flourish, removing his hat. Beauregard simply nodded.

"I am not one for theatrics before the troops, gentlemen," Lee said quietly. "Now go forward!"

Jeb let loose with a wild rebel yell and galloped across the field, his actions a signal that the attack, the attack that would win them this war, was going forward. Beauregard trotted straight up the road.

Drummer boys were up, and began to tap out the long roll. Regimental officers, those still surviving from the earlier fight, stepped forward, extolling their men.

Several minutes later the left division stepped off, Stuart actually out front, waving his hat.

Lee took off his hat and lowered his head.

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit and the future of our cause. Thy will be done."

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Here they come! My God, look at 'em, like on parade!" Men gathered about Grant were up, pointing. The light rain had washed the air of some of the smoke and all could now see a division advancing toward their right. A few minutes later a second division emerged, and then, as if guided by a single hand, the entire advancing line turned and obliqued to their own left, shifting the center of the advance more to the west side of town.

Grant watched silently, nodding with approval at the precision of the movement. They were working to flank him, pull him back farther from the embattled men down at the Hornets Nest, working to envelop the road up to the Catoctin Pass.

"Tell Banks's Division to leave the center of town and shift northwest," Grant announced, not looking back as someone galloped off with the news.

He had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before the storm hit. The men barricading the streets, the entrances into the town, had stopped in their labors for a few minutes to watch the approaching wave, but now returned to work with determination, ignoring the shot that still screamed into the town, detonating against buildings, setting a house afire, smashing through eaves, brick walls, and passing clean through clap-boarded homes.

The few civilians who had come down to watch did not need to be told what to do. They were fleeing in panic. One hysterical mother was screaming for her son. A couple of soldiers, laughing, pulled the boy down from his perch in the branches of a tree and handed him, kicking and screaming, to his mother, who ran off, dragging the boy with one hand and slapping him with the other.

"As terrible as an army with banners…" Ely whispered, coming up to Grant's side.

Grant bit the end off another cigar, cupped his hands to light it, and said nothing.

The Hornets Nest

Here they come, boys!"

Phil Sheridan was up among them, having come over on foot from the next cut. Bartlett did not need to be told. This time they were charging straight in at the run. Men leaned in against the barricade. The gunners, out of all ammunition, pulled out pistols, drew short sabers, or hefted ramrods.

Robinson pushed his men forward, scarcely believing what they were about to do. A few minutes before, a lone courier had come up to Robertson, the division commander, shouting that General Lee wanted him to disengage or finish the position. The courier had then questioned him about the previous couriers.

None had arrived, Robertson shouted. He turned, looked at the Hornets Nest, and then pointed straight at it.

"Let's finish this now!" Robertson shouted. "Are we gonna let it be said that a bunch of darkies beat us?" A terrible roar went up in response. Robinson shook his head. They had been fought to a standstill. A rumor was coming down the line that Lee himself was about to lead the assault on the center of town to finish Grant. Shouldn't we be there? he wondered. Is there any purpose to this slaughter here other than us killing each other like animals in a frenzy?

But the charge went forward, and, dutifully, he went forward with it. The charge rushed the barricade that was heaped with the fallen from the two previous attacks. Flashes of gunfire rippled on the other side. Robertson was actually in the lead, on foot, pointing forward, and one of the first to gain the top of the barricade.

"Come on!" he screamed and jumped over to the other side.

Robinson slammed in against the side of the barricade, looked up over it, caught sight of a man not ten feet away, and dropped him. Sliding back down, he reloaded. He came back up, men pushing up around him, and was up and over the barricade. In the narrow confines of the railroad cut, it was no longer combat, it was a primal act of murder on both sides. All the hatreds of the war, the causes, the fears, played out. He saw Robertson lunging for a regimental flag, a black sergeant major clubbing him down. Robinson started for the sergeant major, almost was in reach, the black sergeant major turning to face him, screaming with rage, then was shoved back as the man in front of him was bayoneted.

Men were trampled underfoot, screaming, the fighting surging back and forth.

On the Catoctin Road Henry Hunt stood with raised field glasses, watching the advance. He felt he would sell his soul now for a dozen limber wagons. His batteries were wearily coming up the long slope, nearly all with empty ammunition chests, and then, as if in answer to his unholy prayer, a couple of canvas-topped wagons came over the ridge and started to slide down pavement that was increasingly slippery from the rain.

In the back of each wagon were two limber chests, a total of two hundred rounds of three-inch ammunition, solid bolts, case shot, and a few rounds of canister.

He ordered two of his batteries to stop, unlimber, and runners to begin fetching the ammunition. It wasn't much, but he could certainly put down one hell of an enfilade into the left of the advancing rebel line. After several minutes, his first gun kicked back with a sharp recoil. He was still in the fight.

