The infantrymen pressed into service jumped back from the gun, turning away, covering their ears. The sergeant looked back over his shoulder to Stewart, the battery commander, waiting for the signal. As his gaze swept back, he caught a glimpse of Henry. There was a flash of recognition and a nod. O'Donald… sergeant back with Battery A of the Second, long before the war, his first command.

Henry returned the nod and smiled, remembering O'Donald as the quintessential Irish artilleryman, loudmouthed, a first-class brawler who could clear out a saloon, especially if some cavalrymen dared to make a comment about gunners. He was proud of his craft, every inch a professional.

"Number two… fire!"

O'Donald jerked the lanyard, turning half away as he did so. The Napoleon let off with a roar. Mingled in with the discharge was the sound that was music to Hunt's ears, the almost bell-like ring from the bronze tube as it belched forth its twelve-pound shot, a sound distinctly different than the sharper crack of the ten-pound rifles.

The crew leapt to work, rolling the gun back into position.

"General Hunt!"

Henry turned

It was Hancock. Winfield Scott Hancock, trim looking, almost dapper in a sparkling white shirt, cuffs and collar still clean. His coat was adorned with two

stars on each shoulder and neatly tailored. He was no dandy though. There was a radiant power that generated the instant respect that Henry always felt in his presence. Hancock reined in hard, followed by half a dozen of his staff.

"Glad to see you're still alive, Henry!" Hancock shouted, leaning over from the saddle, extending his hand.

"You too, sir."

Henry grinned. Winfield was his definition of a commander, a man who led from the front and set the example. Another shell whistled past. Winfield didn't notice it, even though those trailing behind him flinched and ducked low in their saddles. "Henry, they'll do it any minute now."

Henry spared a quick glance back to the north. The massive columns, what looked to be an entire division, were still-moving, continuing to flank to the east. 'They might wait till those reinforcements are in position."

"I think that's Johnson," Hancock replied, "the old Stonewall division, the best they've got.

But it'll be an hour or more before they're in position.

"They're pressing hard, damn hard. Bobbie Lee won't wait. He's coming straight in with what he's got."

Bobbie Lee. Damn, how strange this all is. There was a time when I would have led a battery straight into the gates of hell if that old man had asked me.

He can go to hell by himself for abandoning the flag and his oath to it. Henry thought bitterly. Let him come and try to take this hill now.

"Henry, can you hold?"

"Ammunition. Give me enough, and I'll hold this hill until Judgment Day. But if they come on now, I'll need more ammunition for later when Johnson comes in."

"You hold now; I'll worry about later. Give 'em everything you've got!"

As if in fulfillment of Hancock's prophecy, Henry saw a column of Confederate infantry emerging out of the smoke that drifted along the streets of the town. They were on the Baltimore Pike, charging straight in. Another column poured out of a side street, spreading out, no semblance of order, just a ragged tangle, coming on fast, jumping over fences, moving through back lots, kitchen gardens, and alleyways.

"This is it!" Hancock roared.

Spurring his mount, he tore past Henry, waving his hat, standing in his stirrups, shouting for the men to get ready.

Henry looked over his shoulder. His orderly was still trailing, leading his mount He ran over, got back into the saddle, and grabbed the reins.

'This road is the Baltimore Pike," and as he spoke he pointed at the road that passed in front of the cemetery gate; "it heads back to Littlestown. There are troops and batteries strung along it for miles. I want you to ride like hell."

The boy nodded, looking past Henry, taking in the sight of the advancing Confederates, eyes wide.

"Look at me, damn you!" The boy shifted his gaze and stiffened under Henry's icy stare.

"Any batteries you pass, tell them I am ordering them up here on the double. I need ammunition, especially canister. You tell any battery commander you meet, press the ammunition forward. If need be, drive the horses till they drop and then push the damn limber wagons by hand! Now go!"

The boy, impressed with the urgency of his mission, forgot to salute as he reined his horse about and set off at a gallop.

Henry moved along the line, angling downslope to a knoll at the northern tip of Cemetery Hill, where the Reb assault would first hit. Wiedrich's First New York Light Artillery, one of two batteries of Napoleons kept back by Howard and ordered to dig in, held the forward point. The men had been frantically working throughout the afternoon, their efforts undoubtedly spurred on by the sight of the disaster befalling their comrades north and west of the town.

Crescent-shaped lunettes, piles of dirt, fence rails, logs, anything that could stop an incoming round, were thrown up around the four guns. Decimated regiments, what was left of Adelbert Ames's brigade from the battered Eleventh Corps, deployed around the guns, a lone regiment farther downslope. Henry reined in behind the four guns, judging the lay of their fire as the four guns slammed case shot into the advancing enemy.

Red flags-the Saint Andrew's crosses of the Army of Northern Virginia-were streaming out of the town, half a dozen regiments at least, not slowing to shake formation out from line to column; they were coming on at the double.

"Arrogant bastards!"

It was General Ames, face powder blackened, uniform sleeve torn, hat gone, hard pushed but obviously boiling for a fight, standing by Henry's side.

"Land north of town is a worthless piece of shit!" Ames shouted, pointing to the indefensible flat ground. "I told Howard, put us all here, but he sent us over there instead. I lost half my brigade."

Henry said nothing, attention focused on the advancing Rebs, still four hundred yards out. Every gun that could be brought to bear, more than thirty of them, was opening up. Case shot ignited over the enemy lines, dropping dozens. Still they pressed on.

"Good ground here though," Ames continued. "Let the sons of bitches come. You back me up, Henry, just back me up."

Henry remembered Ames as an infantry captain before the war, the star on his shoulders a very recent climb to the exalted rank of brigadier general, supposedly for organizing and training some regiment from Maine to a fighting pitch and leading it into action at Fredericksburg.

"It's the other way around!" Henry shouted back. "Support my guns, and we hold this hill."

Ames, noted for a volatile temper, colored slightly, then broke into a grin. "All right then, damn it, all right"

Ames left him, going on foot down the slope to his forward regiment the Seventeenth Connecticut deployed at the bottom of the hill.

Henry rode straight into the middle of Wiedrich's battery, the men working slavishly at reloading, fuses on the case shot cut to two seconds.

Guns recoiled, their thunder joined by the other batteries ringing the hill. He beard the sharp whine of shells from Stevens's guns, deployed on a knoll flanking the east side of Cemetery Hill, the three-inch bolts skimming close to where he stood, dropping down into the rebel lines, detonating with deadly accuracy.

"Canister! Switch to canister!" Henry roared.

Wiedrich's loaders, working at the caissons, deployed twenty yards behind the pieces, picked up the premade rounds, tins holding seventy iron balls and strapped directly to serge powder bags so that the close-in ammunition could be loaded more swiftly. The loaders ran forward, gun sergeants swearing, urging the men oh.