My God, did they have artillery here?

Saddles were emptying around him from the enfilading fire. A trooper came up to his side, leading a riderless mount.

"General, sir, might I suggest we get the hell outta here?" the sergeant shouted. Custer remounted.

He scanned the action. The ravine was full of horses; it was hard to count them in all the confusion. A reb came up out of the ravine, raised a carbine, pointing straight at him. The sergeant next to him dropped the man with three shots from his revolver.

"General, sir!"

Custer nodded.

"Sound recall. We'll wait for the Fifth."

The bugle call sounded, the well-disciplined men of his command turned about, many glad to do so, and broke into a ragged gallop back across the field they had traversed minutes before with such confidence.

A few hundred yards out Custer looked back. More than a few rebs were up out of the ravine, shouting defiance.

He looked off to the north. The men of the Fifth were deploying from column into line.

"Let the bastards cheer," Custer announced. "We'll bag them before the hour is out, boys."

Three Miles East ofMonocacy Junction 6:30 A.M.

"General, is that gunfire?" Jeb Stuart reined in, stopping, the aide by his side, head cocked, listening. Yes, it was. Distant, a soft, muffled popping, almost drowned out by the clatter of hooves behind him, men of Jenkins's Brigade riding to either side of the track in a sinuous column that stretched back for over a mile.

Damn all. What the hell was going on? If not for the damn train he'd have been in Monocacy a couple of hours ago. Looking back down the track, which after the tunnel they had ridden through was again a double line, he saw nothing but his men on horseback. "Pick up the pace!" Stuart shouted. Leaving the column behind he broke into a gallop, heading toward the sound of distant battle.

Monocacy Junction 6.40 A.M.

"Dismount!" George Custer, himself, remained mounted, ignoring the snapping whine of.52 Sharps carbine rounds whistling over his head. The troopers of the First, their blood up after the initial repulse, gladly followed orders, drawing carbines from saddle holsters, levering breechings open, inserting rounds, deploying out into heavy skirmish line, every fifth man detailed off to hold the reins of the four who dismounted.

He wished now for just a few guns, even a section of three-inch ordnance rifles to sweep the edge of the ravine with canister before going in. But he had traveled fast, leaving his one battery of light guns behind.

"Boys, forward at the double!" Custer shouted, 'Take that damn depot!"

The men started forward on foot, running flat out. A few tumbled over before reaching a shallow ravine, pausing, hunching down, a ragged volley ringing out as they began to return fire. The more venturesome then stood up, racing forward, closing the range to a hundred yards.

The rebs, though, were in an excellent position. Phil had picked his ground well. The railroad cut was a trench offering protection, the depot, especially the log blockhouse, an impregnable position. To his Jeft the troopers of the Fifth were doing the same, advancing dismounted, shooting, pushing up a few dozen yards, sprawling out on the ground, firing again. Scanning the depot building with field glasses he saw shards of wood explode from the side, windows shattering, a reb out in the open for a second, sprinting from a shed back to the depot, collapsing on the track from a well-aimed shot.

George pushed up, ignoring the danger, furious that his charge had been repulsed.

"Here comes Gray!" someone shouted.

George looked back. He had sent word for Gray to come up in support, and the column was coming out of the town, riding hard.

"Keep pushing them, keep pushing!"

Phil Duvall raised his field glasses and saw the distant column coming out of Frederick. This time, damn it, George was doing it right. A regiment, dismounted, was coming down on his right. Custer's lead regiment, dismounted as well, was pressing on the left. The third regiment meant that well over a thousand men would be pushing in on him in a matter of minutes. At better than ten-to-one odds he would simply be pushed back from the bridge. It was just a matter of time.

Several of the men by the windows were already down, one dead, another cursing, holding his shoulder, a third man crying, a spray of shattered glass having torn into his face.

He walked to the far side of the room and looked over at the ravine. His men were up at the lip, firing away, but he knew it was useless now to try to hold longer.

Damn all, where was Stuart? He gazed back at the railroad bridge, hoping against hope that he'd see a column crossing it even now, reinforcements coming up to hold this crucial junction.

"They're starting to deploy out, sir."

He looked back to the north. The column coming out of the town was swinging out into line, preparing to charge. They'd ride through the dismounted skirmishers and this time overrun him.

"Time to get out, boys," Phil shouted. "No bugle calls, just mount up. I'll see you on the far side of the bridge. Sergeant Lucas, get up to the ravine, tell them to bring down our horses!"

Lucas raced down the stairs.

He lingered a few seconds longer, again shifting his field glasses to George. He could tell his old friend was loving the moment. Mounted again, riding along the skirmish line, urging his men to get up, to press forward.

He certainly led a charmed life. He had seen George go down, and for a second feared he was dead, but then the man had stood up, brushed himself off, remounted, and was back in the fight.

"Your day, George," he said.

Phil ran down the stairs and out under the awning of the depot.

The men over at the ravine were disengaging, sliding down the slope, running to their horses, mounting up. It was going to be a tight race. As soon as his boys stopped shooting, George would press in.

The first of them came galloping down the track, more following, troopers leading the empty mounts of the men who had been holding the depot. The telegraphy crew from Frederick were already riding for the bridge.

Lucas brought up Phil's horse, and he climbed into the saddle. He didn't need to give any orders now, the boys knew where to go and just wanted to skedaddle before the Yankees closed in. They raced for the bridge. Fortunately, the wooden structure, wide enough for two tracks, had planking laid to either side between the crossties, otherwise they'd have had to cross dismounted, leading nervous mounts.

His men galloped across, Phil slowing as he reached the bridge. Bullets whined about him. Yankees were up to the ravine, tumbling down its side; others were running toward the depot. He caught a glimpse of George, raised a hand in salute, and, turning, urged his mount across the bridge at a gallop.

Was that Phil? George wondered, quickly uncasing his field glasses and focusing them on the bridge. It was hard to tell with the smoke and the mist still rising off the river.

The way he kept his saddle, the wave-it did indeed look like his old friend.

He edged his mount around the ravine, leaning back in his saddle as he finally went down the slope and out onto the track. His men, breathing hard, grinning, faces besmirched with powder, sweating, were down into the ravine, running toward the depot.

Half a dozen rebs lay along the lip of the railroad cut, dead. A dozen more, wounded, were down by the track, several of his men already there helping them. "What regiment are you?" Custer asked. "Third Virginia," one of them announced, looking up at him defiantly.

"Captain Duvall?"

"That's our man. What of it?" the reb said. George nodded and then saluted. "My compliments, boys. You put up a good fight." So it was Phil.