Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER TWENTY

The White House

August 30, 1863 1:00 A.M.

How are you, Mr. President," Elihu asked as he came into the office. Lincoln, sitting behind his desk, looked up, offered a weak smile, and set down his pen.

"Just a minute more, Elihu. Why don't you sit down and relax."

Elihu went over to the sofa and collapsed. He had not slept in a day and a half. He felt as if he had been trapped in a small boat, tossed back and forth by waves coming from opposite directions. There would be moments of exultation, followed minutes later by contrary news that plunged all into gloom.

Renewed rioting had broken out in New York when it was reported in the Times that Grant had sustained over thirty thousand casualties and was retreating.

The Tribune, in contrast, was reporting victory, but its headlines were ignored and the rioting had swept into city hall, the building torched by the mob.

Sickles was up to his usual destructive behavior, denouncing the removal of Stanton, calling for Lincoln's impeachment, and demanding that both he and Stanton be returned to positions of authority, in order to "save our Republic from a dictator who has led us to the brink of disaster."

The news had fueled protests in Philadelphia and Cleveland and many other cities of the Midwest, particularly those that had provided so many regiments to Grant's army.

Yet the waves would then rush in from the other direction. Sherman had just reported a sharp victory against Bragg about thirty miles north of Atlanta; if he could now beat Bragg in a race to secure Kennesaw Mountain, he'd be in a position to take Atlanta under siege within a matter of days.

Elihu closed his eyes, glad for the momentary respite. He heard Lincoln scratching away with his pen, a sigh, the sound of paper being folded.

"Elihu?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Asleep?"

"Wish I could, sir."

Lincoln was looking over at him. He seemed to have aged another decade within the last few weeks. He had lost weight, his eyes were deep-set, dark circles beneath them, hair unkempt, bony features standing out starkly in the flickering light of the lamp on his desk.

Lincoln stood up, walked over, and sat down in a chair next to Elihu, handing him a sealed envelope.

"I need you to do this for me now."

"What is it, sir?"

"I want you to personally deliver this memo to General Grant."

Elihu took the envelope. "Now, sir?"

"Yes. The railroad line has been restored to Baltimore. I've already sent a message down to the rail yard, and a car is waiting for you. You should be able to get a little sleep on the way up. From there proceed as far as possible west on the B and O, then find Grant and deliver this message. It is absolutely crucial that you do so."

"Yes, sir," Elihu replied wearily.

"Elihu, this is important. Once aboard the train, feel free to open the envelope and read it. You will then see why. Once you have linked up with General Grant, you are to stay with him." Lincoln spoke with a deep sense of urgency and almost foreboding. "Sir?"

"Stay with him until it is decided one way or the other." Elihu nodded.

"It's still not certain, sir," Elihu said. "Hancock repulsed Lee, but he has escaped us before. He still might slip back across the Potomac, and if so, the war will drag on for another year or more."

Lincoln nodded.

"I know that. The country knows that. And I am not sure the country can take another year of this kind of bloodletting without achievement."

He sighed, stood up, and walked over to the window, as Elihu noticed was his habit when thinking. He gazed out over Lafayette Park, the crowd gathered there, the ring of sentries.

"Another year. I don't think I can bear it. Nearly four hundred thousand Americans have died on both sides already. Another year, my God, six hundred thousand, seven hundred thousand?"

He turned away from the window.

"Are our sins so great that we must be punished so? I first asked myself that question after we failed so miserably at Second Bull Run a year ago. Now I feel a redoubled sense of trying to understand what God intends by this terrible agony for our nation."

Elihu could not reply.

"Just do as I've requested," Lincoln finally said. "And let us pray that when we meet again, all shall be well."

5:15 A.M.

The army had started moving fifteen minutes ago, the first light of a hazy, fog-shrouded dawn concealing their movement. Grant, staff following, was mounted, heading down toward McCausland's Ford, horses nervous as they gingerly moved around the carpet of dead covering the field. More than one of his men had already vomited from the stench.

He clutched his cigar firmly in his mouth, puffing furiously to block out the smell. The migraine still bedeviled him, and he feared that if he took too deep a breath of the fetid air, he would humiliate himself by vomiting as well.

He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, unable to bear looking down at the ground. The few glances were out of a nightmare, made worse by the half light, the wisps of fog drifting off the ground… men tangled together, his and Lee's, black and white, corpses swollen, both sides mingled together. To his right a circle of lanterns lit up a Confederate hospital area. He did not dare to ride near it, for he knew the sights within, and his courage faltered at the thought of approaching it. Some generals did so after a fight, calmly walking in to visit their men, but that was something beyond him, something that he knew would break his will. As a result, some said he was heartless; few realized just how heartfelt his decision truly was.

To the east, fires continued to glow, a clear sign to him that the rebel army was pulling out, burning the trains and their abandoned supplies.

He reached the ford, and from the far side there was a loud splashing, the escort around Grant nervously raising revolvers.

"Who goes there?" someone shouted.

"Union!"

"Come forward. Union here."

Riders approached, fog swirling around them, and Grant smiled. It was Ben Grierson.

"General, good to see you looking so well," Grant said happily.

"And you, too, sir. Been wandering around out here since midnight trying to find you."

The two saluted, and then Grant leaned over and warmly shook his hand.

"A lot is happening, sir." Grierson said excitedly.

"First off, where are the rebels?" Grant asked.

The mere fact that Grierson had met him here, literally in the middle of the Monocacy, meant that Lee had abandoned his position on the line, a move he had anticipated. But the presence of Grierson confirmed it.

"Sir, we linked up late yesterday with Sykes and the Army of the Potomac just outside of Marysville. I have two brigades of cavalry with me. We moved along the railroad, and shortly after midnight we reached the trains."

Grierson pointed back to the glowing horizon.

"Lord, what a mess they made of it. Must be over a hundred wrecked and burning locomotives back there, everything blown to hell. We rounded up a few prisoners. They said they were with Longstreet's Corps, which pulled out during the night. Lee pulled out yesterday with two corps."

Grant nodded. It was what he had assumed. The report of Lee being seen down at Hauling Ferry was now confirmed by this report.

"Go on."

"Must confess I got a bit disoriented around here. Couple of hours ago we followed the tracks to the river, tried to cross, but some of your boys on the other side were a bit trigger-happy, and I felt it best to sort of wait things out till dawn.

"About an hour ago, we ran into your skirmishers crossing the river, and they directed me down to this ford. Glad I ran into you."

"As I am glad to see you," Grant replied.

"Longstreet's Corps is in full retreat. Apparently they started evacuating this position around midnight. I have my two brigades dogging them on the two roads leading down to Hauling Ferry."

"What about Sykes?"

"He is over toward Urbana. About six or seven miles southeast of here. Couch's militia is falling in behind him." Grant smiled.

The net was indeed closing in.

"Sir, what happened here?" Grierson asked. "I tell you, coming up these last few miles, I've never seen anything like it before. Hospitals packed with Confederate wounded. Came across thirty or so field pieces, spiked, wheels smashed, abandoned. And good Lord, the smell. What happened?"

The mention of the smell finally got through to Grant.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said softly. "Must relieve myself."

He took his mount to the east side of the Monocacy, the ground held so tenaciously by Lee, then by Ord, and then again by Lee. He hurriedly rode up the embankment and dismounted. He walked over to a small tree, branches stripped clean by the gunfire, grabbed hold of it, leaned over, spitting out his cigar, and vomited.

He stood there for several minutes, gagging, vomiting again, each convulsive breath carrying with it the terrible cloying stench of the dead all around him, men lying in the mud, bodies half floating in the water, ghostlike faces looking up at him as if in reproach.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

"Sir?"

Embarrassed, he looked up. It was Ely, holding a canteen. He nodded his thanks, took the canteen, and swished a mouthful, then got sick again. Ely stood by his side.

"It's alright, sir," Ely whispered. "It's hit all of us. Sir, nothing to be ashamed of. It's hit all of us."

Another mouthful spit out, and then a deep, long drink. For a second he wanted to ask if the water was clean, for if it had come from the river he knew he'd vomit again.

"That's it, sir," Ely said softly. 'Take another. Believe me, sir, all of us understand."

