Phil looked back to the west, the smoke of the passing train making it difficult to see.

Another locomotive was coming off the spur line on to the main track, this one beginning to slow down. Sparks were shooting out from the wheels as it began to brake.

"Get it!" someone screamed.

And instantly dozens of shots rang out, sparks flying off the brass and iron siding of the locomotive. To his absolute amazement he saw three Yankees aboard the locomotive, one of them now swinging a heavy sledgehammer, as if smashing something. Phil raised his revolver and fired it, emptying all six rounds. The man staggered but swung again. From out of the passenger car several Yankees emerged, jumping down. One of them made a dash for the side of the bridge as if to jump off, but he was shot before reaching the railing.

From inside the passenger car he could see flames erupting, blowing out the windows, a popping sound, like muffled explosions within, each pop setting off more flames.

Phil stepped up to the side of the locomotive and pointed his empty revolver at the man with the sledgehammer.

"Make a move and I'll blow your damn head off," he threatened.

The man looked at him, grinned, and dropped the sledgehammer, putting one hand up in the air, his other arm hanging limp.

"Get down!"

"You're damn right I'm getting down," the Yankee said, reaching for the railing by the steps and then leaping off. He hit the bridge flooring and cursed, going over on his side.

"Reb, give me a hand up."

"Why?"

Already carbine fire from the far side of the bridge had resumed. Torn, Phil felt he should go forward and still try to capture the other side.

"I'll tell you a secret, reb."

"And that is?"

"This son of a bitch is going to blow up in a few minutes, and there isn't a damn thing you can do now to stop it. I've smashed up the works good and proper, and that boiler is getting set to let go."

Phil looked around at his men. The way ahead was already almost impossible to traverse; the passenger car was burning fiercely, flames like blowtorches blasting out of the windows, which were shattering from the heat.

The Yankee was half up to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed, his features pale.

"You want to live, reb, get off this bridge now.r Phil reached down and pulled the man roughly to his feet. "Pull back!" he roared. "Get off the bridge!" His men needed no urging. They had had enough of this fight.

Shoving his prisoner along, Phil broke into a run, the two crossing the final feet back off the bridge and tumbling down into a culvert.

The Yankee grunted as he hit the ground next to Phil and then, to Phil's amazement, the Yankee reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it.

"You first, reb."

Phil nodded and took the drink. A minute ago he figured he was a dead man, and for the moment was damn grateful to still be alive. He realized that if this damn fool had not come along with his train, he'd have been forced to continue in that bloody charge. Many of the men of the Fourteenth were now cut off by the burning passenger car, some daring the flames, crouched down low, running back, others just giving up and jumping off the bridge.

"What's going to happen?" Phil asked.

"You just watch," the Yankee said, taking the bottle back and gulping down at least half a pint in three or four hard swallows. "But stay down low."

Peeking up over the side of the culvert Phil now saw a third locomotive appear, a small switch engine. It looked like an antique from twenty years ago, but it was moving fast, men jumping off as it rounded through the switch on the spur line. It thundered on to the bridge, artillery shells detonating to either side of it.

The switch engine came onto the bridge, still building speed, and plowed into the train ahead of it. The boxcar at the rear of the second train collapsed, and an instant later exploded into a fireball of flame as hundreds of gallons of coal oil sprayed out. The boxcar then telescoped into the passenger car, the burning car bursting asunder, spilling out rivers of flaming oil on to the bridge. The switching engine upended, tipping over, crashing through a trestle railing, careening off the bridge with a roar. It plunged into the river below, tearing out the side of the bridge, ripping up track, an explosion of steam and smoke erupting as it hit the river.

"I'll be damned," Phil whispered, standing up.

"Get down, reb!" the Yankee shouted, reaching out with his good arm to pull him down.

The second locomotive had lurched forward half a dozen feet from the impact, breaking the rail, tipping over slightly.

"About ready," the Yankee said. "Now stay down!"

There was a thunderclap and Phil could not resist peeking over the edge of the culvert. He felt a wash of heat and steam, the boiler of the locomotive erupting. Debris soared heavenward: part of a drive wheel, the smokestack, nearly intact, hunks of metal, flaming coals that looked like meteors or mortar shells fired at night.

He could feel the ground shudder. The bridge itself seemed to lurch, almost as if it had jumped from its foundation, and then settled back down. Wooden beams collapsed, spraying fire across most of the structure.

On both sides, everyone stopped shooting. Like schoolboys they stood up to watch the destruction,- some even shouting excitedly.

"Down, reb!"

The Yankee pulled him back into the culvert, curling up as he did so. A hunk of red-hot metal, part of the boiler, hit the side of the culvert and then bounced over them, spraying Phil with a shower of boiling hot water so that he cursed and slapped at his face.

The echo of the explosion rumbled across the valley.

George Armstrong Custer, still mounted, watched, mesmerized by the spreading cloud of debris. He could barely keep his saddle now, and perhaps, if not already injured, he would have been more alert and seen it coming, the expanding explosion, shards of iron, wood, part of a train axle spinning end over end, the axle killing his mount and tearing him out of the saddle.

A Mile East of Monocacy 11:10 A.M.

The train lurched even as a fireman leapt atop the tender and down to the door of the passenger car "Out, get out!" he screamed. Lee, half dozing, opened his eyes, men looking up at the wide-eyed fireman.

"We're gonna wreck. Jump for it!" Their train was slowing, skidding, the locomotive brakes shrieking as if they were about to be torn apart.

Walter leaned out the window to look and then turned on Lee, grabbing him by the shoulder, hauling him physically out of his seat and pushing him back to the rear door, the rest of the staff now following him. The train was still moving at ten miles an hour or more. Lee reached the last step and hesitated. "Jump, sir! Jump!"

Lee leapt off, hitting the ground hard, rolling, Walter coming down by his side. Seconds later Hotchkiss was on the ground twenty feet away. More men piled out.

Lee sat up, confused, actually feeling a bit humiliated, and undignified by this sudden action. Then he saw it Coming down the track, straight at them, was a locomotive, moving frightfully fast.

Walter grabbed Lee by the shoulder, pulling him up and away from the track.

The firemen and engineer were the last to leap, hitting the ground on their feet, and began to run up the sloping embankment away from the train.

The locomotive coming toward them appeared to be slowing down but still it was coming on at a good thirty miles an hour or more… when it collided head-on with their train, both boilers exploding, debris soaring heavenward. The passenger car they were on disintegrated, and then actually slid backward, its shattered remnants rolling into the ditch Lee had landed in.

Stunned, he looked about, oblivious to the debris showering down even as Walter protectively stood at his side, looking up, watching for danger.