Burnside would have just come in blindly, Hooker would have at least made a lunge, then perhaps frozen, and McClellan… well, if it was McClellan over there I would have already crossed the river myself and gone after him.

For a moment he was tempted to order just that. To send Beauregard's men, who made up most of his reserve, into an attack, but the Yankees had dug in well on the opposite bank, and though they would not advance, he knew they would not give back easily.

So far we've most likely lost a thousand, perhaps two thousand, to an equal number. Something has to break soon, Lee thought. He has to come on.

Hunt's Battery 10:45 AM.

Damn good work, boys!" Hunt shouted. "Damn good work!"

Now mounted, he trotted down the line, shouting his congratulations, the men cheering as he passed.

"What do you think of Western gunners now, sir?" one of them yelled out.

The question actually gave him painful pause for a second, remembering the bloody defense at Gettysburg, the sacrifice of Stevens's Battery, the final stand in the cemetery. And all of them gone now.

He slowed, then remembered to stay in this moment, not to dwell on the bitter past.

"You're damn good lads and I'm proud of you!"

His response drew a cheer and he rode on.

The men were exhausted; many had stripped off their jackets, sweat streaming down their bodies. The August sun beat down on them; gun barrels were so hot that to touch them would fry a man's flesh.

As his batteries ceased fire, men were already swabbing and reswabbing the bores, the sponges hissing and steaming as they were slammed in.

Limber wagons were coming up, circling around, ignoring the incoming fire that still rained down from the center of the rebel line, crews rushing up to off-load ammunition and carry it into the bombproofs.

He passed an entire team of gunners who had been wiped out, all of them killed when a well-placed case shot detonated directly above them. Stretcher bearers ignored them, going down the line to pick up the wounded. Even in victory there would be the casualties.

Eleven of his guns had been disabled in the fight, wheels taken off, barrels hit and dismounted, or bursting case shot killing everyone gathered around a piece.

As always, the wounds to artillerymen were the most horrific. A solid shot had torn off the wheel of a Parrott gun, then slashed clean through the solid oak of the trail piece, killing or wounding the entire crew; one man was impaled against the side of the lunette, a spoke from the wheel driven through his stomach, pinning him to the wall. To Henry's absolute horror, the man was still alive, groaning softly, several comrades gathered round him, debating whether to try to move him or not. A surgeon came up and Henry prayed that the man had the courage to inject him with so much morphine that he would slip away.

He turned his head away and rode on.

Another shot winged in from the distant rebel position, this one either damn well aimed or pure luck. It hit a caisson moving up. The caisson, loaded with fifty shells and over a hundred pounds of powder, exploded with a roar, the entire team of six horses blown down, debris soaring heavenward. Seconds later a distant roar went up. It was a defiant rebel yell.

His own gunners turned, facing the rebs, waving clenched fists, vowing revenge.

Henry continued to ride on, inspecting his pieces. He knew the next stage was about to begin. The question now was simply when.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 11:00 A.M.

Grant lit what was now the tenth cigar of the day, coughing slightly as he puffed it to life, remaining motionless in his camp chair, just sitting silently, watching the fight. Actually, it was now impossible to see much of anything. No wind had stirred, the day was getting hot, typical of late August, with only a few puffy clouds overhead to indicate a storm later in the day.

The entire river valley was hidden in smoke, the rattle of musketry and the booming of the artillery incessant. And yet it had settled into a dull steady pattern, punctuated only by loud huzzahs from Hunt's batteries about twenty minutes ago when it became evident that the rebels they had been pounding all morning were pulling back.

A telegraph line had been run out from the town during the night. The men within the signals tent were bent over their strange machines and cases of batteries that emitted a strange acid smell.

The key started to clatter again, and he stood up, unable to contain himself. This had to be it. It had to be.

He realized he was making a display of anxiety and forced himself to turn back, acting as if he was continuing to survey the smoke-filled valley and the battle that thundered there, which, so far, had not changed ownership of even one inch of ground.

Ely was over at the tent. From the corner of his eye Grant saw his adjutant running toward him, grinning. "Sir, it's from Port Deposit." "Go on."

"Fleet left at dawn. Should be coming into position by now. Second report from observation post opposite Baltimore confirms the report." Grant smiled.

In one sense, it was a miracle. Here he was on this battlefield, and yet news from a hundred miles away had just been handed to him.

He took a deep breath.

He had held Lee's attention since dawn. Now would have to come the bloody part to keep that attention fixed. He looked over at Ely. 'Tell General Ord to go in," he said calmly.

Baltimore 11:00 A.M.

Mr. Secretary, I think you'd better come out and see this." Judah looked up at the Confederate officer, one of Pickett's men standing in the doorway of his hotel suite. "What is it?"

"Sir, General Pickett requests you come out and have a look. Something is up with the Yankees."

Judah headed for the door, leaving his jacket behind. It was another typical Baltimore summer day. The day had turned hot and sultry. Leaving the hotel, he followed the officer up the street to Battery Park. Scores of civilians were heading in the same direction, talking excitedly, and already he had a good guess as to what to expect as he crossed through the picket line at the entry to the fort and then up to where George Pickett stood, looking out over the harbor.

Directly below, within easy gunnery range, was Fort McHenry, its large garrison flag coiling and drifting above the fort. But that was not what was drawing interest. In the outer harbor a flotilla of several dozen ships was just visible in the late-moming haze on the water, dark coils of smoke rising from ships a half dozen miles away.

Pickett turned and bowed formally as Judah approached.

"Mr. Secretary, I think the Yankees are up to something."

"How long have they been out there?"

"Lookouts first reported the smoke an hour ago coming down from the north." Pickett motioned for Judah to take a look through a telescope.

He bent over, the telescope focused on a side-wheel steamship with three masts. It was a heavy oceangoing vessel. Its side wheels were churning the water, bow almost straight on. He studied it carefully. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if the deck was packed with blue… Union infantry.

At the head of the flotilla came a half dozen gunboats and four heavy monitor ironclads, guns pointing menacingly toward the city.

He stood back and looked over at Pickett.

"What do you think, General?"

"Don't rightly know, sir. But if they do move into the inner harbor, should I fire on them?"

"What did General Lee order you to do."

"Hold this city until he finished off Grant."

Judah could detect a bitterness in Pickett's voice. He made no comment about it. It had been reported to him that Pickett was heard complaining that Lee was blaming him for the devastation of his division at Gunpowder River, and that he had only been "following the old man's orders."