He drank again and fought against the wish that it was pure whiskey, a quart of it. No, don't think that.

He took another sip, spit it out, and handed the canteen back.

"Thank you, Ely."

"Of course, sir."

Ely stood formally to attention, as if the exchange that had just taken place had never happened and would be forever forgotten, something that history would never record, how the victorious general had vomited like a sick child on the field of victory.

He let go of the tree, took his hat off, and, taking out a soiled handkerchief, wiped his face and brow. He nodded, indicating that he was all right. Ely turned and walked away.

Grant returned to his horse and mounted. Only then did the rest of the staff and Grierson cross the stream.

Not a word was said for a moment.

"We must push them," Grant said at last. "Grierson, ride with me for a while. Tell me everything that's happened over the last week. Ely, detail off some couriers, get word up to Sheridan. His men are already across. Push Longstreet and push him hard. Not one of them is to escape, not one of them. A courier over to Sykes as well."

He thought for a moment, the maps memorized.

'Tell Sykes I want him to swing wide. March toward Clarksburg, then due south to the Potomac at Darnestown. He will be our screen to the east, cutting off any attempt by Lee to move in that direction. A courier to Couch as well, that the militia is to follow Sykes and provide support. General Grierson, I suspect that is the route Lee might try to take. Once we are clear of this area, ride with all haste to Sykes with your men, push ahead of him to Clarksburg and down to Darnestown and from there to the canal.

"You know how to move fast, and I want that now. I'm behind Lee and will act as the barrier. You and Sykes are to be the pushers, bringing him back toward me. One of my staff will sketch out a map for you as we ride. Do not let Lee slip off to the east. His one chance is to slip past you and Sykes, perhaps make a lunge on Washington or to find a crossing place further down the river. I expect you will prevent that at all costs."

Grierson grinned and nodded.

"Better orders than when I rode through Mississippi," Grierson replied.

Grant nodded. This was the kind of officer he liked and trusted. Grierson would make sure, in what would be a forced march of twenty-five miles or more, that the back door was definitely slammed shut.

"Finally a telegram message to Hancock," Grant said, looking back at Ely, who was again all business, not an indicator at all of what had transpired but minutes ago. "Tell him to anticipate that Lee will now try to shift east and to ensure continued blockage of any potential crossing."

The group set off, riding at a slow trot, weaving around more bodies, past the ruins of the McCausland Farm, the hospital area around Dr. Field's house where McPherson had died, several thousand Confederates wounded around the house.

They rode on as dawn broke, the rain having stopped, coiling mist rising from the fields and woods.

"Push them," Grant repeated again, like a mantra. "Keep pushing them."

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia Near Barnsoille, Maryland

6:00 A.M.

General Longstreet rode into the encampment, mud splashing up from his mount as he trotted along the road. Troops were encamped to either side, a few had pitched tents, most had just collapsed in the open fields and were now sitting around smoky campfires, cooking their breakfasts.

Lee's headquarters area loomed up out of the mist, flag hanging limp, tents pitched in a half circle, awning canopying the middle, a knot of officers gathered round the.fire. They looked up as Longstreet approached, coming to attention, saluting.

"The general?" Longstreet asked. "Still asleep," one of them replied softly. "He was up most of the night," another interjected, as if to apologize for the general sleeping so late.

Longstreet said nothing, taking a cup of coffee offered by one of the staff.

Walter came out of a tent and approached Longstreet. "He's awake, sir, and begs your indulgence. He'll be with you in a few minutes." "Thank you, Walter."

Longstreet sipped on his coffee, looking around at the staff. All were silent. Gone was the levity, the high spirits, the usual gibes back and forth, the sense of confidence. None of them had changed uniforms or had them cleaned in days.

"General Longstreet."

Lee was standing at the entry to his tent, beckoning him to come in. He did not have his uniform jacket on, nor vest, having obviously just been awakened.

Longstreet went into the tent and sat down in a camp chair Lee motioned him to while he sat back down on his cot.

"Your report, sir," Lee asked without greeting or the usual polite small talk before getting down to business.

"Sir, I started the withdrawal just after dark. The last troops pulled off the line at around midnight. The head of my column is within two or three miles of here. The tail of it most likely back near the Buckeystown ford. I regret to tell you, sir, there's bad news."

"And that is?"

"Sir, I abandoned over a hundred guns. The pieces we captured at Union Mills. All of them were spiked and wheels smashed."

"I expected that," Lee said. "They were of use at the moment but are a hindrance now."

"I thought so, too, sir. That frees up several thousand infantry who are back in the ranks. The ammunition, though, sir."

"You did not get all the ammunition off the trains?"

Longstreet shook his head.

"Why not, sir?" Lee asked sharply.

"Sir, we are short of horses, transport. I had to strip out an artillery battalion of its horses in order to move the pontoon train. At best we managed to retrieve about a million and a half rounds of small arms ammunition, maybe five thousand artillery rounds, before being forced to set the rest afire."

"Yes, I saw the fires," Lee said quietly. "But why?"

"That's the other bad news, sir. Grierson is at our rear. He came down onto the B and O line late yesterday afternoon with at least two brigades of cavalry. I fear Armistead might be cut off. I've not heard from him since nightfall. Sykes, with a corps strength, has pushed up and is in Urbana."

"That's less than ten miles from here," Lee replied.

"Yes, sir, I know."

Lee looked over at one of Jed Hotchkiss's maps on his field desk.

"Then the only ammunition we have is what our men are carrying, the small reserves at division level, and what you salvaged."

"Yes, sir."

"Enough, though, for one good fight if need be," Lee said, and he forced a smile.

"If required, sir. Yes, sir."

"The pontoon train. Everything rests on that now."

"Sir, it's proving difficult. Even on the best of roads they are difficult to move. The going has been slow. I estimate they are five miles back on our line of march."

Lee sighed, his gaze returning to the map. "We can still retrieve this situation, General," he said.

Longstreet did not reply.

"Do you believe me, General Longstreet?"

Pete looked into Lee's eyes. The gaze was intense, filled with determination, and yet again he found he could indeed believe in this man.

"Yes, sir. If we move swiftly and with daring. Yes, I think we can get back across the Potomac."

"Not just back across the Potomac, General. In the last two months we have dealt repeated blows to the North from which they can ill recover. This one reversal shall not stop us. We hold the line of the Potomac through the winter and into next spring, and surely their political coalition shall collapse."

Pete did not reply for a moment.

"Do you believe that, sir?" Lee asked, and Pete detected that there was a questioning in Lee's voice, a wish to be reaffirmed in his confidence.

"Sir, the first concern, at the moment, is to get this army safely out of Maryland. Then I will think of other things."

Lee finally smiled.

"Fair enough."

Lee pulled Hotchkiss's map over.

"We must move swiftly this day. You take your column, head down toward Poolesville. Then see if there is any chance we can secure Edwards Ferry. I know they are dug in there, but if in your estimate it can be stormed, do so. If not, move parallel to the river and find an appropriate place to cross. I will take the rest of the army and advance toward Damestown and secure our flank in that direction. Grant's forces are worn, but the men coming down on our rear under Sykes must be turned, if possible defeated, and driven back. Succeed in that and we have bought some time."

Longstreet, looking at the map, nodded in agreement.

"We must move swiftly, sir, and the pontoon train must be pushed forward with all possible haste."

"Yes, sir."

Longstreet left the tent and mounted up. He started to ride back in the direction he had come from. Out in the fields the men were breaking camp, some loading up with backpacks or blanket rolls, but many just leaving them behind. They were stripping down for hard marching.

To the east the sun was clear of the horizon, promising a warm and humid day.

Headquarters, Army of the Potomac Near Clarksburg

8:00 A.M.

Sir, who is that man?" one of Sykes's aides asked, pointing up the road behind them. Sykes turned in his saddle. An officer, riding a splendid white mount, was moving along the side of the road at a canter. He was pale-faced, gaunt, and almost seemed drunk the way he was riding, barely able to hang on.

Sykes smiled.

"I know him."

He turned about, moved to the side of the road, and grinned as the officer approached.

