"Thank you, Colonel. And all is well with you?"

"Yes, sir. A tough fight today, but we did well."

"I am glad to see you are well."

Porter nodded. Looking into Lee's eyes, he started to say something and then just simply smiled awkwardly.

A black cook was already tending the fire burning before the tent and circle of pews. As Lee approached, he stood up, offering a cup of tea in an earthenware mug, which Lee gratefully took, nodding his thanks.

He sat down on one of the pews and then caught the attention of a cavalry captain, who seemed to be in charge of the detail setting up camp.

"Captain, did you get permission to borrow these pews and tables?"

"Sir?"

"Permission from the minister or sexton?"

"Sir, ahh, I couldn't find them."

"Then please do so and at once. Otherwise, take them back in. We do not steal from churches."

The captain looked around exasperated, then sharply motioned for a sergeant and a couple of privates to find the minister. They ran off.

Lee stood up and walked over to the blacksmith shop. The artillerymen came to rigid attention at his approach.

"Stand at ease, men."

The artillerymen drew back, looking nervously at each other.

"Were you in action today?" Lee asked. "Yes, sir," a corporal replied, his skin so fair that it was blistered and peeling from the harsh sun. "Where?"

"Sir, in front of Westminster. One of our guns got this here wheel knocked off by a shell. Cap'n sent us back here to get it fixed since we can't find our forge wagon."

Lee, half listening, nodded.

Hie smell of the forge was somehow comforting, clean charcoal, hot iron; it triggered a memory, but he wasn't sure what of; of childhood perhaps. It was soothing somehow.

He could see that he was making the men uncomfortable by his presence, and saying, "Carry on," he turned away, walking, sipping the tea that was flavored with honey, breathing in the clean air of a hot summer evening, rich with the smells of pasture, fields, and woods.

Twilight was deepening. All was quiet except for the movement of a column of troops on the road nearby. The men moved slowly, no banter or high spirits. They were exhausted, staggering on, turning north to move up toward the frontline.

Since he was standing in the shadows, they did not notice him. He was grateful for that. It gave him a moment to be alone, to clear his thoughts.

What I did today bordered on madness. It was madness, he realized. If I had led that charge, I most likely would have been killed. If I die now, in battle, or from something else, such as my heart, it might doom our cause. The burden of that realization was always something that struck a chord of fear within: the frightful responsibility of all this.

For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth, and to another, Come, and he cometh…

As a boy I thrilled to hear the stories of Washington, my father beside him, he thought I never realized the burden, the weight bearing down on Washington's soul that if but one mistake was made the dream of the Republic would die.

And the men, merciful God, the men. That sergeant I could have drawn my revolver, pointed it at his head, and still, for my sake, he would have hung onto the bridle, letting me kill him before he would let go, doing that to protect me.

He lowered his head. "Do not let me fail them, O Lord," he whispered. "For their sake, not mine, let me not lead them astray."

A pot clattered behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. The black servant had accidentally spilled a coffeepot A couple of the men laughed, one in a whisper vilely swore at the cook, and the poor man lowered his head.

And what of him? Is this the reason we fight? To keep him in bondage? If so, what would God say of our cause?

He pushed that thought aside. He had reasoned it out long before; at least he thought he had. When this war is over, then perhaps this scourge upon our souls can be addressed. Those around him at headquarters knew it was a subject not to be discussed; the higher ideal of fighting for the Constitution, for the right of states against the usurpation of the central government was the cause. Yet in his heart he knew that for some, especially the wealthy planters and men of ignorance who could only feel superior when another was suppressed, slavery was indeed their root cause; and in the end that root would have to be torn out

He shook his head. He had to stay focused; to ponder on such imponderables would take what little strength he had, divert him for all that must be done; otherwise, yet again this sacrifice of the last three days, on both sides, would be. in vain.

He looked eastward. There was a glow in the darkening sky. The reports of what had happened in Westminster were frightful. Half of the village had burned to the ground, dozens of civilians dead or injured in the conflagration. Burning along with it he was told, were millions of dollars of precious supplies. Yet even then, in spite of the destruction, millions more had been captured. The Union army was so well supplied that even the leftovers seemed amazing to the men of the Army of Northern Virginia.

Two of McLaws's brigades were still sorting it out, but reports were that over two thousand wagons had been captured along with their teams and the contents within those wagons, limbers, ambulances, and carts. A quartermaster with McLaws had sent up a written report that Taylor had read off to him just before they had left Taneytown: a pontoon train; 50 wagons loaded with precious shovels, picks, and other tools; 250 wagons of rifle ammunition; 200 limber chests of artillery ammunition; wagons loaded with boots, uniforms, champagne, medical supplies, canned milk, tobacco, cartridge boxes, belts, socks, a virtual cornucopia for his army, which just three months back was on the edge of starvation because less than half a dozen trainloads of food a day could be delivered to the front lines at Fredericksburg.

To think of all that was destroyed and yet so much remained to be taken, a treasure trove far exceeding what Jackson had taken the summer before at Manassas.

And they will replace it, he thought. The only question left, the only way he knew he could win, was to break their resolve here, to deal them so shattering a defeat that though they could make the weapons of war, there would be no one left with the moral strength and will to wield them. That was the only way victory could be achieved, though it would mean that many a boy on the other side of the stream dividing them that night would be dead by tomorrow.

He thought of the week before Chancellorsville, a cool spring evening, and how a Yankee band serenaded his men, until both sides stood along the banks of the Rappahannock, laughing, sharing songs, and then all together singing "Home Sweet Home," most of them dissolving into tears.

We must win the war, but in so doing we cannot shatter the peace, so poisoning the common well of our shared heritage that the hatred on both sides will burn for a hundred years. Win or lose, if this war continues, that might happen nevertheless. That is yet another reason it has to end here,

he thought

Win it here. I must steel myself for that, even if it kills me a day later, as I thought it might this afternoon. Defeat them and in so doing save lives and bring this brutality to a close before it consumes us all, North and South.

The twilight deepened Flashes of light on the western horizon caught his attention. He stiffened and focused toward the west, and then he relaxed; thunderstorms, not gunfire.

A first hint of coolness wafted around him, drifting across the fields, a gende breath of wind carrying the scent of fresh-mown hay. He sighed, letting the moment settle his nerves.

"General Lee?"