His men surged forward, pressing them across a narrow killing ground, the two lines sometimes touching and exploding into a flurry of kicks, jabs, punches, and clubbed rifles, then parting, firing into each other across a space of less than a dozen yards.

They pushed around the brick building, crossing over the ' top of the crest As the land dropped away, what was left of the Yankee formation broke apart, the last of them turning, running.

John caught a glimpse of men leaping out of the open windows of the seminary, one man dropping from the second floor, his legs snapping as he hit the hard ground. A Yankee officer was by the entryway, wearing a bloody apron, waving a hospital flag.

"Major Williamson! Secure that building! Round up the captives."

He caught a glimpse of Brown in the press, the one-armed flag bearer beside him, still waving the colors. "Hazner!"

The sergeant was by his side, rounding up a mix of men as John sprinted for the steps. The Yankee officer was still in the doorway; he caught a glimpse of green shoulder straps, a surgeon.

"This is a hospital!" the Yankee shouted. "Hazner, check the building."

The sergeant shouldered past the Yankee surgeon and cautiously stepped through the door. He hesitated for a second and then plunged into the gloom.

John, the hysteria of the charge still on him, panting for breath, kept his sword pointed at the surgeon.

"I surrender, sir."

"You're damn right you surrender," John gasped.

The surgeon stared, gaze drifting down to the sword that John held poised, aimed at the man's chest.

John suddenly felt embarrassed; the mad frenzy was clearing. The man was a surgeon, a non-combatant He lowered the sword. "Sorry, sir," he said woodenly.

The surgeon nodded.

"I need help in here," and the surgeon gestured into the building.

The stench was drifting out through the open doors… blood, excrement, open wounds, ether, a steady, nerve-tingling hum, groans, cries for water, air, engulfed John as he went inside. He stepped over the body of a Yankee gunner, both legs gone just above the knees, a sticky pool of blood congealing on the floor. The corridor was packed with wounded, men cradling shattered limbs, gasping for air. Frothy bubbles of blood mushroomed from chest wounds. A boy still clutching his fife was crying; a grizzled old sergeant, left foot shot away, sat cradling the lad in his lap.

The sergeant looked up at John, eyes smoldering. John looked away, unable to say anything. He caught a glimpse into a classroom, desks pushed together, a door torn off from its hinges laid across the desks, now serving as a surgeon's table. They were working on a boy, stripped naked from the waist down, taking his leg off, the meat of the thigh laid open. It reminded John of butchering day, the way the meat of the leg was cut away. He averted his gaze. "Gave you hell, we did."

He looked down; a lieutenant, pale, sweat beading his face, cradling a shattered arm, holding it tight against his chest, looked up at him defiantly.

"Gave you damn Rebs hell, we did."

John nodded, looking away, trying to find Hazner.

"Reb."

John looked back down. "A drink. Got anything."

Caught by surprise, John reached around to his canteen and unslung it, handing it down.

The lieutenant tried to reach up, grimacing as he let go of the arm. John could see the white of the bone, arterial blood. spurting. The lieutenant groaned, grabbed the arm again.

"Here, let me help," John whispered, as he knelt down, uncorking the canteen, holding it up.

"Whiskey mixed in there; take it slow."

The lieutenant tilted his head back, took a long gulp, choked for a moment, then nodded for more. John held the canteen, let him drink again.

The lieutenant sighed, leaned back. "Ah, that's good, thanks, Reb."

He started to cork the canteen and saw the pleading eyes of a man lying next to the lieutenant, shot through both cheeks, bits of bone and teeth still in the wound. The man couldn't speak, but his desire was clear.

"Major Williamson?"

It was Hazner. The sergeant was standing in the corridor, looking at him.

John handed the canteen to the man shot in the face.

'Take it slow, rinse your month out first" The Yankee nodded, eyes shiny, unable to speak. "Where you from, Reb?" It was the lieutenant "South Carolina." He hesitated, then the question spilled out "And you?"

"Indiana. Lafayette. Nineteenth Indiana." "Iron Brigade?"

The lieutenant's eyes brightened. "Yes, by God, and we gave it to you today."

John had a flash memory of the final volley, the way the muskets had caught the sunlight sifting through the smoke, the flashing barrels lowering as if guided by a single hand,. the shattering volley at near point-blank range.

"You did well, Lieutenant"

"You won't win this one, Major."

John said nothing.

"We'll keep fighting. Keep fighting, we'll never give up." "Nor will we," John said quietly. "Lieutenant you're next"

Two orderlies stepped to either side of John and reached out with blood-caked hands, helping the lieutenant up. John stood up, motioning for the man next to him to keep the canteen. Inwardly he regretted the decision. It was hot The day was still long, but he didn't have the heart to take it back as the man raised it up and vainly struggled to rinse his mouth out so he could get a drink, blood, watered whiskey, bits of teeth, and saliva dribbling down his jacket.

John stood, heading toward Hazner. The lieutenant was going through the door into the operating room. The boy on the table before him was dead, two orderlies lifting the body off, clearing the way for the next customer for the knife. John caught the lieutenant's eyes for a second.

"Good luck." '

"You too, Reb."

"Major, you gotta see this."

Hazner was by his side, pointing.

John followed as Hazner reached the staircase and started up.

Damn strange war, John thought Ten minutes earlier I would have killed him, killed everyone in here; now I leave my canteen with them.

Hazner took the steps two and three at a time, shouldering aside the Yankees who cluttered the way. Surprisingly, some of them were still armed, but he could see the fight was out of them as they leaned against the blood-splattered walls or sat in dejected silence.

Reaching the top floor, Hazner pointed the way to a ladder that ascended into the cupola. One of his men stood with lowered musket pointing it casually at several officers. One of them made the gesture of offering his sword; John waved him aside.

He followed Hazner up the ladder, and as they emerged through the hatchway, the relative silence inside gave way to a thunderous roar.

John stepped up onto the platform. "My God."

Hazner looked at him, grinning like a child. "Best seats in me house!" the sergeant cried.

John soaked in every detail and knew that if he should live a hundred years, this moment, this place, would forever be etched into his soul.

A great, vast sweeping line, rank upon rank, regiments, brigades, entire divisions were arrayed in a giant arc, closing in on the town of Gettysburg from the northeast north, northwest and directly below from the west.

Dozens of battle flags, red Saint Andrew's crosses and state flags marked the advance. Formations moving forward behind the colors looking like inverted Vs.

They were running, the Yankees were running, and he felt a wave of exultation. All semblance of formation was lost crowds of men were stampeding, pouring into the streets of the town, surging around the perimeter, jumping fences, stumbling, falling. The roads were tangled knots of artillery limbers and caissons, ambulances, supply wagons. A thunderclap erupted to his left, and John turned, saw the first gun of Pegram's battalion already in place. Other guns we're coming up the road, driving hard, swinging into position.