General Warren, when will you be ready to commit?" Dan shouted, eyes wide, face contorted in anger as the commander of his Sixth Corps rode up.

Maj. Gen. Gouverneur Warren rode up to Sickles and saluted.

"Sir, my First Division is already in support of Birney."

"I want the rest of your corps in now; push them right up the center. I ordered that an hour ago, General."

"Sir, we are deploying even now in the valley back there." Warren pointed to the ravine of Gunpowder River.

"I want them now. By God, Gouverneur, we are ready to bowl those rebels over."

Warren looked past Sickles, to the hundreds of wounded painfully staggering back from the front line two hundred yards away, the boiling clouds of smoke. Just behind Sickles, a battery of three-inch rifles fired a salvo, redoubling the smoke around them, and Warren shook his head.

"A word of caution, sir."

"I have no time for caution now. We're on the edge of driving them from this field. Their fire has been slacking off. The time is now."

"Sir. The Sixth Corps is your only reserve. We've only marked the location of two of their divisions, Pickett here, and McLaws to the north, facing the Fifth Corps. Where is the rest of Lee's army?"

"Undoubtedly they are coming up," Sickles cried, "but they are not here yet If I can destroy two of their divisions before the rest arrive, we might get them rolling back and running."

"Sir, that is Lee over there," Warren replied, trying to stay calm, for it was evident that the commander of the Army of the Potomac was caught up in battle hysteria. "I think I should advise caution. You've done a masterful job, sir, but the losses to your old corps are heavy; we can both see that. Push them back tactically, sir, but do not go in with a full pursuit now. The men are exhausted, the heat is killing. Just do a local advance so they break, then stop and consolidate our forces so we can respond to whatever Lee is preparing."

He pointed back across the Gunpowder River.

"That is good ground back there; pull back, dig in, then let the rest of Lee's forces come to us, and we will defeat them from a sound defensive position at little risk to ourselves."

"Did I ask you for advice?"

"No, sir, but perhaps advice is needed," Warren replied. "Sir, I know ground. Remember, I was topographer for this army before you promoted me. You have a good position here. The good ground is right at your back. Hold on the north bank of this river. Let Lee come up, and then savage him. We have but half the numbers we did at Chancellorsville. We don't have the reserves for an aggressive pursuit"

"And Lee would have good ground on this side of the river if we give it back to him! We are driving them," Sickles replied sharply. "I listened to caution at Chancellorsville, at Gettysburg, and Union Mills. We've caught two of their divisions out in the open. We will roll them up and destroy these divisions and then do the same to the rest of those damn rebels tonight and tomorrow. Now put your men in!"

Warren was silent for a moment looking straight at Sickles.

Wearily, he saluted. "Yes, sir."

Near Christiana, Pennsylvania

August 19,1863 5:00 P.M.

His horse collapsed, sighing, going down on its knees, and he felt a moment of pity as he pulled his feet from the stirrups and dismounted.

It was a beautiful animal, chestnut, well-bred, and he had driven it without mercy throughout the day. As a born horseman, he felt revulsion at having pushed mis faithful animal to the point of death.

Tradition demanded that he shoot it, not let it fall into enemy hands, but he could not bring himself to do it as the stallion looked up at him wide-eyed, panting hard, lathered in sweat

He turned to one of his few remaining adjutants. "Get my saddle off him; find me another mount," Wade barked.

His staff wearily dismounted, one of the men gently urging the trembling beast back up to its feet so they could undo the saddle and bridle.

They were atop a low ridge. In the valley looking back toward the village of Christiana, he saw hundreds of his troopers streaming across the open fields and farm lots. The incessant crackle of carbine fire echoed in the distance and there, a mile away, the damnable Yankees, still on his tail, still pressing, still keeping pace.

How could they? he wondered, filled with mixed admiration and rage. These were not Yankee troopers, they couldn't be. Anytime in the past he would have left them a dozen miles in the rear by now, and yet doggedly they pressed on, scooping up those exhausted men of his dwindling brigade who fell behind.

He had long since abandoned his battery of guns, the artillerymen cutting the axles and spiking the touchholes. The few supply wagons loaded with ammunition had been abandoned as well, so that his men rode only with what they carried in their cartridge boxes and saddlebags.

He would still outrun them; he had to. Never had this happened across the entire war, and he would not be the first of Stuart's cavaliers to be cut off and ignobly defeated by a bunch of damn shopkeepers and mechanics on horseback.

The Battle of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 19,1863 5:10 P.M.

General Longstreet, thank God!" Pete rode up to George's side. His division commander looked on the edge of complete collapse, hat gone, arm in a sling, blood dripping down his uniform and on to his leg.

Pete took all this in with a sharp glance. For the last half hour, in his final dash up to the front, he had seen the wreckage of battle streaming to the rear, wounded by the hundreds, ambulances filled with casualties, men staggering back, dropping from heat exhaustion, dead men sprawled in the middle of the road, and always forward the incessant roar of a pitched battle.

"What is going on here?" Longstreet cried.

"Sir, as ordered, we advanced out of Baltimore shortly after dawn," Pickett gasped. "At around two I deployed into battle formation, three brigade front, and moved forward to relieve General Stuart. We ran smack into the middle of their Third Corps, one division to start. We met them head-on and gave them hell."

He sighed, trembling, swaying in the saddle, so that Pete had to lean over and brace him.

"Go on."

"Sir. They brought up a second division, deployed to my left, so I extended my line, then a third division, which forced me to withdraw several hundred yards and refuse the left. I know McLaws is to my north, but I couldn't extend enough to make a solid front and lost contact with him. Now I think their Sixth Corps is coming in. We've held them for three hours, but if their Sixth comes in, I think we'll be forced back."

His voice trailed off for a moment and he lowered his head.

"My God, Pete. My division. My boys. I think I've lost half my men in this fight. We can't hold much longer. I need support."

"You weren't supposed to do this!" Pete roared. "You were to engage, then withdraw slowly back on your support."

Pickett looked at him wide-eyed, unable to speak.

"You were to fall back, not wreck your division!"

"I'm sorry, sir," George replied, voice breaking. "I felt I could handle them, and I did until they brought up another corps."

"General Hood's been forced to move his lead division farther forward to try and support you!" Pete shouted. "His men have forced-marched over forty miles. You were to fall back, damn it!"

Longstreet looked past Pickett to the volley line, shadowy in the smoke. This was typical of George, focusing on the ground. Ground that had been insignificant a day before, now suddenly so important that a thousand should die holding it, if for no other reason than pride. Now he had bled most of his division out fighting an entire corps. Granted, he had most likely given back as good as he received, but still, the butcher bill was beyond anything he or Lee wanted to pay.