Robert E. Lee nodded to the commander of the third division in the assault. The man turned, stood in his stirrups, and pointed forward.

The wave of men set forward and as ordered did their first oblique to the left. Lee rode by their flank as they advanced, staff and cavalry escort around him.

No rifle fire yet from the other side; the head of the advance was not more than six hundred yards from the town. His heart swelled. This could be his Austerlitz, the one battle spoken of so often at the Point. The climactic battle of decision. He could sense it now. All the fighting of the previous two months had at last led to this moment.

Sir, we'd better get back," Ely announced.

The advancing wall of rebs was now just four hundred yards off. Grant reluctantly nodded, deliberately pacing parallel to his line for a hundred feet so that the men would see him, then climbed up over a barricade blocking a street. These were McPherson's boys. Tough-looking, more than one with a bandaged head or arm, and they looked angry, damn angry.

"McPherson!" Someone screamed. "Remember McPherson!"

The cry was picked up, racing across the front, and it sent a shiver down Grant's spine. Even in death that young hero still led.

It was hard to gain a vantage here to watch the fight or direct it. One of the problems of defending a town was that units were impossible to control once they were into the streets. He was anxious, though, about going to the west side of town. If by chance Lee did seize the town, he'd be cut off from what was left of his command if he was to the west of it.

Ely had already found a place, leading him back one block to the burned-out depot on the east side of town. The telegraphy link there had been reestablished, and to his amazement several reporters were gathered round clamoring for some time on it, one of them from the New York Tribune. At his approach they turned and started to shout questions.

He ignored them and followed Ely up a flight of stairs in a burned-out warehouse. Part of the second floor was intact and from there he had an excellent view of the entire assault coming in and the sweep of battle to the east as well.

The Hornets Nest was completely hidden by smoke; to the northeast Banks, to his disgust, had conceded the National Road bridge, but at least was holding the ground above it a couple of hundred yards back. The rebs seemed reluctant to cross, however, for a battery of Napoleons was pounding any who tried to cross.

The rebel advance was down to a couple of hundred yards. Some of the rebels were no longer visible, the buildings before him blocking the view.

A spattering of fire erupted from the edge of the town and then a torrent as regiments stood up from concealment and opened up. The impact staggered the rebel advance, which slowed across a division-wide front, and then thousands of rifles were raised up, then lowered, and a tearing explosion ripped across the plain. A couple of seconds later bits of charred wood and shattered brick exploded around Grant, the reporters and hangers-on down in the street below ducking at the sound.

The fight was now truly on as the rebel's second division, on their left, advanced another fifty yards, slowed, stopped, and fired into.Banks's reserve division, catching some in the flank as they continued to file out of the town.

Within a minute, all ahead was cloaked in smoke, explosions flashing, huzzahs and rebel yells echoing. Never had he witnessed anything like this. Never. Smoking his cigar, hands in his pockets, he waited for the fight to play itself out.

1:30 P.M.

Lee continued to ride with the advancing division, ignoring the protests of Walter and others. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire too soon. Regardless of their losses they should have pressed in to fifty yards or less before firing. Through the smoke he could dimly see where hundreds were falling.

"Straight in, boys!" Lee shouted, and he stood in his stirrups, pointing now to the western edge of the town and the open field beyond.

"Straight in at the double, and remember-home, boys, home is just on the other side of that town!"

He spurred Traveler forward, and with this movement the rebel yell tore down the line, men held rifles up, flags tilted forward, and the charge to cover the last three hundred yards was on.

Traveler suddenly jerked around as if hit, and Lee felt an instant of terror. Their bond was close, going back years, and in so many fights his comrade had never been scratched.

It was Walter, leaning over, jerking Traveler's reins, pulling his head to one side, causing him to slow and stop. Lee glared at Walter. "Let go of me!" "No, sir."

"That is an order!"

"No, sir! Court-martial me after this is over, sir, but no. Your place now is here, sir!"

The cavalry escort had pushed in around Walter, many staring straight at Lee, a few too frightened to do so.

"Listen to him, please, sir," one of them shouted, and that brought on a chorus of agreements for Walter.

Lee found himself suddenly in tears, tears of pride for the gallant men streaming past him, shouting his name as they charged, for the sight of the flag, his flag, held high, disappearing into the smoke, the sight of Jeb Stuart, hat off, waving it high, urging the men forward, even for Walter and the love he showed at this moment.

He lowered his head, nodded.

"You are right, Walter,"

Walter sighed, tears welling up.

"Sir, forgive me. But if we lose you, we lose the cause."