"Colonel Chamberlain, isn't it?" Sykes asked.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain saluted and forced a weak smile.

"Yes, sir, it is."

"My God, sir," Sykes exclaimed. "Last I heard you were dead.':

"A premature report," Chamberlain replied. "But you were captured?"

"Yes, sir. A friend of mine on the other side arranged my unconditional parole. I was officially exchanged last week and immediately came down to report for duty."

Sykes looked at him appraisingly. The man was barely able to keep to his saddle.

"I think, sir, you are not yet recovered from your wounds."

"Sir, may I be the judge of that," Chamberlain replied. "I have been following the news. I was with you and the boys of our glorious Fifth Corps at Taneytown, I wish to be with you now. I took a train down to Baltimore yesterday, paid a rather handsome amount for this magnificent horse, and have been trailing you ever since."

Sykes chuckled and shook his head.

"Such determination cannot be denied, Colonel. I have no posting for you, but you are welcome to join my staff."

"Thank you, sir, an honor."

"Fall in with my staff then. We have Bobbie Lee on the run. We are flanking to the east of him, boxing him in. I just received orders from Grant to push toward Clarksburg and then Darnestown. By God, sir, the Army of the Potomac must be in on this one. We will not lag, we will not slow, I will not let some damn Westerner claim he's won this war against Lee after all we've been through."

Chamberlain smiled. "An honor to be here, sir."

He fell in behind Sykes, breathing deeply, glorying in the fact that he was back, he was with his "Old Fifth," the core of survivors of his beloved Army of the Potomac. The agony of his wound was forgotten for the moment, though each jostle of the horse beneath him sent shock waves through his barely healed hips and up his spine. Nor did he think of home, of his wife's threats to leave him if he followed through on such foolishness. No, this was the center, the core of his life, the reason for his existence, to be here, now, to help shape history, to ensure that the cause of freedom won.

Hauling Ferry

10:00 A.M.

Winfield Scott Hancock, barely able to stand, leaned against his cane, watching as the canal boats loaded up with "Mr. Bartlett's army," as it was now called. By the hundreds the men were scrambling aboard, as fast as a barge was loaded up, the mules or horses towing the boat dug in and set off, the men aboard cheering.

From up the river more barges were coming around the bend, carrying the last of the troops who had garrisoned Point of Rocks. They were heading back east and south, back down to Edwards Ferry and the crossing at Seneca Crossing.

Lee's men could march at two to three miles to the hour, but aboard the barges they could move four miles to the hour while the men relaxed, sang, ate, or slept.

It was a complex maneuver to keep boxing Lee in. The garrisons at Nolands Ferry and Hauling would hold in place, as would the garrison at Edwards Ferry. Hancock felt supremely confident. Though he had yet to meet him, he also felt supreme confidence in Grant. Here was a man who, at last, was thinking on a broad scale, maneuvering what were three armies at the same time, each one stepping into place and closing the ring around Lee. Gone was the indecision of the past.

An empty barge pulled up, and Hancock slowly shuffled aboard, Mr. Bartlett behind him, their staffs following.

Within minutes the horses were run over the low bridge arching the canal, cables attached to the harnesses, rudder pulled out from what had been the stern and carried to the rear of the boat and set in place.

"Heave away!"

The horses leaned into the traces, and the barge was moving, picking up speed.

Hancock gladly sat down on a camp chair set up near the bow, Mr. Bartlett coming up by his side.

Hancock looked up at the man and smiled.

"Boxing him in, Mr. Bartlett. That's the game now. Lee's a wily fox, he is. He still might slip past us, he surely will try, but you and L we have other plans for him."

Near Edwards Ferry

12:00 P.M.

The marching was hard. The sun had broken through the overcast, at first a welcome relief after the rain of the past two days. Within a few hours it started to dry the roads, making passage easier, but the heat and humidity were climbing, thick clouds building overhead, a clear sign that by late afternoon thunderstorms would lash down.

The head of his column was already through Poolesville, where they had waited for a half hour while he and Colonel Duvall had ridden forward to Edwards Ferry. He had hoped against hope that perhaps here might be the crossing. A few minutes of surveying their lines had turned his opinion against it.

The Yankees were well dug in, same as at Hauling Ferry. Entrenchments encircled the crossing he had so easily taken a year earlier during the Sharpsburg campaign. Four of the dreaded, hundred-pound Parrott guns guarded the crossing, backed up by at least two batteries of thirty-pounders and at least five thousand infantry.

If I had a fresh corps up, two or three battalions of artillery in support, I might venture it, Longstreet thought. It would cost, but we could do it. But that would take the rest of the-day, his column staggering along behind him, ten miles to the rear. Gather here, and it will be dusk before we can even hope to force the position, and that will give Grant time to close in from the rear.

Even as he surveyed the position, canal boats were passing by, ladened down with infantry and hundreds of colored civilians, all of them carrying shovels, picks, saws.

Has Lincoln drafted the colored of Washington? he wondered. If so, that would explain the massive fortifications confronting him.

He saw a banner draped on the side of one of the barges: WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS.

He rode back to the head of the column, men standing back up after their noonday break, ready to resume the forced march.

"Duvall, scout ahead. We parallel the canal but out of sight of the Yankees along it. Find a spot where we can force a way across. The river can't be too wide where we cross, ideally with an island in the middle. Now ride!"

And the column had set off, afternoon sun blazing down.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Near Barnesville, Maryland

1:00 P.M.

The distant rattle of skirmishing echoed from farther down the road. The men in the column, which had stopped, leaned wearily on their rifles, ordered to stand in place, to not break ranks.

Since late morning, any break had resulted in scores and hundreds of exhausted men refusing to get up again, regardless of the threats of their officers or provost guards.

Grant could not blame them. They were numb from exhaustion. These were men pushed to the limit and beyond, survivors of the Hornets Nest. Many of the regiments were reduced to little more than company size-a mere fifty men gathered around a flag where there would once have been five hundred.

Phil Sheridan came trotting up the road toward him, grinning.

"We're hitting the back end of Longstreet's column just ahead," he announced. "We're right behind him." 'Then keep pushing," Grant replied sharply. "Keep pushing."

Five Miles West of Seneca Crossing on the Potomac 2:15 P.M.

Col. Phil Duvall slowly stood up, General Longstreet by his side. The crossing below was swarming with Yankee troops getting off canal boats and starting to form up. They both scanned the line with their field glasses. Duvall lowered his glasses and looked over at Longstreet. "We have to try it," Longstreet said. Duvall nodded, not replying.

Longstreet looked over at the young colonel. General Lee had pushed ahead to try to secure their flank at Darnestown while Pete had been ordered to take a narrow lane down to this crossing with his troops to see if they could somehow seize the position.

He had most of Scales's men up, two thousand men, concealed in the woods, nearly a brigade of cavalry with him.

"All at once," Pete said, turning to look back at Scales. "No artillery, complete surprise. Sweep down and into them. You must take that position."

Scales nodded.

"I can do it," he said quietly. "Then go."

Sergeant Hazner was at the fore of the charge, Colonel Brown by his side. Both were panting for breath. The day had turned scorching hot, and they had not had a drop of water in hours, but both knew that this charge, out of so many charges, was different. This was a race for the survival of themselves and their army.

They had indeed caught the Yankees by surprise. They could see them forming up, struggling to create a volley line.

They were down to less than a hundred yards, running full out.

No volleys, just a scattering of fire to start, and then the volume increasing. Men began to drop.

"Come on!" Brown screamed. "One more time, boys, just one more time!"

Hancock stood up. Leaning against the bow of his canal barge, he saw the smoke rolling up from a field just around the bend in the river.

'Damn!

"Get us ashore here," he shouted.

The steersman angled the boat over and slammed it against the embankment, Hancock nearly losing his footing. A couple of enlisted men, already on the embankment, reached over and half-lifted him out of the boat.

Bartlett started to jump off, but Hancock turned and looked back at him.

"No! Your people stay here!"

"We're needed, too," Jim tried to argue.

"No. You stay here. They've caught us by surprise. Chances are we'll get pushed back, at least for now. Get your men out. Move them back up that way."

He pointed farther along the canal, to a gently rising slope.

