The men were already loaded, Brown shouting for all ten companies to fall in by line, Hazner pushing the men along.

Another volley from the left, then a switching over to independent fire. Must mean they are close, Hazner thought.

Directly ahead, the second-growth timber gave way to an orchard, and as he looked that way, he stood goggle-eyed. He could see them, see them clear back to the next mountain range, which had to be five or six miles off. A long column of blue that seemed endless, surging forward, weaving its way clear up to the crest beyond.

"There's thousands of 'em," someone gasped.

"Just worry about the ones in front of you," Hazner shouted. Even as he spoke he saw Yankee skirmishers on the far side of the orchard. They were moving slow, either cautious or exhausted. A few stepped out into the orchard and dropped within seconds from the fire going downslope delivered by the regiment astride the road.

More skirmishers appeared, dropping down behind the fence bordering the other side of the orchard. Puffs of smoke, but so far none in the direction of the Fourteenth.

"Get down, men, get down," Brown shouted.

No one needed to be told what he was thinking, and all were grateful to collapse to the forest floor. After the heat of the climb up the road, the cool leaves, ferns, and undergrowth were a blessing. Some of the men pulled their canteens around, lifting them to drink. Hazner said nothing, but if they came begging for water an hour from now, the hell with them.

But the sight of them drinking got to him. He took a few sips himself, the water a bit muddy, having been scooped up while they crossed the Monocacy. They waited, fire from behind the fence building in intensity, still directed toward the regiment astride the road and open yards of the small homes and tavern atop the crest.

"Check your caps, boys," Hazner said, even as he drew up his own rifle, half-cocked it, and saw that the percussion cap was still in place. He waited, glad for even a few minutes to catch his breath, the trembling in his legs stopping, but hunger hitting him so, that he reached into his haversack and pulled out a piece of hardtack.

As he reached in, his hand brushed against the journal of his comrade, Maj. John Williamson, dead at Union Mills. Why he still carried it was beyond him. It was an extra pound, its details, its questionings too disturbing, but somehow it was still a link to a childhood friend he could not quite let go of.

Two months ago John was still alive, the two of them marching side by side up the Cumberland Valley, filled with hope that soon the war would be over. John had died at Union Mills, shot through the head.

Brown leaned up on one elbow to survey their line. The regiment was little more than a third of those who had marched that day back in June. Gone were the men lost at Gettysburg, Union Mills, and in the disastrous charge in front of Washington.

Always they were told the "next one" would be the "last one." Though he found it hard to believe in a God who cared, who intervened for those who prayed, still he could not help but utter a silent wish, Let this be the end of it.

He looked down the slope while biting off a piece of hardtack and saw a flicker of red, white… a Union flag. A regiment was coming up. Shadowy glimpses of men in dark blue, shaking out from column into line, moving up to the edge of the fence row.

"Get ready," Colonel Brown hissed, crouching low, moving down the length of the line.

The flag emerged from the other side of the orchard, held high, a state flag beside it, Hazner could not tell which one.

The men approaching gave out three "Huzzahs!" as they knocked over the split rail fence, stepped into the orchard, and with poised bayonets started through the orchard.

"Up, boys, up!" Brown shouted.

The regiment stood.

"Volley fire on my command! Take aim!"

The two hundred rifles of the Fourteenth South Carolina were lowered, aiming downslope. The Yankee regiment, angling toward the men holding the road, had not expected this. Their colonel, out front, still mounted, shouted something, pointing his sword toward the Fourteenth.

"Fire!"

Dozens of Yanks dropped. Miraculously, their colonel still kept his mount.

"Reload! Independent fire at will!"

The Yankees, as if guided by a single hand, raised their rifles to their shoulders and took aim.

"For that which we are about to receive…" a wag in the line shouted, even as the Union volley hit. They had the advantage of being up slope, protected by the trees, but still a dozen men dropped or staggered back from the volley line. Hazner was showered with bits of bark and tree sap from a spruce he was standing next to.

The fastest had already reloaded, and now the fight was truly on. Fire rippled up and down the line, men shouting, cursing, laughing, tearing cartridges, capping nipples, taking aim. The calmer ones braced their rifles against a tree before firing.

Hazner stepped back from the volley line, walking its length. He spotted young Lieutenant Hurt, so green at Fort Stevens, now calmly directing his men to pour it into the men around the colors. Smoke cloaked the orchard. Then the return fire slackened.

A cheer went up from the Fourteenth, the Yankees were falling back. But they did not retreat far. Once out of the orchard they stopped, some of the men taking a few dangerous seconds to grab fence rails and pile them up as a barricade before dropping behind them.

Well-aimed fire began to slam into the ranks of the Fourteenth. Some of the shots were high, but some were hitting, men grunting, cursing, or silendy collapsing.

"Down, boys!" Hazner shouted.

His men needed no urging. They hunkered down behind trees, rocks, some crawling up the dozen or so yards to the edge of the orchard, tearing down the fence that flanked it on their side, piling the rails up the way the Yankees did on the other side, a hundred yards away.

Within a few minutes a deadly game was on. Both sides seasoned, both knowing how to fight, trading fire across a narrow orchard, neither willing to give any ground.

Braddock Heights 2:30 P.M.

General Lee, I must urge you, sir, please come up on foot," General Scales begged, standing between him and the incoming fire sweeping the crest. Lee could not help but nod in agreement. To take Traveler the few dozen yards to the crest would be madness, for him, his staff, and his beloved mount. He swung down out of the saddle.

On the road beside him men from Scales's Division were continuing to push up the road. He had passed them on the ride up here, too restless to remain any longer at the bridge.

As he rode by, the men struggled to cheer, but they were moving fast, doubled over, pounding up the steep slope to the roar of battle, which now swept the crest.

"Sir, please come no further. It's too dangerous up there."

Lee smiled and simply stepped around Scales, who came back to his side and deliberately placed himself in front of Lee.

"Sir, if you insist, please follow me then," Scales said, and crouching down slightly, he led the way.

They angled off the road to the left and slipped behind a small tavern.

"From the top floor you can see what is happening, but please do not stand close to the window, sir."

Lee walked into the building, which was already transformed into a hospital, dozens of men on the floor, and followed Scales up the narrow steps to the second floor. When Scales opened a door, several cavalry troopers near the window looked back at their guests in surprise, the sergeant leading the three coming to attention.

"Good log walls, General, is stopping the bullets," the sergeant said, "but this window is mighty dangerous."

Even as he spoke splinters of glass from a windowpane sprayed back onto the bed in the middle of the room.