"No, Walter," Lee replied, "the cause is being decided now, by them."

He pointed toward the wall of men surging forward.

In his heart he knew this was the highwater mark. If they could wash over it, all would be won. If not… he dared not think of it at this moment.

Behind him, guns were already hitched up, beginning to roll forward, ready to support the breakthrough, the lead piece coming up, slowing, waiting for the infantry ahead to surge into the town and beyond.

1:35 P.M.

All across that front, men of Florida and Alabama, men of Virginia and Arkansas, sensed the moment. They could see it in Lee as they charged forward; they could see it in that gallant cavalier, Jeb Stuart, shouting wildly, waving them on. They could see victory.

Some had been marching since First Manassas or the Peninsula, fought a dozen battles, waded the Potomac many times, and then in June, with such high hopes, had those hopes fulfilled at Union Mills, when final victory was within their grasp. So many, far, far too many comrades who had marched with them, were gone… and now the moment of final reckoning.

Others had marched in the West and had known one bitter defeat after another; others had come from Charleston, where the war had dragged on through days of scorching heat and sweltering nights, all to join this legendary and victorious army.

Lee was right, his cry echoing down the line, home, home was just on the other side of this town.

The charge rolled forward, pushing into the reserve ranks of the lines before them, men exhorting each other on, screaming to go, to go, to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line, tripping and leaping over the bodies of hundreds who had fallen in the initial exchange.

"Come on! Charge!"

The wild enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front. Once twenty-five thousand before dawn, then eighteen thousand, now barely sixteen thousand, they began to race forward, a tidal wave, officers caught up in the maelstrom, flags of regiments mingling together, an ocean of armed men bent on victory.

At the barricades, in the ruined houses facing the charge, in the field west of town, Banks's men, tough fighters all, regardless of their dandy leader, saw it coming. They were nearly all from the West and had never known defeat. Or when defeated, they had believed in their hearts it was but a setback of the moment, and tomorrow would set it right.

This was tomorrow. Stand here and it is over. Run and you might live, but run here and there will be another tomorrow in which you will have to face it again or, worse, live out your life wishing you had stood but a few minutes longer.

Officers, some behind, but many now stepping out in front of the men, shouted and pleaded, "Hold, boys! You got to hold! Reload, let 'em get close. Reload!"

Several flag bearers stepped out of the ranks, holding tattered standards aloft, shouting for the men to stay with them, to not leave the colors, and the ranks surged forward a few feet to rally round those colors.

Ramrods were worked down fouled barrels, rifles then raised, some fixing bayonets.

"Hold fire, boys. You'll have one good shot. Hold fire!" The wall was a hundred yards off, now breaking into a run, the ground thundering at their approach, men standing wide-eyed, officers shouting, a few throwing down rifles and turning to run, the rest ignoring them. "Hold now, boys. Hold!" "McPherson!" "Hold!"

A few more seconds. "Take aim!"

Nearly five thousand rifles were leveled, men crowding round each other, those few still in ranks presenting, the second rank leaning in between those in front, in most places just crowds of men behind barricades or individuals leaning out of shattered windows and doorways, the metallic sound of thousands of hammers being cocked back.

Those in the front rank could see it, that strange illusion when a volley line presented directly in front of you and it looked as if every single rifle was aimed at you, so close you could see the open muzzle, the eye squinting down the sight. Some slowed, hesitated, others crouched low, as if bending into a storm, those who tried to slow, now pushed on by the mob surging forward behind them.

'Fire!"

Nearly five thousand one-ounce minie balls snapped across the intervening ground in little more than a tenth of a second. Many went high, but many, so many, came in low, hitting legs, stomachs, chests, arms, heads. For a blessed few there was nothingness, that final split second of sight, of looking at the man about to kill you, or gazing down, seeing grass, a clump of weeds, a flower, or a dreamlike vision of home, of someone waiting, a child running toward you… and then whatever it was that waited beyond the nothingness.

For many there were a few seconds, a tumbling backward, a collapsing forward, a few more pumps of the heart, a chance perhaps to realize that this world was finished, it was goodbye, goodbye to summer evenings, to the touch of a girl's lips, the embrace of a mother, the laughter of friends, the pleasure of a Southern evening under the stars.

For many more it was numbness, a falling down, if blessed, no pain in those first seconds, just a numbness, then a mad tearing at a jacket, knowing you were hit, but not sure where. God, don't let it be the stomach. Take a leg, they would bargain now, I can lose a leg, not the stomach.

And they would feebly tear at their clothes to see where the hole was.

Yet for others there was pain, the terrible grinding agony of a thighbone shattering, collapsing, splinters of bone tearing through flesh and uniform, an arm flying back as if pulled by a giant behind them, the elbow shattered, hand nearly torn off, jawbone shot away.