"Start digging in there. Build a redoubt. That's what we need now!"

Jim pointed the way, and his men, following in a half dozen barges, leapt for the shore and ran up the slope. Within minutes he had them at work, furiously digging, dragging fallen timber out of a nearby woodlot, tearing down split-rail fences and piling them up, forming a fortification for the Union troops to shelter behind."

The charge began to slow out of sheer exhaustion. They were but fifty yards off, but had run nearly a quarter of mile to gain this ground. One man stopped, and then another, and raised his rifle and fired.

"Come on!" Brown shouted, but the men of the Fourteenth came to a stop, raised rifles, and fired. "Keep moving!"

The thin Union line before them offered another ragged volley. Several more men around Brown and Hazner dropped, but they continued to push forward and the Yankees broke, falling back, most turning to run along the towpath to the west.

The last few yards were covered, and Hazner, bent double with exhaustion, stood at the edge of the canal.

They had made it!

Pete Longstreet rode up, General Scales by his side, and quickly surveyed the ground. A half dozen abandoned barges were floating in the canal, a hundred or so Union casualties along the embankment.

Just below the canal was a short, open flood plain, and beyond the Potomac, on the other side, Virginia! Duvall had picked the spot well. A wooded island lay in the middle of the river, significantly shortening the distance they needed to traverse. On the far shore he spotted a couple of mounted troops, the men standing in their stirrups and waving. Mosby's men. He waved back. Virginia!

He turned to Scales.

"Keep pushing them back. I need an opening here at least two miles wide or more. Keep pushing them back. I will send you everyone I can, and you keep pushing out to form a bridgehead that we can move the pontoon bridge through."

Scales saluted and rode off. Longstreet looked around at his staff.

"Venable, a courier to General Lee. Tell him we've seized a crossing point five miles west of Seneca. Second, a courier up our column to Cruickshank, and tell him to get those damn pontoons forward with all possible speed. The rest of you, as additional men come up, get them to work."

He pointed to a nearby farm, a gristmill, some sheds, and outbuildings.

'Tear them apart. Get any lumber out that we can use for bridging material. Use the barges here to build a bridge across the canal. We need more than what is here and then a corduroy road down to the river. Now move it!"

Longstreet watched as the men set to work.

Maybe, just maybe, we've pulled it off. By tomorrow morning we will be across the river and be out of this damn state.

Near Poolesoille

3:00 P.M.

Cruickshank returned the salute of the officer who had come up. "General Longstreet has seized a crossing point, sir."

"Where?"

"About three miles from here, west of Seneca Crossing." "Damn all to hell," Cruickshank said, shaking his head.

The courier looked at him confused.

"The general insists you come up with all possible speed to bring up the pontoons. I'm to guide you in."

"All possible speed? Just what the hell do you think I've been doing all day?" Cruickshank asked.

"Sir, I'm just carrying orders."

"Yes, I know."

Ahead of him an artillery limber wagon had just lost a wheel, the load collapsing, again stalling traffic on the narrow, rutted road. The crew was struggling to jack the wagon up and replace the wheel, everything behind them stopped.

Cruickshank looked over at the courier.

"Got a drink on you."

"Sir?"

"A drink. Bourbon, gin, anything?"

"I'm a temperance man," the courier replied a bit stiffly.

"I bet you are, damn it."

It took five minutes for the artillery crew to maneuver the wheel into place, secure the lug nut, and the piece lurched forward.

Behind him, with much cursing and swearing, his crew lashed their horses and mules, the twenty-four wagons again rolling forward, wheels sinking deep into the mud that still clung to the road down in hollows and stream crossings.

They edged up to an open field where the artillery crew had pulled over and unhitched their horses to let them graze while men hauled up buckets of water from a stream. An infantry regiment was resting by the side of the road, men sprawled in the damp grass, some taking down fence rails to make fires.

There was a distant rattling behind them and the less weary looked up, turning toward the north. Stuart, in spite of his injuries, was in the saddle, guarding the rear, trying to slow down the relentless advance of Grant. From the sound of gunfire the Yankees were only a couple of miles back.

"Keep it moving," Cruickshank shouted, urging his exhausted teams on. "Keep it moving."

Darnestown, Maryland

3:15 P.M.

His men had covered nearly twenty-five miles since dawn. The militia had long since been left behind, but that did not worry him. The crossroads of this small village was just ahead. General Sykes reined in, shouting orders, the head of the column shaking out into line of battle.

To his right, a mile away, across open fields he could see them coming, red flags held high, shifting from column to line as well. It was a race to secure the village crossroads.

He rode across the front of the line, sword held high, trailed by his staff.

"Men of the Army of the Potomac!" he shouted. "This is your time. This is your time to regain our honor!" A resounding cheer rose up, grim, determined. The battle line swept down toward the advancing foe.

Lee watched with field glasses raised, heart pounding. But an hour more and we could have been into this village, secured it, then turned south toward the Potomac, where surely Longstreet even now is securing a crossing place. And now this.

At the front of his column men were deploying out, the same men battered before Hauling Ferry the day before. There was no cheering now, no defiance. Only a grim silence as lines were formed, ramrods drawn, rifles loaded. One battery was up, unlimbered, opening with a salvo as the advancing blue wave closed to eight hundred yards.

The enemy charge came on, relentless, their cheers filled with a terrible anger.

More of his men were coming up, moving to either flank to broaden out their front, but the men moved slowly, without the elan of but three days past.

The enemy were six hundred yards off. Another volley from the guns, several striking the line, but the charge continued forward.

He drew back to a wooden knoll, staff gathered around him. No one spoke.

Four hundred yards, then three hundred. A regiment in the center raised rifles and fired, too soon he thought, others began to fire as well. Clouds of smoke billowed across the field, and still the charge came forward.

They were relentless, bayonets glistening, cheering madly, not as Union troops cheered in the past, the disciplined three hurrahs, but an almost guttural roar, a scream of rage. An officer on a white horse was in their middle, sword raised, pushing forward, other officers, mounted, joining in as well.

Two hundred yards, and then a hundred yards. They did not slow or waver. The massive blue wave broke into a run.

Several of his regiments presented and fired disciplined volleys. Scores of Yankees dropped, but the charge pressed in.

And then his men broke.

One or two turned at first, then dozens, and finally the entire line shattered apart, men streaming to the rear.

Horrified, Lee said nothing, watching as his valiant army disintegrated under the hammer blow rolling toward them. Above the smoke he saw the Maltese cross of the Fifth Corps. This was not Grant; this was a ghost resurrected- this was the Army of the Potomac, and in that instant he understood the rage, the elan that drove them forward. On this field they were bent on restoring their honor and inflicting their revenge.

He turned Traveler and rode back to the west, joining in with his retreating men.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

3:45 P.M.

"Elihu Washburne?" Grant exclaimed in surprise as the secretary of war came riding up, escorted by several dozen cavalry troopers.

"General, how are you?" Elihu exclaimed, leaning over from his horse to shake Grant's hand.

Grant could not reply at first. He had felt deathly ill all day, barely able to remain in the saddle.

The march had been tedious and frustratingly slow. His own men, to be sure, were exhausted, but then again, so were the rebels they were pursuing. The rebel cavalry, though, was still doing a masterful job of contesting every ford, every place where defendable ground could buy the retreating columns ten or fifteen minutes' respite.

Sheridan was at the fore, driving relentlessly, but for the men in column behind the advance, it was the most exhausting kind of march. Advance a few hundred yards, wait in place maybe for a minute, maybe for a half hour, then sprint forward a quarter mile, then slow down, stop, then lurch forward again.

The sides of the road for miles was littered with the castoffs of an army in retreat. Broken-down limber wagons, overturned and destroyed supply wagons, and prisoners by the hundreds, men who had given up and collapsed.

But it was littered as well with the debris of an exhausted army in pursuit, yet more cast-off equipment, gray-faced soldiers lying by the side of the road, unable to advance another step after so many hard days of marching and three days of pitched fighting.

