"There's hell to pay up there," McLaws shouted. "It's madness. You'd think the entire city's sold itself to the devil."

"What is the situation, gentlemen?" Lee asked sharply.

'To be honest, sir, we're not sure," Stuart interjected. "We got in without a fight, as you saw, but about four blocks back it started getting ugly. The fort blew a few minutes ago; guess you saw that. The garrison is making a run for the harbor."

"I no longer care about that!" Lee snapped. "I want this city intact, not a smoking ruin. And I want it done peacefully. What I've seen so far is barbaric."

"It's not us, sir," Stuart said defensively. “It's these damn civilians, both sides. You think all the hatred these last two years is boiling out They're killing each other without mercy."

"I want it stopped now, General Stuart Now!"

He shouted the last word, half standing in his stirrups.

"Get your men fanned out along every street and thoroughfare. I want the word passed that everyone is to return to their homes. The city is now under the martial law of the Confederacy and a twenty-four-hour curfew is in place. I want that done now."

"Sir. I don't think many will listen."

Lee looked around, exasperated. From a block away, up a side alley, he saw two men pointing toward them One lowered a pistol and fired several shots. At such a range, of course, the rounds missed, but two of his guards set off in pursuit He wanted to shout for them to come back, but they disappeared around a corner. More shots, and no one came back.

His army was not trained for this, had no experience at all in how to take a city and then control it Even as he thought that, one of his attempted assailants stepped back from around the corner, making a rude gesture and a defiant wave. This time he had a carbine and lowered it to take another shot A volley from some of Pickett's men dropped him.

We are out of our depth here, Lee realized. For the first time in a very long while he was flustered, not sure how to act, what orders to give. This was not as easy as simply ordering a division out of line and sending them in. They'd done that a hundred times; everyone down to the dimmest private knew his role. But here?

"General Stuart Cavalry to stay together in troops; do not let your men split up or get lured off. Infantry to move in company strength. I'll establish headquarters…"

He hesitated. Where?

"Mount Vernon Square. It's half a dozen blocks from here. I'll be at the center of the square. General McLaws, you are to advance down to the harbor. I want a courier sent down to Fort McHenry. We will offer a temporary truce. Ask the commander to please cease any thoughts of firing upon the city and to aid us in containing the fires and the rioting. Any Union troops still in organized formations and attempting to maintain order will be granted free passage back to their lines once order is restored."

"I doubt if he'll go for it sir," McLaws said. "He's a real firebrand."

"Then that is on his head, not ours. If he goes for it or not any Union troops you see in formation or attempting to control this madness, grant them a truce, assistance if they need it then the right to leave."

"With arms?"

"Yes, with arms," Lee replied, exasperated at such a picky detail. "They'll need them against this madness. I want those fleeing to be aided and assisted with safe passage."

"Sir, what about the…" Stuart began, then hesitated, "the colored?"

"The what?"

"The colored, sir. Some of my men just reported that thousands of them are fleeing north. Many of them are slaves, sir, or runaways from Virginia. By right they should be returned to their masters."

"Like the two I saw several blocks back?" Lee asked.

"Sir?"

"I just saw two dead Negroes, one of them a boy hanging from a tree, the other a woman with her throat cut; is that what you mean?"

Stuart lowered his head and said nothing.

Another explosion rocked the plaza ahead, debris soaring heavenward, tiny fragments raining down around them long seconds later.

"I want the colored left alone. Let them flee if they wish."

"But the slaves?"

"General Stuart, just how in God's name will you tell the difference?"

All were again startled by his rage.

"I don't know, sir," Stuart said woodenly.

"Then don't bother with it."

"Sir," Taylor said softly. "Remember, the president is just outside the city. If he hears you've willingly allowed slaves to escape, there could be problems."

"Then, sir," Lee snapped, "I suggest you go back out of this city, bring the president here, make sure he sees that hanging, and let him pass the order as to what to do. We are a Christian army that has fought with honor, and I still propose that we maintain that honor. I will not tolerate what we just saw back there."

Taylor, absolutely crestfallen, lowered his head.

Lee took a deep breath. The fear of earlier, the confusion as to what to do in this strange, new battlefield, then the outrage had overtaken him for a moment He turned away, mastering his passion; and looked back.

"I apologize, Walter. You were doing your job."

"No apology needed, sir."

Lee leaned over and in a gesture of remorse lightly patted him on the arm.

"Gentlemen. Remember, we are gentlemen," he said softly. "I want this city brought under control. As I said, I will establish headquarters at Mount Vernon Square. General McLaws, pass the message to the commander down at Fort McHenry. General Stuart start moving your men out as ordered. Taylor, locate General Longstreet and ask him to come to my headquarters. Finally, locate Pickett and order him to start spreading his division out and make sure they understand my orders as well."

The gathering looked at him for a moment trying to process all that he said. Again there was a flash of exasperation.

"Move!"

The group scattered.

With his escort pulled in tight around him, Lee pressed into the city.

Baltimore

July 21 1863 5.00pm

Hey, niggers!" John Miller slowed. At the street comer ahead, a cordon had been set up. A rough barricade of tom-up cobblestones, an overturned delivery wagon, and bits of lumber blocked the way. Behind him hundreds of blacks from his community were surging forward. Behind them the city looked like something out of the Bible, of Sodom and Gomorrah, flames soaring heavenward, explosions rocking the harbor, and now this line of men armed with clubs and guns.

To his dismay he did not see any indication that they were the Loyal League, who had freely let them pass several blocks back, though more than one taunt was hurled about a black Moses leading his children.

He slowed.

"Where you going, boy?" one of the toughs asked, stepping out from behind the barricade.

"Out of this city. We're going north."

"Oh, no you ain't. You're runaways. Now git back home where you belong."

"We're freemen, and we can go where we please."

"Don't back-talk me." The man came forward, raising an axe handle threateningly.

All was silent for a long moment.

"We're leaving the city," John said quietly, looking the man straight in the eye.

"God damn you!"

The handle came down. The man was clumsy, obviously not used to the type of dark-alley brawls that John had grown up with. He easily dodged the blow and with a single strike from a curled-up fist knocked the man flat

"The son of a bitch hit George!" someone screamed from behind the barricade.

John looked up and saw a rifle being leveled, aimed straight at him. Before he could even begin to react, the gun went off. He heard a scream, looked, and saw his young son stagger backward from the blow.

A wild madness now seized him. He raced the dozen feet to the barricade, reaching into the haversack by his side, drawing out an antique pistol, an old flintlock that his grand-daddy claimed to have carried against the British in 1814. He cocked it even as he ran. Stopping on the far side of the barricade, he leveled the piece straight at the man who had shot his son, and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a thunderous report, kicking his hand heavenward. The rifleman seemed to leap backward.