It wasn't just bullets that did this. A musket stock of the man in front would be blown off and spin into another man's face, breaking his jaw, parts of other men's bodies would punch into the those following, canteens, tin cups, cartridge boxes, twisted rifles, broken swords, pieces of shoes, belt buckles; all these became deadly projectiles as well, showering back into the third, fourth, and fifth ranks.

The entire charge staggered. For so many cheering wildly but seconds before, all thought of cause, of glory, of victory, was gone. The world had focused down to them, to them alone. To the hole in the body they were staring at numbly, to a frantic tearing at a breast pocket to pull out a Bible, the letter of a sweetheart, the daguerreotype of a child, for at such a moment, that was truly all that mattered anymore, all thoughts of rights and wrongs, of what had taken them a thousand miles to this place… forgotten.

And yet, though fifteen hundred or more had fallen, there were over fourteen thousand still surging in.

Regardless of the thrust of those pushing in from behind, it took terrible long seconds for the charge to continue forward. Men had to push around the fallen, the dying, the blinded men screaming, dropping weapons and turning to stagger back, and for nearly every man down there was another in shock, reaching down to support a falling brother, a beloved friend, a favorite officer, or just coming to a numbed stop, their face covered in blood from the man in front of them.

"Come on! Keep moving! Come on!"

The charge surged up over the dead, wounded, shocked, and dying and pushed forward, but those few precious seconds gave the defenders the chance to start to reload. Most of them veterans, they glared defiantly at the rebs pushing in, even as they poured powder, slammed ball down barrel, some now just thrusting ramrods into the ground or against a barricade, cocking the piece, pulling out the percussion cap.

There was no time for orders now, no measured volley. Madness on both sides was taking hold, but several thousand completed the mad race, some now firing so close that the discharges burned the men in front of them. Hardly a shot could miss at this range, some of the rebels absorbing five and six bullets. Those up in the second floor of buildings merely had to aim down into the seething mass.

Thousands more collapsed literally at the edge of town, and then the charge was upon them.

Rebels swarmed over the barricades, screaming insanely, aiming and firing down at their tormentors. Men behind the barricades lashed out with musket butts, some swinging them like clubs, catching their foes across legs and knees, breaking bones, the injured collapsing back.

There were bayonet thrusts, pistol shots, shouts, oaths, curses, hurrahs, men fired into faces not five feet away. None now really knew what he was fighting for, other than the raw primal instinct of survival. All speeches, all talk of causes, of rights, of freedom, of land, of honor, of who had wronged who were forgotten by these nineteen- and twenty-year-old boys swept into a nightmare not of their making, a nightmare that they would enact.

If there was any sense beyond the immediate, it was a vague consciousness that somehow, for some reason, at this moment, what they did would finish it forever, one way or the other, and those not yet into the melee were driven forward by that thought, that and the hysteria that sweeps all men being sucked inexorably into the hurricane of battle.

Jeb Stuart was down, horse riddled by a half dozen bullets, sending him flying forward, a fall that saved his life, for at least a dozen more rounds were aimed straight at him. As he pitched forward one round tore open his left sleeve, another creased his brow, a third struck a uniform button over his stomach at an angle, and painfully drove it in, but barely breaking the flesh.

He lay there semiconscious, troopers dismounting around their beloved "cavalier."

Beauregard had stepped back in the last hundred yards, letting the charge sweep past him. Dismounted, he stood silent, watching the slaughter. The fight was now beyond anything he could ever control. If victorious now, he would go in; if defeated, he would fall back to confront Lee.

Farther back, Lee stood silent, head bowed in prayer.

"Please give them strength, Lord, please give them strength," he kept repeating over and over.

Another wagon had come up over the pass, this one loaded down with, hope beyond hope, cases of canister rounds. They were pre-packaged straight from the factory in Troy, New York, having only been cast and made the day before yesterday, the railroad bringing them through Harrisburg straight from the factory-tin can, serge powder bag attached to the can containing fifty iron balls, each one inside a wooden tube ready to be transferred into a standard limber box. Hunt shouted for one of his batteries still mounted to turn around, and leading the way, he raced back toward Frederick, six three-inch ordnance rifles behind him and the wagon driver, terrified to be heading into the storm. A gunner had climbed up alongside the mule driver, grinning, telling him that he had just joined the artillery and would be shot if he slowed down.

Grant, hands still in pockets, continued to stand silent. It was impossible now to see with all the smoke, the steady drizzle of rain.