He could so easily sense the inertia that built at such times, understand why so many generals would, at this moment, call a halt to allow their men to "rest, reorganize, and refit." Regiments were jumbled together, not just men from one regiment slowing and bleeding back into the unit behind them, but entire brigades and divisions were mixed together. All that kept them moving forward now was their own will, the will of each man who, sensing victory, would not give out, and his will as well, driving them forward even if but one man was left standing at the end.

"I have a dispatch from the president. I think it is important that you read it, sir," Elihu said.

Elihu handed the envelope over.

"Yes, sir. Is it urgent?"

"Well, sir, I think you should read it soon, but for the moment it can wait."

"I want to keep pushing," Grant said. "Ride along with me. I'll tell you what is happening and we can discuss the president's wishes when we stop for a few hours."

"Fine with me," Elihu said, and he fell in by Grant's side.

4:00 P.M.

Men were swarming about Longstreet. Some planking had already been laid across the tops of the canal barges to form a rough walkway, not yet se-. cure enough to move wagons on, but in another hour that should be accomplished. Hundreds more were on the narrow ground between the canal and the river, dropping logs down to form a corduroy road. Down at the river's edge men with axes were dropping trees to clear an access way. A dozen men had volunteered to swim out to the island in the middle of the river and even now were hacking a path across it.

Where are the damn bridges?

And, as if in answer to a prayer, he saw the first of them coming down the road, Cruickshank in the lead.

"My God," Longstreet sighed, "we just might pull this off after all."

Jim Bartlett paced back and forth along the line, his men digging furiously. Down by the canal more boats were coming up, off-loading infantry, and more of his own men. Along the towpath an artillery battery was coming up fast, an officer directing them to swing off the path and up the slope to where positions were being dug.

Ahead there was a constant rattle of musketry, drawing closer. Walking up the slope Jim saw Hancock atop the rise, astride a horse, field glasses raised. Jim went to his side.

"You can presently see them down there," Hancock said, and pointed.

Jim looked in the direction Hancock was pointing and just under a mile, perhaps three quarters of a mile away he could see a swarm of men at work, tearing the siding off a mill. Closer, far closer, a line of infantry was advancing in open order, some mounted troopers joined in. A harassing fire buzzed across the field, cutting down stalks of grass around them.

The rough entrenchment, after barely an hour's work, was not much more than knee to thigh deep, but it offered protection enough with the sod and dirt piled up in front, fence railing and logs atop that.

Hancock turned and rode back, shouting for his men to drop their tools, pick up rifles, and get to work.

All up and down the line men fell into place, and within a few minutes fire rippled along the line. Jim stood and watched.

Several men around Jim dropped, some screaming, some just collapsing silently.

"Get down, you damn fool!" someone shouted.

He knelt down inside the trench but continued to watch. He was strangely fascinated by what was happening. His vague memories of 1814, the years in the White House, the memory of watching Lincoln reading the latest casualty reports and walking the corridors alone in the middle of the night. So this is what it is like, he thought. This is battle in all its horror.

He could see the men who were supposed to be his enemy not a hundred fifty yards away, lined up, all of them moving as if in some nightmare, men aiming rifles, apparently straight at him, disappearing from view behind a flash of fire and then smoke, others reloading, others falling. The Union soldiers around him, secure behind the low entrenchment, stood firm. Men tore open cartridges, pouring powder down barrels, one was shot even as he poured, the cartridge flying into the air as he tumbled over a man turning to grab his fallen comrade. The battle continued to rage on, while overhead the skies darkened.

Fioe Miles West of Seneca Crossing 4:05 P.M.

The thunder of battle was close, damn close to his right as he led the column down a farm lane, the wagons behind him barely squeezing through between the trees, and then he saw it, the Potomac.

"I'll be damned." He spurred forward, heading across an open field, riding past a small mill which troops were struggling to tear apart, some with their bare hands. Down at the canal he saw Pete and rode up, saluting. "General Longstreet."

"Cruickshank, it's about time you showed up."

Pete glared at him for a second, and Cruickshank began to bristle. After all that he had been through, if this was the reception, then the hell with him.

Pete smiled and leaned over to shake his hand.

"Get the damn bridges down there and start laying them."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Sir, I thought my job was just to get them here. Where are the engineering troops? That's their job." "Scattered to hell and gone."

"Oh, God damn," Cruickshank sighed, and knew there was no sense in arguing.

"Venable will stay with you. Tell him what you need and he'll see that you get it."

"Yes, sir," Cruickshank said as he turned about. The first of the wagons was coming out of the woods, cutting across the open field, driver hunched low since shot was dropping into the field from the fighting going on to the west.

Venable came up and saluted.

"He said you can get me what I need."

"Yes."

"There must be some engineering troops mixed into this mess. Have someone ask around for anybody who's built one of these damn bridges before and get them down to me."

"I've already done that. We have fifty or so who claimed to have worked on the bridge across the Potomac when the campaign started."

"Fine, then. Also a bottle of whiskey."

Venable reached into his haversack and pulled one out.

"The general said you can have one good slug now, the rest when the bridge is done."

Cruickshank made sure it was a damn big slug before he handed the bottle back.

The first wagon passed, crossing over the roughly made pontoon bridge across the canal, the boats underneath bobbing and swaying. The hard part now was getting down the side of the canal embankment, the driver lashing hard, the wagon skidding sideways and nearly lurching over. Then across the muddy flats and finally to the edge of the river.

Cruickshank rode alongside the wagon till it reached the river, and he dismounted, looking around.

Now what in hell do I do? Men were standing about. He eyeballed the crossing point. Maybe a couple hundred yards to the island where he could see men already at work, cutting a path. Hard to tell how far from the other side to the Virginia shore, maybe a hundred yards. We should have enough.

"Get the wagon into the river, back it in, and float the boat off. The stringers and cross ties, off-load here on shore first."

Men set to work pulling off the heavy lumber and stacking it up, the driver then urging the team to turn in a half circle, the wagon sinking deep into the mud as soon as it ran off the corduroy approach. There it stalled, sinking halfway to its axles.

"God damn it," Cruickshank cried. "Alright, get men to push the damn thing off, gently now, and into the water. I want fifty of you to start building a corduroy turnaround here so we can swing the wagons around."

The second wagon was coming down the canal embankment, barely making it, and Cruickshank ran back to it, yelling for them to stop and wait. The work crew around the first wagon, with much pushing and cursing, finally slid the pontoon boat off the back of the wagon. Cruickshank winced as they pushed it across the rough corduroy of logs, half expecting the bottom would be torn out. At last, the forward end was in the water, the load lightened, and the boat floated.

"Anchor lines should be in the boat," a sergeant announced and he waded out to the boat and jumped in.

The sergeant seemed to know what he was doing, so Cruickshank left him to his work as the sergeant tossed out two cables, anchors on the end of them, and directed men to wade upstream and set them in place. The boat was jockeyed parallel to the shore about twenty feet out, and two more anchor lines were run out downstream and dropped into place.

The sergeant jumped out of the boat and waded back to shore, shaking his head, coming up to Cruickshank.

"Assume you're in charge here, sir?" the sergeant asked.

'That's what they tell me."

"Ever lay a bridge before."

"No."

"Well, sir, the setup here is all wrong. You have just this one approach down to the river. You need a second one alongside it and upstream. That's where the boats should be hauled up to, backed around, and then pushed in. Once we get three or four boats out, it's gonna get tricky with this current maneuvering the following boats in place. You just can't run the following boats onto the bridge and dump them off the end."

Cruickshank nodded. This man knew the job; he didn't, and he realized he had better listen.

"Sir, let me go back and get my regiment. Some of us helped with the pontoon crossing back in the spring. We'll need at least two hundred men to cut the second approach."

"Go get them."

Venable, who was still by Cruickshank's side, rode off, the sergeant jogging alongside him.

The first stringers were laid in place and run out to the anchored boat. Within a couple of minutes he saw another problem. The stringers had been set into the mud on the bank, and, as the crosspieces were laid atop them, the whole thing started to sink.

"God damn it, take it apart," Cruickshank shouted. "We need supports, gravel, logs, something under here. Take it apart!"

He heard shouting and cursing behind him and then a rendering crash, Turning, he looked back. The third wagon had tried to negotiate the steep drop-off from the canal and rolled over on its side, mules tangled up in the mess, kicking and thrashing.

