"Sound recall!" Custer roared.

But he did not need to give the order. Already Gray had turned -about, the turn difficult in the tight confusion of the bridge, more men dropping.

The survivors of Gray's countercharge emerged, Gray leading the way, hat gone, blood streaming down the side of his face. The men were panting, some cursing, others filled with the wide-eyed look of troopers who had known the moment, the thrill of a charge, the driving of their enemies.

"Good work, Gray. Now get your boys back in reserve!"

Gray gasping for air, nodded, saluted, and shouted for the men of the regiment to follow him back.

All around Custer was chaos. Half a hundred or more men were down, dead, wounded, screaming, their screams mingled with the pitiful screams of the horses and those of the wounded trapped on the burning bridge.

The bridge was now ablaze. Flames licking along the eaves, gradually spreading toward the center of the span. In short order it would spread to the underpinnings, the support beams, the dry wooden floor. For the moment his right flank was secure.

He caught the eye of a sergeant and motioned him over.

"Sergeant, get a flag of truce. Tell Jeb Stuart my compliments, but I'm asking for a fifteen-minute truce on this bridge to get the wounded and dead off before they burn."

The screams of the horses and men caught in the flames were horrific.

"And for God's sake, shoot those poor animals. They deserve better than to die like that."

Jeb Stuart lowered his field glasses, shaking his head. He had spotted the Yankee trooper waving a white flag on the far side of the bridge and sent word down to honor it. The bridge was rapidly disappearing in flames, smoke billowing hundreds of feet into the air, and it was obvious they were trying to rescue as many of the wounded as possible.

Damn all. For a brief instant he thought Witcher had actually carried the bridge. Now it was going to take time, scouting, finding a ford that could be taken without too much loss.

Nothing yet at the railroad bridge, just heavy skirmishing fire back and forth. Word had just come that the light battery of the Charlottesville Artillery was even now arriving, and he had sent a courier back to guide it into place next to the blockhouse that looked down on the bridge. The Yankees had no artillery yet to counter with, a carbine was next to useless much beyond three hundred yards, and with the guns he could dominate the position. For starters, they could flatten the depot.

Frederick 9:10 A.M.

Lieutenant Schultz, what the hell is holding you up?" Schultz looked up in surprise. It was Custer, left arm hanging limp, blood dripping from his fingertips. "General, you're hurt."

"Don't bother me with that now. I want to know what the hell is going on with these locomotives!"

"Sir. The boilers were dead cold. We had to get them fired up. It's taking time to build up a good head of steam."

"How long?"

"Another hour at least."

Even as they spoke Custer turned in his saddle to look back toward the river where a different sound had just mingled in with the cacophony of battle-artillery fire.

A couple of dozen men were gathered around the locomotives, cavalry troopers, one of them a corporal, obviously having taken charge, shouting orders. Custer rode up to him, and the corporal saluted.

"Who are you?"

"Tyler, sir. Rick Tyler, First Michigan." "Why are you here?"

"Was an engineer for three years before the war. Heard the word you needed railroad men up here, sir, so came up to help out."

"You're in charge then, Tyler, and I'm promoting you to sergeant. Will make you a lieutenant if you pull this off. Now why is it taking so damn long?"

"It's a cold start, sir. Got to get into the firebox, build a fire from scratch, start shoveling wood in. Then heat the water to a boil, build up steam pressure. It ain't healthy, but I'm throwing some coal oil in to get it going faster."

"Coal oil?"

"We're in luck, sir. Found five hundred gallons or more of it, sir, in that warehouse over there. We're going to put it all in the passenger cars pulled by the trains. Also found some turpentine, barrels of grease as well. That will really let go."

"Any blasting powder?"

"None to be found, sir. We've been asking around, but folks here say it was all cleaned out by the armies passing through. Also, sir, found a third locomotive in that engine shed over there. It's an old teakettle, twenty years old at least, but we're firing that one up as well."

"At least an hour, then?" Custer asked, and even as he spoke he fought down the light-headedness overtaking him.

"Sir, to be honest, two hours, but I'll push it. We need a damn good head of steam if you want to do it right."

"Why's that?"

"Well, sir. Figure once we get the train on the bridge I can smash down the safety valves. The fire in the passenger cars, they'll burn, but it will burn up, sir, not down. It might damage the bridge but they can still fix it. I seen that happen once with a string of boxcars just outside of Detroit that caught fire on a bridge. The bridge was back in service the next day. We get the boiler to explode, though, and, well, sir, that'll be a helluva show."

"Good work," Custer said softly.

"General?"

He looked over to Schultz, a regimental surgeon from the Fifth who was by his side. "Let me look at that arm." "Not now."

"Sir, looks like you are about to keel over,"- the surgeon replied. "Just give me five minutes, sir."

Custer nodded reluctantly, and with a grimace dismounted, sitting down on a bench under the awning of the station. Schultz helped Custer take his uniform jacket off, Custer cursing softly. The doctor bent over, examining the entry wound a couple of inches below his left elbow, an assistant by his side handing him scissors, which he used to cut the shirt back.

"This is gonna hurt, General," the doctor whispered, and then there was a flood of pain as the doctor slipped his finger into the wound.

He thought he was about to faint. The doctor drew his finger out.

"Got some bad news for you, sir. The bone's broken. Sir, I think you're going to lose that arm." "Like hell I am," Custer hissed.

"Sir, I can have you under in five minutes; it'll be over in ten. From the way you're bleeding I think an artery is severed in there. You'll bleed out if I don't take it off now."

"I've got a battle to run, damn you."

"Not today, sir. You'll be back in action in a month, sir, but today is finished for you," the doctor said gently.

"Tie it off."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Just that," Custer snapped. "Get a tourniquet on it. That will stop the bleeding, won't it?" "For a while, but why?"

"Because I've got to get back to my command."

"Sir, I put a tourniquet on that arm, it'll be above the elbow, and you'll lose that, too, if it stays on too long."

"Just do it, goddamn you. Get a tourniquet on it. You can hack at me once this is over."

The doctor stared at him intently for a moment, then reluctantly nodded, actually patting him lightly on the shoulder. He motioned to his assistant, who set to work, taking a tourniquet out of the doctor's medical bag, wrapping it around the general's arm just above the elbow, then clamping it down so tight that Custer struggled not to cry out.

The flow of blood slowed and then nearly stopped.

The assistant rigged up an arm sling, helped put it on the general, who sat back, pallid.

"Promise, once this is over, you'll come straight back to me," the doctor said.

"Sure," Custer said, forcing a weak smile, looking up at him.

"I can give you a little morphine for the pain."

"Addle my mind. Just a good shot of whiskey will do."

Several of the troopers who had gathered round to watch reached into pockets and haversacks, pulling out bottles. Custer grinned, took one of the bottles, knocked down a good long drink, and then rose shakily to his feet.