His lips suddenly felt warm, and he reached up to his cigar and burned his fingers. In his agitation he had smoked it clean down to the stub. He spat it out, fished for another in his pocket, and swore. The silver case was gone, most likely dropped on the retreat into the town.

Ely came up, offered a cigar, a reserve he always carried for the general, and lit it. No one spoke. Even the reporters down in the street were silent, all looking south.

The wall of men had broken across the front of the town into six funnels, swarms of men, all formation lost, pushing against the barricades across the six streets facing south, barricades giving way under the sheer pressure, while up in the buildings Union troopers were firing away frantically, five and six men loading for one man at a window, until he dropped and another stepped up to take his place.

To the left, at the edge of the town, Banks's Division was buckling back. The charge was already across the pike that led to Harpers Ferry and now beginning to approach their goal: the pike over the Catoctin Mountains. Victory was in sight.

Jeb was back up on his feet, staggering like a drunk, not yet aware that he was suffering from a concussion and a broken wrist, but turning about, shouting for a horse, screaming for the infantry to go forward, for the cavalry to turn oblique and to start swarming up the National Road to take out the Yankee artillery that was enfilading them with such deadly effect. One barricade in the center fell, the next one to the left collapsed, Union troops giving back, a swarming wall of rebs pouring over, battle flags to the front, and beginning to push into the town They're breaking through," someone announced.

Grant ignored the comment. Wounded were trickling back, a few cowards running, but the provost guards did not bother with them; they had been ordered into the fight as well.

I have no more reserves, Grant realized, and yet… my God, what a price Lee is paying for this.

There was a clatter of hooves in the street below, and he walked to the edge of his precarious ledge and looked down. It was a battery of guns, three-inch ordnance rifles, Hunt in the lead. At each street corner one gun was being detailed off, unlimbered, men swarming around a canvas-topped wagon at the rear of the formation, unloading boxes.

Hunt rode to the warehouse, looked up at Grant, and saluted.

"Hundred rounds of canister!" Hunt shouted.

Grant nodded and actually grinned.

"Good work, Henry! Good work!"

Hunt positioned a gun directly below Grant, pointing due south, then shouted for the last gun to cut down an alleyway to the next street and position.

Looking down the street, Grant could see where the rebel charge was over the barrier, only a block away, beginning to fight its way up the street.

"Sir, we had better get ready to pull back again," Ely announced.

Grant said nothing, heading for the shattered stairs and back out onto the street.

The reporters who had been shouting questions were long gone, except for one, the Tribune's man, who was silent, wide-eyed, looking down the street. The telegraphy crew had left their station, drawing pistols as they ran out of the building. Grant's staff, standing about in the ruins of the depot, waited for the order to mount up and evacuate the town.

He said nothing, going to Hunt's side.

"I can hold them," Hunt gasped.

"You'd better," was all Grant could say in reply.

The terrified wagon driver reined in behind the gun, the crew reaching into the back, pulling out boxes of canister rounds, one of the gunners tearing the wooden shipping lid off, slipping out the tin can and cartridge.

"Double canister!" Hunt shouted.

A second wooden cylinder was opened, the serge bag torn off. The first charge went down the barrel, the second can then rammed down on top.

The sergeant in command of the piece plunged a pick through the touchhole tearing open the powder bag within, fished into the primer bag at his side, pulled out a friction primer, set it in the touchhole, hooked the lanyard on, and stepped back.

"Stand clear!"

He drew the lanyard taut and waited. The road ahead was still packed with Union men, fighting hand-to-hand with the rebels surging forward.

The charge was up all six streets leading into Frederick, and Lee could see that on the left, his primary goal had all but been reached. Part of Beauregard's Second Division had indeed swarmed over the Catoctin Road. Jeb's troopers were on to the road. Their mounts were blown, but they appeared ghostlike to be rising out of the mist, pushing upwards. If not for the Yankee artillery blocking the way, they'd be to the top within minutes.

What I wouldn't I give right now for one more fresh division, he thought. One division to support Jeb and to flank the town.

Ahead he could, at times, make out men pushing in toward the town. His heart thrilled at the sight of it, the flags of the Confederacy held high!

Unable to contain himself, he rode forward, a stern glance at Walter silencing protest.

"We have them now!" Lee shouted. "We have them now! Go, my boys, go!"

The charge up Fourth Street toward the depot was gaining some small momentum. The men who had held the barricade but minutes before were nearly all dead, wounded, or captured. The surviving Yankees were beginning to break, to scatter into homes, shops, rebel officers at the front screaming for their men to ignore them for now, to press on through the town and to the open plains beyond.

"Out of the town and we've won!" more than one screamed.

Another rebel yell now, wild and defiant, filled with hopes of victory as they swarmed up the street.