He struggled through the mud, men running toward the wreck. The driver, damn him, was dead, tangled up with his mules and kicked to death. The pontoon was completely staved in on one side.

"Get this wreck cleared," Cruickshank shouted, and then looked at the embankment.

They couldn't cut it down to level it, that would breech the canal. Men would have to be set to work. There wasn't enough time to extend the grade out, that would take hours and hundreds of men with shovels. He'd have to post a hundred here, rig up some cables with men hanging onto them to ease the load as it slid down the embankment.

Venable was coming back, Longstreet by his side. He could see that a regiment was moving behind them, the men obviously not too happy with their sergeant volunteering them for heavy labor.

Longstreet crossed the short bridge over the canal and nearly lost his mount sliding down the embankment slope.

"You've got to straighten this out," Longstreet snapped angrily.

"I'm trying, sir."

"The entire army will start passing through here tonight. This embankment, the grade has to be extended out, paved over with logs, better yet, gravel. We'll lose every artillery piece trying to negotiate it. We need a good approach to the bridge, well paved as well, otherwise the entire army will just flounder into this mud. Now get to it. I don't know how long we can hold this position, so get to it, Cruickshank."

Cruickshank just lowered his head.

"God damn it, sir, I'd like you to accept my resignation," he said wearily.

"What?"

"I'm resigning from this goddamn army. I'm a mule skinner, sir. First you gave me these damn bridges, which I don't know a damn thing about. Then you give me the goddamn railroad, which I definitely knew nothing about, and then you give me these sons of bitches again. Now you're screaming at me to build a goddamn road and a goddamn bridge, which I definitely know goddamn nothing about, goddamnit. I quit."

Longstreet looked down at him and actually smiled.

"You know, Cruickshank, if I wasn't so desperate, I think I'd shoot you."

There was no malice in his voice, just a sad weariness.

"I'd consider it a favor, General."

He dismounted and motioned for Cruickshank to follow him. The two walked off, Longstreet pulling out two cigars, lighting his own and handing the other to Cruickshank.

"We're trapped," Longstreet said softly. "The army is a shambles. I got men from two other corps mixed in with mine right now. My supply train is abandoned. Except for Scales, every one of my division commanders and over half my brigade commanders are down.

"If you don't get that bridge across and damn quick, we are lost, and with us gone, the cause is lost. Do you understand that?"

Cruickshank could not reply. Strange his feelings for this man. There had been times in the past, if given the chance, he'd have kicked his brains out, not even giving him a chance to duel, and then other times, like now, when he couldn't help but like him.

"I'll see what I can do," Cruickshank replied.

"Good, then, damn you. Part of it is my fault. I was too focused on the fight to take this place. I already should have had more men clearing the approach. You'll have a brigade of men working on this shortly."

"A brigade? Three thousand men."

"In this army," Longstreet replied sadly, "a brigade now means five hundred men. Get to work."

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia Five Miles Southeast of Poolesville

4.45P.M.

All around was chaos. Men were staggering back up the road they had forced-marched down but four hours earlier in their drive toward Darnestown, "Damns-town" as they were now calling it.

Supply wagons had been abandoned, pushed to the side of the road to clear the way. Men were told to pull out what they could, especially ammunition. Wounded and exhausted men were mounting horses and mules being cut loose from the traces.

How many times in the past have I seen this? Lee thought. But always it was the other side. Always it was their wagons abandoned, their exhausted men lying by the side of the road, their men collapsing into disorder and disintegration. "General Lee!"

A courier came up, one of Stuart's men, a newly promoted regimental commander, Colonel Duvall, followed by several dozen troopers.

"Sir, we got a crossing. The bridge is being built even now," Duvall cried excitedly.

"Where?"

"Sir, it's a rough track down to it. A lot of your men have already marched past the turnoff. General Longstreet, as ordered, tried for Edwards Ferry but it was too heavily fortified. He finally pushed down, about halfway between Edwards Ferry and Seneca. It's a good spot, sir, island halfway across."

Lee looked over at Walter and smiled. "Pete came through for us," he said.

Walter, expressionless, could only nod in agreement.

"I want a solid rear guard to be maintained. Slow down the Army of the Potomac behind us. If need be, sacrifice some of the artillery to do so. We need breathing space. I'm going up to see what we can do with this."

Lee set off with Duvall. In the column he spotted Judah Benjamin and reined in beside him.

"Good news, Mr. Secretary," Lee announced. "We have a crossing."

Judah nodded wearily but said nothing, silently falling in by Lee's side as the general continued to push his way up the road.

The Crossing 5:45 P.M.

Some semblance of organization was taking hold. Hundreds of men were dragging logs, brush, anything to lay down to create a roadway from the canal to the crossing. The sixth pontoon was in the water, the bridge now extending out over sixty yards. The sergeant in charge of construction was hurrying back and forth, urging men on. The crews were starting to learn the routine of maneuvering a boat into place, anchor it, span the gap with the heavy thirty-foot-long stringers, bolt them down on to the gunwale of the boat, then start laying the cross ties of heavy planking.

Cruickshank stood at the edge of the bridge watching as the sixth boat was steered down from where it had been pushed in forty yards upstream, men along the gunwale using bits of board and planking as oars and poles.

The current was stronger as they approached the middle of the river, the maneuvering more difficult, men shouting at each other, contradicting each other. The anchor lines went out and the boat stopped, but it was not lined up correctly, having drifted a dozen feet below the axis of the bridge. There was more swearing and yelling. A couple of men jumped over the side, but the river was too deep and they were swept away, one disappearing, the other floundering back to shore.

Men up at the bow pulled on the anchor lines, gradually hauling the boat into a near alignment, a couple of feet off center but about as close as they could get.

"Stringers!"

Cruickshank stepped off the bridge and down into the pontoon bridge, feeling it rock and sway as men ran up, pushing and struggling. Men aboard the anchored boat threw lines over, the lines were lashed to the ends of the stringers, and between the crew on the next boat out pulling and men on the edge of the bridge pushing, the stringer went across and was locked into place.

More men came up, two to each plank, dropping the cross ties into place, and another thirty feet was spanned.

The next boat was now easing into the river and Cruickshank actually felt that for once he was pulling something off correctly. Every man about him knew what was at stake, and though more than one man finally had to stagger off to one side to collapse from total exhaustion, others filled in.

The survival of the Army of Northern Virginia was as dependent on them now as it had ever been on any volley line.

To one flank the rattie of musketry continued, Scales holding back the Yankees to the west.

Hancock grinned as the team of black laborers, a hundred of them to each piece, urged on by Jim Bartlett, dragged two of the thirty-pound Parrotts up the slope. The horses had been left behind, but the men were here to help maneuver the weapons into place. Others were hauling up the shells and wooden tubes containing the ten pounds of powder needed for each shot. Two more guns were on the next barge, teams of men struggling to off-load them.

The first two guns were rolled into place. The range was just about a mile, long shooting for a three-inch ordnance rifle, but well within the capability of the heavier pieces.

A captain of artillery came up to Hancock's side and saluted. Hancock merely pointed down to the river. "Lovely," the captain exclaimed, "just lovely." "Let's try some case shot for openers, nine-second fuses!" The crews set to work, the captain standing behind each piece, carefully setting the rear sight in place, gunnery sergeants following his directions as they dropped elevation screws.

Powder was rammed in, followed by the shells. The captain stood back and looked over at Hancock. "Care for a shot, General?"

Hancock grinned and limped over, picking up the lanyard. He caught Jim's eye.

"Mr. Bartlett, after all you've done, why don't you take the other one."

Jim nervously walked up to the breech of the gun, the sergeant looking at him over with a jaundiced eye, but then under the gaze of the general he relented and handed it over.

"Just step back till it's taut," the sergeant said. "When the captain gives the command, step back hard, jerk, and turn away."

Jim did as directed, the line taut in his hand. "Fire in sequence so we can judge the shot," the captain announced.

"Number one!" He pointed toward Hancock. "Fire!"

The thirty-pounder leapt back with a sharp recoil, a tongue of flame bursting from the muzzle. The noise was stunning. "Number two!"

