Lee turned away from the fight, eyes fixed on Pete.

"We must venture that. I think they are ready to break."

"Sir, that is not the Army of the Potomac over there. That is something different, men used to victory. We must factor that in."

"Then we shall teach them that they can indeed lose."

"Sir," again he hesitated, "I beg you to reconsider. We have lost our base of supply, an enemy force is advancing on our rear even if it is still a few days off. We fight a full-scale battle here, even if we win, we just might lose. We have no reserves; we'll have ten, maybe fifteen thousand additional wounded, and Grant most likely will slip back over that pass and still be a threat."

Lee was silent, gazing at him, and for a few seconds he hoped that indeed he was reaching through, penetrating the fury of battle that was now upon him.

"Order Beauregard to halt. He did not do a good job, but at least he finished what was left of Ord and part of Sheridan. Grant is down to but one corps capable of an offensive. We hold, let him then try to hit back."

"No, sir," Lee snapped angrily. "I want this finished, now, today. This is our chance to defeat them once and for all. Now see to your duty, General Longstreet." 'We hold here!"

Sergeant Major Bartiett looked up as Phil Sheridan rode among their ranks. Most of the men of the Third Division had given ground in fairly good order, but to his shame several of the regiments had broken entirely and run.

Of white officers he saw precious few. Three captains from his own regiment, one of them clutching a head wound, one whom he knew to be a drunkard and obviously drunk now, the third of decent caliber who had kept his company together and in good order but seemed lost in shock.

The rebs had not pursued hotly; their fire had slackened as the Third pulled back. Sheridan was pointing up toward the railroad track, to where it edged along the side of a low ridge for several hundred yards, with several cuts through the low ridge for the grade. There was a thick cloying scent in the air; the ground about the cut had a scattering of bodies that had been out in the heat for two days. They all looked as if they had on uniforms two sizes too small, bodies swollen, knees drawn up, one with both hands clenched and raised.

To his right he saw the piers of a bridge about a hundred yards upstream, smoke curling from collapsed timbers still protruding above the water.

"Rally along the railroad track, boys," Sheridan cried. "You hold the west end, the rest of the corps the east end. And you've got to hold!"

Bartlett led his men as they scrambled up onto the track and looked around. There was a shallow railroad cut. Good protection if hit from the river or from the north, but if the rebs came straight in from the west, it was bad ground.

'Track and ties, boys!" someone shouted. He wasn't sure who said it, but within seconds a couple of hundred men were at work. There were no tools, though, men prying at the spikes with bayonets.

Some of the black soldiers waded in, shouting they knew what to do. The Baltimore and Ohio's rails were bolted together, and on the outside of the track, at the joint, a wooden block was wedged in to keep the joint tight. A heavy sergeant took the butt of a musket and started to hammer on the side of the wooden wedge. It began to move. Several more joined in, working in unison. The wedge popped out. Up and down the line men were popping the wedges. The sergeant ran along the track, grabbing men, shouting for Bartlett to get his boys, three or four to each tie on one side.

Seconds later, with more than two hundred men lifting and pushing, the track with ties still attached rose slowly, the rail bending. Bolts popped and the long section of track rose up and crashed over. Men swarmed over the torn-up section, prying loose the six-foot-long ties, tearing them free, running them up, and stacking them across the open end of the cut; others came up with twisted pieces of rail, tossing them on.

A company of white soldiers from farther up the line came to them, carrying pry bars and wrenches, a shout of joy going up among the men around the sergeant directing the operation.

"You boys need help?" one of the white soldiers shouted, holding up a wrench.

"I was a Reading Railroad man," the black sergeant shouted, and the white soldier slapped him on the shoulder.

"Could see you knew your work. Erie Railroad here."

The few precious tools were passed around, easing the job, the sergeant directing men to unbolt sections of track. The barricade, though low, had to span over thirty feet. Gradually, it was beginning to build up. Men scooped up ballast with their bare hands and threw it over the barricade. Others started to drag ties to the top of the cut, to give a little more protection and to make them the perfect height for a rifle rest when lying down.

"They're coming!"

The few men who had the stomach to remain behind as skirmishers came running down the track. Their approach was announced as well by a rebel volley that tore straight down the ravine, dropping half a dozen men.

"My men over here!" Bartlett screamed. "Rally to the colors, men.

A white officer came up. He didn't recognize the man, a colonel.

"Sergeant, where're your officers?" He looked around and recognized no one in the confusion, the bustle of men working to tear up the track. "I don't know, sir."

"Take your colors. Plant them on that barricade and hold it!"

Even as he spoke there was a loud clattering, a shouting to clear the way. A field piece, a bronze twelve-pound Napoleon, was being moved up the track, crew shouting for the men to clear back.

The ravine was so narrow that the crew stopped at the eastern entryway, unhooked their piece, and swung it around, beginning to drag it forward by hand. Bartlett could see where it was going to be positioned, and he shouted for his men to pitch in, even as he approached the barricade with the color guard. Sergeant Miller, arm in a rough sling, was still with them, features gray, but he was hanging on.

With men pushing from all sides the Napoleon was run up to the barricade. The team that had pulled it up were backing up to open ground where they turned their horses around. Men unhooked the limber box, nearly half a ton of weight, and manhandled it down, dragging it the length of the ravine and depositing it ten yards back from the gun. The team took off.

Bartlett's men fell in on either side of the gun crew.

"What are we facing?" a gunner asked.

"Texans I heard," Bartlett replied.

"Oh, lordy," the gunner sighed. "You boys, stick to us like ticks on a dog."

"We will."

"They're coming!"

He could hear them now, the high-pitched yelping. The smoke had cleared just enough that they were visible, a couple of hundred yards off, a line astride the railroad track, spread a couple of hundred yards to either flank, red banners to the fore.

He looked back. Up and down the railroad cut for as far as he could see men were up against the embankments; a roar was thundering back from the east end, down by the river. From what little he had learned so far in the army, he knew their position was a bad one. They were like a long thin line, men almost literally back-to-back along the railroad line. The rebs coming at them had them at a right angle. Other rebs were swarming around to either side; from the far river-bank long-range shot and shells were beginning to rain in.

They were cut off, surrounded.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. A young white soldier pushed two packs of cartridges, ten rounds in each, into his hand. Behind him half a dozen other white soldiers had laid down two wooden cases of ammunition. One had already pried it open with a bayonet, torn off the tin waterproof cover, and was piling out ten packs of cartridges, men coming over to scoop them.