'Get ready!" Hunt screamed A few Union men were still out in the street, running, and then they saw the gun aimed directly at them. They knew what would happen in a few seconds. Men dodged, threw themselves into doorways and alleyways.

The rebel charge, swarming forward, was gaining momentum until the men up front saw, through the smoke, the muzzle of a three-inch ordnance rifle, not a hundred feet away, aimed straight at them.

'Fire!"

The ordnance rifle recoiled with a thunderclap roar, the charge of canister bursting from the barrel. As the first tin cleared the muzzle the tin sheathing peeled back, the fifty iron balls beginning to spread out, deviating to one side or the other, up or down an inch or so for every foot forward; the second can emerged, peeling back, its shot spreading as well. At a hundred feet the spread would be a deadly cone a dozen feet wide.

The impact was devastating, twenty pounds of iron balls, each weighing a little more than two ounces, each traveling at over seven hundred feet a second. A single ball could decapitate a man, tear off an arm, a leg, go clean through a man, tear apart a second, and drop a third behind him.

The entire front of the charge collapsed in a bloody heap.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared.

The swabber leapt forward and ran the sponge down the barrel to kill any lingering sparks. Another pre-packaged charge went in, a second tin on top, and was rammed down, crew to either side working the wheels to re-aim the gun straight down the street.

"Stand clear!"

The battery sergeant drew the lanyard taut and jerked it.

A hundred more balls tore down the street, plowing like a giant's hand into those not swept away by the first blast. Windowpanes shattered from the blast, glass tinkling down, sometimes entire sheets slashing into a man; canister that had gone wide ricocheted down the narrow valley of the street, bouncing off walls, then tearing into men fifty, a hundred feet, farther back.

"Again, double canister!" Hunt roared.

To the west, from Fourth and Fifth Streets, the guns were firing as well, recoiling. At Third Street the charge was far enough forward that it spilled out onto Main Street, almost overrunning the gun, the crew keeping their nerve. The rammer went down, staff still in the gun, the battery sergeant firing it off anyhow, one hundred iron balls and the ramrod blowing down the street, shattering the charge.

Out of the smoke enveloping Fourth Street a charge began to surge forward again, the men in the fore disbelieving. Victory had been so close, so goddamn close, just past that gun.

An officer leapt out front.

"Home, boys, home!"

He ran straight for the piece, the men at the fore raising rifles, firing, the gun sergeant going down, and half the crew. Grant, startled, realized that a ball had plucked the rim of his hat. He remained motionless.

Hunt shouldered his way in, picked up the lanyard, waited a few seconds, a few maddenly long seconds, the rebel charge getting closer, ready to spill into Main Street, where, if once gained, the rebs would swarm around the gun.

"Look at 'em!" Hunt was screaming. "Can't miss, look at 'em!"

Even as he stepped back, shouting for the crew to jump clear, he jerked the lanyard again.

The rebel major leading the charge disappeared, as did scores of men behind him.

Sickened, Grant turned his back for a moment. He had actually caught a glimpse of a man decapitated, the rebel major, head spinning up into the air, bringing back the nightmare memory of Mexico, a comrade standing next to him, head blown off by a round ball fired by a Mexican battery.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared, wild-eyed. While waiting for the gun crew to reload, he pulled out his revolver and emptied it into the smoke.

Another man picked up the ramrod, shoved the round in, crew forgetting to sponge the piece in the heat of battle. Hunt plucked a friction primer out of the haversack of the dead sergeant, fixed it in place, attached the lanyard, stepped back, and jerked it, another roar, the gun recoiling up over the curb.

"Double canister!"

"Hold, Henry," Grant shouted.

Henry looked back at him.

"For God's sake, Henry, hold fire."

2:00 P.M.

If ever there was a moment when the vision of all that could finally be had materialized, it had been but ten minutes ago. The flags going forward into the town, Stuart's men were going up the slope, the rebel yell was resounding. Now the dream was dying.

He was silent, back astride Traveler, oblivious to the shot whistling by, spent canister rounds whirling overhead. No one was advancing now. Before the front of the town clusters of men were still fighting, aiming up at second- and third-story windows, riddling anyone who leaned out, but in the sidestreets he could catch glimpses of Union troopers leaning out of windows, firing down.

It was from the streets themselves that the horrible message was now clear. Hundreds of broken men were running back, flags missing or held low, a few officers, hysterical, trying to get in front of the broken formations, urging men to rally, to go back in again.

More artillery fire from within the town, counterpointed by horrific screams.

What had been a surging forward but fifteen minutes ago was collapsing into a rout.

"My God," Lee whispered.