Jim gripped the lanyard and thought of his son and grandson, wondering what they would say of this moment. Though he and his men had not been in the fight directly, still here, at least, was one shot that might count.

"Fire!"

He stepped back, pulled, but nothing happened and several men laughed good-naturedly. "Harder!" the sergeant yelled.

This time he threw what little weight he had into it, and nearly stumbled backward. The gun leapt back with a roar.

Grinning, he looked over at Hancock, who gave him a friendly salute.

"Something to tell your grandkids about," Hancock shouted.

Cruickshank looked up, heard the shell screaming in, a geyser of water erupting about fifty yards upstream. Men working along the bridge flattened themselves. Seconds later a second shot, this one overhead, a sudden flash, water around the bridge spraying up from the cascade of case shot, several men dropping. A heavy shell fragment slashed into one of the boats, seconds later someone was crying they had a leak.

Cruickshank stood up, looking to the west, and saw the two puffs of smoke from a distant rise.

Must be thirty-pounders, he thought, and then a bit forward there were more puffs. Seconds later half a dozen lighter shells rained in, five of the six scattering wide, dropping into the muddy embankment, one kicking up a geyser in midstream, but one striking and exploding on the embankment of the canal. "Watch it!"

He turned to look back. The crew of the seventh boat had ducked down when the first two shells came in and now the boat was broaching, turning sideways. Carried on the current it slammed into the sixth boat, which had just been anchored.

The anchor lines of the sixth boat let go from the impact, and now the entire front of the bridge started to buckle, bending, groaning. Men ran about shouting. He could feel the entire bridge swaying beneath him.

"Drop the front end!" someone screamed; it was the sergeant in command.

The men in the sixth boat worked frantically, trying to pull the bolts from the stringers that locked them to the gunnel, and then the gunnel itself just ripped away, stringers dropping into the water, half sinking, the sixth and seventh boats now wrapped around each other and drifting downstream.

The pressure on the bridge eased off, and it straightened, planking that had connected the fifth boat to the sixth dropping into the water until only the two stringers were left, bobbing in the water.

"Damn all to hell." Cruickshank sighed as he sat down and buried his head in his hands.

Cruickshank!" It was Pete, coming toward him. He didn't even bother to look up.

5:45 P.M.

This is it?" Lee asked as Duvall reined in and pointed down a narrow farm lane. "Yes, sir."

Lee looked at the road. It was barely a dirt track, a pathway used occasionally by some farmer gathering wood for the winter, perhaps cut through years ago when the forests here were first harvested and now barely used. It was apparent, though, that it had seen recent heavy use, the track muddy, torn up by the passage of troops.

"The road General Longstreet used was a bit farther over, but this is the quickest way down to where the bridge is going in."

The men filing along the road back toward Poolesville had been passing this point for at least an hour or two. He would have to send someone forward to stop and reverse them and it would be a mad tangle, for the rest of his column five miles back would have to turn off here as well.

Lee looked around, watching as men continued to file past.

He turned to a cavalry sergeant who along with several other troopers stood by the side of the road.

"Halt the column, Sergeant," Lee said. "Have them stop right here, and pass the word back up the line for the men to fall out for rest and to eat. I should be back within the hour."

He turned down the track, Duvall in the lead, his men drawing pistols as they rode into the woods. From nearly all directions could be heard distant fire, the thumping of artillery, joined now by a deep rumble ahead.

6:15 P.M.

'The light was rapidly failing, the combination of the sun setting and the storm clouds continuing to build up to the west Two more boats were out in the river, being jockeyed into place. Yet another boat was almost across to the island, Longstreet suggesting that they start building the bridge from both sides, something that Cruickshank knew he should have thought of, but exhaustion was completely overwhelming him.

After the shock of the first two shells coming in, the men had set to work as if the enemy fire was a goad. Watchers kept an eye on the distant ridge, and the moment they saw the flash of what were now four of the thirty-pounders, a warning went up.

Another boat had been destroyed, as it was being rolled up to be off-loaded into the river, taking a nearly direct hit and just shattering. The two boats that had washed downstream were slowly being kedged up, and were now waiting to be shifted into place.

Another shell came in, this one nearly striking the bridge at midsection, the pontoons rocking and swaying from the impact, another boat springing a leak, a man tearing his jacket off to use as a plug.

Nearly all of the pontoon train was now parked in the flat land below the canal, crews manhandling the boats off rather than waiting for each to be backed into the water, and simply dragged along and pushed in. More leaks were being sprung but the time saved was worth it, bailers would be set to work in each once they were in place.

The bridge was pushing forward. They were out to their tenth boat now well past midstream, the crews on the other side within hailing distance, one of them shouting that they only had to span seventy-five yards or so once across the island. The good news was that infantry could wade the last few yards through chest-deep water to Virginia soil once they were across the island.

Additional boatloads of men were already being sent across, armed with axes and shovels, to clear a road across the island and start work on the approach on the far side.

The eleventh boat was anchored into place, two more shells detonating over the river, more men dropping, but the work continued. Stringers were run across, planking laid. A man leapt off the boat on the far side and stood in the water, bracing against the current!

"Its getting shallower!" he shouted, a ragged cheer rising up from the makeshift engineers.

6:15 PM.

General Longstreet!" Pete looked up and to his amazement saw Lee approaching, guided by Duvall. "Sir!"

Pete rode the last few feet to Lee's side.

Lee said nothing for a moment, looking down at the bridge spanning the Potomac and a shell exploding among the wagons where the pontoons were being unloaded.

"I can have it finished in another two or three hours," Pete said.

"Those guns, though," and Lee pointed to the west, the distant puffs of smoke.

The two batteries Pete had brought up were trying to suppress the enemy fire, but only one of them was comprised of rifled pieces, the others were smoothbores, and so far they had had no effect either on the thirty-pounders or the lighter ten-pounders.

"Can you not push those guns back?" Lee asked.

"I have Scales covering that flank. He's trying as hard as he can, sir. But the numbers are about even and their forward line of infantry is dug in."

Lee took it all in. It was a marvel that Pete had indeed accomplished this, but the. approach would be difficult. It might very well mean abandoning nearly all their remaining artillery and wagons.

"Did you receive my dispatch about what happened at Darnestown?"

"Sir?"

Lee shook his head.

"We are flanked to the east, Pete. Our old adversaries, the Army of the Potomac. They closed off that approach. Even now they are pressing the rear of my column."

"I didn't know, sir. I thought we had destroyed the Army of the Potomac twice now. Their resilience is amazing."

"You must watch your own flank carefully," Lee said, pointing east.

"I barely have the men left," Pete replied. "What's left of Rodes and Anderson?"

He pointed across the open field where scattered commands were resting, waiting for the bridge to be finished.

"Form them up now," Lee said. "I fear that part of the Army of the Potomac might advance along the canal and try and strike you here."

"I have patrols out, sir. I need to rest these men in case they are needed as a reserve. They fought all day yesterday and have been on the road since midnight. Rations are short as well. Some haven't had a bite to eat all day."

"Please see to it anyway. Form them up now."

"Yes, sir."

"I will shift my column down this way. Expect the head of it to arrive within two to three hours." "Yes, sir."

Lee turned and Duvall fell in by his side to provide escort.

Lee rode slowly, looking back occasionally toward the river. So tantalizingly close. We could have the bulk of our men across by tomorrow morning. Something in his heart told him not to exult just yet.

As they reached the edge of the woods mere was a tattoo of rifle fire from the east, and within seconds it rose to a shattering explosion of volley fire.

Pete Longstreet turned away as Lee rode north. He could see that another boat was being maneuvered into place, men standing in the water. Now that it was shallower, the work would go quicker. And then the first pistol shots echoed. Looking toward the east he saw several mounted men, riding hard, one firing his pistol in the air as he galloped. Behind them, a hundred yards back, a darker mass was approaching… Union cavalry!

Across the field where the rest of his corps had been keeping low, waiting for the bridge to be finished, men were stirring, standing up, grabbing stacked rifles, starting to form.

