The other divisions had advanced slightly, in echelon to the left, meaning that as they moved they did not advance straight ahead, but rather at a forty-five-degree angle to the left.

Lee was still on the road, Beauregard by his side. The man was fuming, embarrassed that the general commanding had seen fit to come down here to take direct control of his men.

"I still wish we had more," Lee announced and he looked back to where Robertson's men were attempting to storm the railroad cuts. Scales had yet to get across on the other side.

"I ordered Robertson to break off an hour ago," Lee snapped. "He should be coming up."

He turned and looked at Walter.

"Perhaps the message didn't get through," Walter offered. "Then send another."

"Sir, might it not be too late now?" Beauregard offered. "That will take another hour."

Lee looked over at Beauregard and reluctantly had to agree. It was indeed too late now to bring Robertson up, and even if he did, after so many hours of protracted fighting, Robertson would need several hours to rest and refit his men before going into another assault.

"Walter, get another courier down there. Tell Robertson, if he feels he is on the edge of a decisive breakthrough, to go ahead. Otherwise he is to stop the attack. Those people down there are pinned and it is useless to shed more blood trying to dig them out. We can take care of them after we defeat Grant and seize the town."

The long, sinuous column of troops marching behind Lee stopped. All up and down the line they turned and faced right, poised for a straight-in assault on the town about a mile ahead.

The formation was at last as he wanted it. Two divisions wide in the front. Two brigades of each division forward, a third brigade deployed two hundred yards to the rear.

The secondary line, three brigades wide, deployed two hundred yards farther back, behind the reserves of the first line. The guns ahead were keeping up a steady fire into the town with hardly a Yankee gun firing in return.

He wished he could see Longstreet having broken through on the other side, the bridge there taken, his men closing in on Grant from the other side, but there was precious little movement, other than those troops who had forded the stream below the bridge but were being held back.

He could not wait any longer. The tattoo of rain was beginning to pick up. It did not look as if a downpour was approaching, but if it came down any harder, in a few hours movement might be difficult.

He turned in his saddle and his heart swelled.

So it had come down finally to this: a grand assault, in the old tradition of the great charge, to finish the battle. He had broken their right, pinned their center. There were no more reserves for Grant.

Grant's men must be exhausted, all the more so after the pounding and pullback.

Flags were held up all up and down the line. Three divisions, perhaps upward of eighteen thousand men, shoulder to shoulder.

It had all come to this, Gettysburg, Union Mills, Washington, Gunpowder River. One more charge, one more glorious charge and we break them forever and the war is won.

Win this charge and the enemy behind me will be but an annoyance to sweep away. The men down by the river are trapped. We destroy Grant this day and three days hence we will be in Washington, the war won.

He thought of Arlington. I could be home in two weeks.

He thought of Shakespeare, Henry V. Yes, indeed, this might be our Saint Crispin's Day.

Like Napoleon at Borodino the moment had come to break the enemy by frontal assault.

Jeb Stuart was by his side, hat off, grinning.

"General Stuart, you will command the left of this assault. Remember it is echelon to the left, keep obliquing to the left to flank the edge of the town and secure the road. General Beauregard, the right division will go into the town."

"Sir, I object," Beauregard replied haughtily. "Stuart is commanding my division, and I am commanding men I do not even know."

"Sir, it is either that way," Lee said testily, "or I shall command it myself."

"Yes, sir," Beauregard replied carefully.

"I will be with the Third Division and commit them to one of you or the other. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir," Jeb said with a flourish, removing his hat. Beauregard simply nodded.

"I am not one for theatrics before the troops, gentlemen," Lee said quietly. "Now go forward!"

Jeb let loose with a wild rebel yell and galloped across the field, his actions a signal that the attack, the attack that would win them this war, was going forward. Beauregard trotted straight up the road.

Drummer boys were up, and began to tap out the long roll. Regimental officers, those still surviving from the earlier fight, stepped forward, extolling their men.

Several minutes later the left division stepped off, Stuart actually out front, waving his hat.

Lee took off his hat and lowered his head.

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit and the future of our cause. Thy will be done."

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Here they come! My God, look at 'em, like on parade!" Men gathered about Grant were up, pointing. The light rain had washed the air of some of the smoke and all could now see a division advancing toward their right. A few minutes later a second division emerged, and then, as if guided by a single hand, the entire advancing line turned and obliqued to their own left, shifting the center of the advance more to the west side of town.

Grant watched silently, nodding with approval at the precision of the movement. They were working to flank him, pull him back farther from the embattled men down at the Hornets Nest, working to envelop the road up to the Catoctin Pass.

"Tell Banks's Division to leave the center of town and shift northwest," Grant announced, not looking back as someone galloped off with the news.

He had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before the storm hit. The men barricading the streets, the entrances into the town, had stopped in their labors for a few minutes to watch the approaching wave, but now returned to work with determination, ignoring the shot that still screamed into the town, detonating against buildings, setting a house afire, smashing through eaves, brick walls, and passing clean through clap-boarded homes.

The few civilians who had come down to watch did not need to be told what to do. They were fleeing in panic. One hysterical mother was screaming for her son. A couple of soldiers, laughing, pulled the boy down from his perch in the branches of a tree and handed him, kicking and screaming, to his mother, who ran off, dragging the boy with one hand and slapping him with the other.

"As terrible as an army with banners…" Ely whispered, coming up to Grant's side.

Grant bit the end off another cigar, cupped his hands to light it, and said nothing.

The Hornets Nest

Here they come, boys!"

Phil Sheridan was up among them, having come over on foot from the next cut. Bartlett did not need to be told. This time they were charging straight in at the run. Men leaned in against the barricade. The gunners, out of all ammunition, pulled out pistols, drew short sabers, or hefted ramrods.

Robinson pushed his men forward, scarcely believing what they were about to do. A few minutes before, a lone courier had come up to Robertson, the division commander, shouting that General Lee wanted him to disengage or finish the position. The courier had then questioned him about the previous couriers.

None had arrived, Robertson shouted. He turned, looked at the Hornets Nest, and then pointed straight at it.

"Let's finish this now!" Robertson shouted. "Are we gonna let it be said that a bunch of darkies beat us?" A terrible roar went up in response. Robinson shook his head. They had been fought to a standstill. A rumor was coming down the line that Lee himself was about to lead the assault on the center of town to finish Grant. Shouldn't we be there? he wondered. Is there any purpose to this slaughter here other than us killing each other like animals in a frenzy?