The first of the uninjured to fall back were streaming past him, men silent, walking as if already dead, pulling along wounded comrades, a half dozen men, sobbing, carrying a blanket with an officer in it, McLaw, face already gray in death.

Lee slowly urged Traveler across the front of the retreat. "My men, my men," he cried. "What has happened?" "It was too much."

He looked over. It was Beauregard, riding toward him. "What do you mean too much?"

"You asked too much, General Lee. They had artillery waiting in the town, each street covered with guns, double canister. It was too much."

Lee stared at him, unable to reply. Beauregard rode on.

Lee looked at the beaten, retreating men.

"Can we not still rally?" he cried.

Some of the men stopped, boys of McLaw's old command.

"We'll go back if you want," one of them gasped, and a feeble cry went up. "Order us back in," another shouted.

But even as the small knot gathered around Lee, thousands of men to either side of him were streaming back in defeat.

From the town he could hear a deep-throated cheering, a Union regimental flag defiantly waving from a rooftop, a tattered Confederate flag being held up beside it and then pitched off the roof.

"Can we not still rally?" Lee asked, but this time in barely a whisper.

He looked up toward the slope of the Catoctins. Jeb's boys were giving back as well, artillery farther up the road pounding them hard. They were beginning to draw back.

"General Lee, sir?"

It was Walter, reaching over to take Traveler's reins. "Sir, I think we should withdraw. We are coming under fire here."

Lee wanted to tear the reins out of Walter's hands to turn and madly ride into the town, to somehow retrieve the victory that should have been theirs this day.

"No, sir," Walter said quietly. "No, sir, not today."

Lee nodded and turned away.

"Hurray for the Union! We whipped you damn good!"

Lee stopped. It was a Union soldier down on the ground, his legs shattered, but up on his elbows, glaring defiantly at Lee. His escort circled in closer. One of the cavalry troopers, cursing, half-drew his revolver.

"No!" Lee snapped.

He looked down at the soldier and then dismounted and walked up to him. The boy looked up at him wide-eyed.

"Who are you?" Lee asked.

The boy gulped nervously.

"Private Jenrich, Forty-third Ohio."

Lee knelt down by his side and took his hand.

"Private, I shall pray tonight that you get safely home to your loved ones and that someday we can meet in peace."

Lee stood back up and looked at his men, all of whom were stunned, silent.

He said nothing more, riding on, leaving Private Jenrich who bent his head and sobbed.

The Hornets Nest Lee Robinson and what was left of the First Texas gave back, retreating toward McCausland's Ford. Precious few of his one once gallant regiment remained. To the north, through the drifting smoke, he noticed that the sound of battle was falling away into silence, and through the smoke he could see ghostlike figures heading to the rear.

It was a defeat. He had never known such a sensation before, defeat. They had nearly taken the first of the railroad cuts but the damned Yankees just would not give back, not run, not surrender. Was it because they were colored, or because they were Yankees?

Or was it because they were both?

He reached the ford, waded in, splashed the tainted water over his face, and knelt down in it for a few seconds as if it were a cooling baptism to wash away the sins of war.

Standing up, he led his men over the river.

Sergeant Major Bartlett led the skirmish line that cautiously advanced toward the ford. The regimenf was, in fact, nothing more now than a skirmish line, maybe a hundred men still standing. Sheridan rode behind them, a regiment of white troops spreading out.

Bartlett scanned the ground ahead and finally saw what he was looking for, the hospital area, and sprinted toward it. It was indeed a charnel house, several thousand men on the ground, many Confederates now mixed in, men left behind by their retreating foe.

He ignored his duty for the moment, his friend John Miller by his side, walking back and forth until he "spotted the regimental surgeon, down on the ground, a Confederate soldier lying on his side, groaning, as the surgeon probed into his shoulder and then pulled out a rifle ball. "Doctor!"

The surgeon looked up and recognized Washington, his features grim. "My son?" "Over there."

His son was lying by the colonel's side as if asleep. Both of them were dead.

Washington stopped, unable to move. Washington felt as if struck. He could not move or speak, then he slowly sank to his knees, gathering the limp body, still warm, into his arms.

Washington started to rock back and forth, cradling his son.

"Sergeant Major!"

He looked up. Phil Sheridan was gazing down at him. "What's wrong?" "My son," he whispered. Phil stiffened and said nothing for a moment. "What's your name. Sergeant Major?" Washington could not reply. "Washington Quincy Bartlett," John Miller said. "I saw you today, Bartlett, the way you held the barricade, rallied the men. Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Washington could not reply.

"I'm putting you in for one," Phil said, and he paused, as if adding an afterthought, "and my condolences, Sergeant." Phil rode on.