The column of Yankee cavalry came on at a gallop, reaching the edge of the field, spreading out as they did so. Behind them a column of infantry was visible, coming at the double.

He raised his field glasses, focused on the lead flag… a fluttering triangle, a red Maltese cross in the middle.

"Damn, the Army of the Potomac."

Winfield Scott Hancock stirred, looked up as his staff began to shout, pointing down toward the crossing. Behind him an assault column was forming up, men brought down from Point of Rocks and Nolands Ferry. He had kept the garrison at Edwards Ferry in place, except for the removal of the four thirty-pounders. There was always the chance that if he stripped out there, Lee could swing on the position and still try to take it. His reinforcements were coming, but it was taking so damn long, and now they were arriving at last. In another half hour, just before full dark, he planned to go in with everything he had and try to dislodge them before they finished the bridge.

"It's our boys!" someone shouted. "Look over there, our boys!"

Winfield raised his field glasses and looked to where they were pointing, the view momentarily obscured from the smoke of one of the thirty-pounders going off.

And then he saw it, cavalry, a regiment at least, maybe two, but behind them, infantry, a dark blue mass, national colors at the fore, and alongside them, fluttering out for a second, a large triangle, red Maltese cross in the middle.

He wept unashamedly at the sight of it. It was the old Fifth Corps, men of his army, men of the Army of the Potomac, trusted comrades in so many fights.

"Up, boys, up!" Hancock shouted.

The troops lying in the field on the opposite slope were already on their feet, sensing from the excitement of the officers around the guns that something was about to happen.

Hancock turned back to face them.

"It's the Army of the Potomac!" he shouted. 'They're closing in from the other side. Let's join them and finish this!"

A resounding cheer arose. The men who but a minute before were nervously awaiting the orders to charge could not now be held back. They started up the slope, passing through the guns, which fell silent.

Several of Hancock's staff helped him to mount. He fell in alongside the advancing lines, struggling to draw his sword, pointing it forward. A rider came up beside him, wearing an army slouch cap that looked rather absurd when contrasted with his mud-covered butler's jacket.

"I'm not missing this, sir!" Bartlett shouted.

"Come on then, old man!" Hancock roared.

The charge swept down the slope.

Bartlett looked back. Mingled in with the infantry were many of "his" men, carrying axes and shovels, racing forward as well.

6:40 PM.

Pete Longstreet was silent, turning back and forth, watching as the vise closed. If they had planned this, it could not have been done more masterfully, he realized. We could have been to the island in another thirty minutes; if need be, men could have started crossing and waded the last few yards to the other side, to Virginia.

Panic was breaking out. Scales's men were on the run, falling back toward the center, a wall of Union infantry in pursuit. From the other side of the clearing Anderson and Rodes's men were holding for the moment, but more and more infantry were coming up the towpath on the double, pushing into the fight.

"General, we have to get out!"

It was Scales, wide-eyed, hat gone, his voice edged with hysteria.

"Can't you hold?" Longstreet cried.

"With what, sir? If I had the men I had at Fort Stevens, if I had the men I had but three days ago, yes, but not now. Not now, damn it!"

The work crews at the bridge had stopped, were looking in one direction and then the other.

From the far side of the field men were beginning to break as more men of the Army of the Potomac surged into the fight.

More officers were coming up to Pete, shouting, asking for orders, yelling they had to get out.

Pete was silent, gazing at the bridge… the damn bridge. If we had had it in but one day ago, we'd all be across. We'd still have an army.

A shell detonated down where the remaining bridging material had been unloaded, striking a wagon with a pontoon still on it, the entire affair blowing apart, mules collapsing, screaming, and that set the panic off. Men turned away and started to run toward the canal embankment to get out. Others stormed onto the bridge itself as if instinct was telling them safety lay to the south.

"Order the men out," Pete said. "Full retreat."

He turned his horse, and started north, staff falling in with him.

He turned and saw Brown, down on the ground. Hazner turned and ran back to the colonel's side.

Horrified, he saw that the colonel had been shot in the back.

Hazner tried to pick him up, but the man screamed and he gently set him back down.

"Hazner. Guess this is it," Brown said.

"No, sir. I'll get you out."

Brown feebly motioned back. The Yankees, advancing in the twilight, were less than fifty yards off.

"Not this time, my friend," Brown said.

Brown fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pocket Bible.

"My diary, a few notes inside the Bible for my wife. See that she gets them."

Hazner gulped hard and nodded.

"Now go!"

Hazner stood up and stuck them in his haversack, to rest alongside another diary, that of his old friend killed at Union Mills. He felt as if the burden he carried was more than he could bear.

He saw young lieutenant Hurt limping along, blood dripping from a flesh wound to the leg.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Hazner shouted, gulping back his tears. "Let's get the hell out of here."

He grabbed the lieutenant, half lifted him, and together they ran.

They were running. Never had Chamberlain seen the rebels run like this before. Not at Fredericksburg, definitely not at Taneytown. He rode at the front of the advance as it swept along the canal path. Men were no longer shooting, just charging past the rebels as they dropped rifles, some putting their hands up, some collapsing, others still running. A mob of them were pouring over a makeshift bridge spanning the canal, and he pointed toward it. Though this was not his command, the men seemed to follow his orders, and they raced toward the canal crossing, shouting and cheering.

He fell in with them, crossing the canal, then nearly losing his seat as his horse slid down the far side of the embankment. He grimaced, the agony in his hips feeling as if someone had stuck a hot poker through his side.

The infantry with him spread out across the flood plain, driving hundreds of rebels before them, the enemy running, nearly all of them without weapons. They funneled onto the bridge, and he pushed forward. He had his sword out, could barely wield it, but when he did, he struck out with only the flat side of it.

They reached the approach to the bridge, the rebel mob running before them. An officer on horseback came riding up, infantry following.

"Form a volley line!"

He turned and saw the men spreading out, raising their rifles.

"Volley fire on my command!"

"For God's sake, no!" Chamberlain cried, and rode directly in front of the men.

"Who in goddamn hell are you?" the officer roared. "Colonel Chamberlain."

"Well, Colonel, this is not your command, and I outrank you."

Chamberlain saw the glint of a single star on the man's shoulders.

"You will not fire!" Chamberlain shouted, looking past the general to the infantry forming up.

'They're beaten. It would be murder." He paused. "They are no longer our foes."

The infantry lining up, as if guided by a single hand, grounded their rifles, some nodding. "Bully for you, sir," one of them shouted.

"I'll have you for this, Chamberlain," the general shouted.

"Yes, sir, report me to General Sykes. We are soldiers, not murderers, and if you plan to shoot, I will be in front of you when you do."

There was a long pause, and with a curse the general jerked his reins and rode off.

Alone, Chamberlain turned and rode onto the bridge. The back of the mob was barely visible in the twilight and then they just seemed to disappear, men leaping off the sides of the bridge, off the front of it. Some were down in the boats hiding. He rode on, saber drawn but down by his side, and he heard some infantry behind him, the men it seemed whom he had unintentionally taken command of.

Hundreds of rebels were in the river, heads bobbing, those who could not swim being swept away, their cries horrifying. Others were already crawling up onto the island, standing silent, looking back.

He rode to the end of the bridge. A lone man was standing there, arms folded, hat brim pulled low, a general, with a roughly made star stitched to his collar.

"I think, sir, you are my prisoner," Chamberlain said.

"Goddamn," the man sighed.

"Sir?"

"Just that, goddamn," the rebel said. Chamberlain smiled. "Profanity won't change it."

"Frankly, I don't want it changed. I'm goddamn glad it's over." "I see."

The man looked up at him.

"Would you happen to have a bottle on you, some good bourbon perhaps?"

"I'm a temperance man," Chamberlain replied.

'Typical of my luck," Cruickshank replied. "Get taken prisoner by a temperance man." 'My men, my men," Lee sighed, watching as what was left of Longstreet's once valiant corps came staggering across the fields and into the woods. And then he saw Pete riding up to him and let out a cry of relief.

"I'm sorry, sir," Pete said woodenly. "Sorry, I just wish…"

"Come along, General," Lee said softly. "If there is fault, it is mine. Come along now. We must plan for tomorrow. It is not over yet."