Washington did not even really hear what he said. All that he had fought for now rested limp in his arms.

It was far too much for Washington, and he dissolved into tears, still rocking back and forth, Miller kneeling by his side.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 7:00 P.M.

'We have three choices," Lee said softly. "We can resume the assault tomorrow, we can stand, or we can withdraw."

None dared to reply. Longstreet was absolutely silent, staring off. Hood had been wounded in the arm down by the Hornets Nest, and the surgeon had just reported he would most likely lose it. Beauregard, claiming fatigue, had withdrawn to his tent. Jeb, head and arm bandaged, sat across from Lee.

"I say fight," Jeb said softly. "I was within a couple of hundred feet of the heights before the attack collapsed. I still could have taken it."

Lee did not reply directly. He knew Jeb had barely gotten halfway up, losing scores of troopers trying to charge the guns while still mounted.

Lee looked over at Walter and then to Judah.

"Withdraw," Judah Benjamin said calmly.

"Why so?"

"Sir, I am no general or tactician. But the campaign here in Maryland is over."

"We came so close today," Lee whispered, as if in shock. "So close. I could see victory like a golden light above our colors. So close."

He fell silent.

"Grant's army is as badly mauled as ours," Jeb said. "We can finish him tomorrow."

"And how many more armies will be here this dme tomorrow?" Judah said. "Another Confederate army perhaps?"

Lee looked over at him stonily.

"No, there will be no more armies," Lee replied, "no more reinforcements. We are it."

"And how many men are still capable of fighting?" Lee looked over to Walter.

"Sir, there are no clear reports yet. It will take days. Every division was engaged. Robertson is dead, so is McLaw, both their divisions fought out. Beauregard's two divisions in the assault, I'd guess, fifty percent or more lost."

"General Longstreet, your command?" Lee asked.

"Fought out, sir."

Lee looked at him carefully. He had not yet asked why Longstreet had not pushed the attack more boldly from the northern flank and in the center. But he suspected he knew the answer. Longstreet was trying to hold some strength back.

Longstreet finally stirred.

"This army has lost nearly half its fighting strength in the last three days. I suspect casualties will be in excess of twenty-five thousand, perhaps close to thirty. Added to our losses of last week at Gunpowder River and the earlier-losses in front of Washington and at Union Mills and Gettysburg-the Army of Northern Virginia is finished as an offensive force."

He had said it straight out. Bluntly and without tact.

Lee nodded, dipping his head.

"Sir, it is time to get this army south of the Potomac," Judah said, forcing his way back into the conversation.

"And the president's orders?" Lee asked.

"He is not here. I am, sir, and I think that gives me some authority as the civilian representative to order you to do so."

Lee forced a smile.

"To take the responsibility from my shoulders?" he asked.

"If you would let me."

"No, sir, I will not let you take that responsibility before our president. I am commander in the field. I must act at this moment in best accordance with the needs of this army, the main surviving hope of our cause."

"Washington faced worse after Brandywine and Germantown," Judah said.

Lee smiled but shook his head.

"He was not facing what I now face."

He sighed and lowered his head.

"Those wounded capable of being moved, with what transport we have left, to be loaded up tonight. Take only those men with good prospects of healing, of returning to the fight. All others to be left behind."

The men around the table stirred. "Walter, we will leave a note for General Grant asking for his charity to our men. I am sure he will comply." "Yes, sir."

"General Longstreet. Can you hold this position through tomorrow?" "Sir?"

"I want Grant to think we are still in position, considering a resumption of the fight. Meanwhile I will take what is left of Hood's and Beauregard's commands and head south, down toward Hauling Ferry, along with our pontoon train."

"Sir, my scouts reported yesterday, and again today, that the Yankees have heavily fortified that crossing."

"We will move with speed. If God is willing, we will launch a surprise attack at dusk and overrun that position. They are, after all, garrison troops. Once the ferry is taken, the pontoon will be laid during the night, I will secure the position, and then, General Longstreet, you will withdraw down to it."

"Yes, sir, I think that is possible."

"Gentlemen," Lee sighed, "if we are finished as an offensive force, so is Grant. We return to Virginia and the war will continue. Perhaps what we've achieved here will be sufficient to overturn the Lincoln administration and victory can yet be ours."

He stood up, the gesture an indication of dismissal, and walked out from under the awning.

The rain was coming down steadily, not hard, just a constant drizzle. Through the gloom and smoke that still clung to the fields, he could see on the far side of the river hundreds of lanterns, bouncing about like fireflies, details of men looking for lost comrades, bringing in the wounded. All was silent except for distant cries of pain, prayers, pleas for help.

He lowered his head.

"My fault, it's all my fault now," he said.