Knollys felt a wave of depression. Their best general down and their second-best ignored, the Anglo-Confederate army was in bad shape. Then he realized he hadn't given any thought to the implications of repeating rifles in the hands of a large body of troops. Like the ironclads at sea, a new dimension had been introduced into modern warfare and, like the ironclads, it had not been Great Britain who had made the introductions.

The Irish Legion had been bumped from its trains by Sherman's men and had to march overland from Baltimore to the point north of Washington where the enemy rearguard protected the Anglo-Confederate retreat.

It had been a hard march and the men were exhausted. General Patrick Cleburne had hoped for an opportunity to rest the men, but General Thomas had wanted the Legion and the rest of his army to press the enemy's rear. The men grumbled that, if Thomas had a bug up his butt about chasing the enemy, he should march with them. However, they continued to march.

Cleburne, Attila Flynn, and a handful of others were mounted, which made the journey at least a little easier. Even so, their bodies ached. The rest of the men were half asleep while they walked.

“How soon?” asked Flynn. He had long since regretted his hasty decision to ride along with the Irish Legion. He'd wanted so much to be in on the chase that he'd voluntarily endured the miseries of campaigning that he'd hated even as a younger man. The fact that they were in a stern chase with a retreating enemy made it worse. They might never catch them, which would make all this effort worthless.

Cleburne laughed at Flynn's discomfiture. “Rebels are over the next hill, if the scouts are right. Perhaps just a mile or so away. We'll make it.” The Irish hadn't signed on to fight the Confederates, but it looked like they had no choice.

Cleburne ordered his legion off the road and into battle alignment. Other units followed suit and, in short order, the entire Union mass moved slowly over the low hill. There they paused and stared in disbelief.

“Sweet Jesus,” muttered Flynn. “I thought you said they'd be Confederates.”

Cleburne shook his head, '^:l thought so, too, But the word enemy means different things to different people, doesn't it? But they are the enemy, the one true enemy, aren't they?”

Arrayed on a low hill were ranks of redcoated soldiers, Napier's British rearguard was arrayed before them.

“Do you hate the English?” Flynn asked.

“With all my heart,” Cleburne answered. It was a response that would not have been uttered a year earlier.

The men of the Legion had gotten over their shock at seeing their ancient enemy suddenly before them. Their fatigue dropped away and was replaced by primal anger. There was cursing and growling, and officers had a difficult time keeping the battle line from surging forward,

A messenger rode up and handed a dispatch to Cleburne, who read it and grinned. “According to General Thomas, we are to exert pressure on them.” “Will you rest the troops?” Flynn asked.

The sound of yelling and cursing grew louder. “No, they're refreshed enough by the sight of the redcoats. Besides, if we wait, the British will entrench.” Cleburne gathered couriers and sent orders to his commanders, In a few moments, he waved his sword and the Irish Legion moved forward,

Across the field, Lord Napier watched as the Union force moved with a deadly cadence, Where had the Union gotten such armies? They grew like mushrooms. Or perhaps dragon's teeth, he thought, He recognized the American flag in the fore, but what was the other one, the green thing?

“Who are they?” he asked his staff.

It took only a few moments before someone made the connection, “Irish,” came the report,

Napier nodded grimly, He had the high ground and the larger force, and his men were British regulars. His only regret was that they had only been in position a moment and had not had an opportunity to throw up barricades or entrench. It would not matter. 'Then let us send them back to their damned bogs.”

British cannon and rifle fire scythed the Irish advance. Men screamed and died, or screamed and fell wounded, The British line was thin but their discipline was magnificent, Fire from their Enfields was deadly.

At three hundred yards, the Irish advance slowed, and at two it was a bloodied crawl. By the time the bravest had reached to less than a hundred yards of the British, it stopped and became a rifle duel between the red line of soldiers and the groups of blue soldiers who knelt, lay prone, or sought cover where they could, Now, the British began to die, and gaps appeared in their ranks where men toppled to the ground,

Cleburne, at the head of his men, made a quick assessment, He was hurting the British, but they were hurting him more, He had gotten his men too far in advance of the rest of the army and the Legion was going to be cut to pieces. If he withdrew, it would be under fire and they would be mauled.

The only way was ahead.

General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne stood and waved his sword, “Forward,” he commanded, Nothing happened, His men simply watched his act of madness and wondered what to do, The fight was almost out of them.

Ignoring the hail of bullets that sought him, Cleburne grabbed the Legion's fallen flag. A quick breeze extended the green flag with the harp of Brian Boru in the middle.

“For Ireland!” he screamed and ran forward.

“For Ireland!” a thousand throats yelled, and the cry was picked up along the battle line. Five thousand men got to their feet and began to move towards the enemy.

British fire ignored the one man with the flag and concentrated on the advancing horde, Dead piled up, but still the Irish advanced, screaming through wide-open mouths. Their ancient enemy was in their sights, and their blood was up.

Cleburne reached the British, paused, and hurled the Legion's flag over the ranks of redcoats like a spear. “After it!” he shrieked. Then he began to hack at the redcoats with his sword.

The insane howling of the Legion's men reached a keening peak as they raced the last few yards to the British ranks. There, they grappled with bayonets, rifle butts, knives, fists, and teeth. It was a battle from the days before the dawn of time as vengeance, justified or not, was taken for centuries of abuse, murder, burnings, persecution, and starvation,

The British outnumbered the Legion, but hundreds of battle-crazed Irish surged through the thin British line like a sharp knife through soft meat. The Irish were beyond fear and many later said they felt no pain from wounds that should have stopped them in their tracks, They didn't care if they died, They had become berserkers, They just wanted to kill English soldiers,

The British soldier was as brave as any man and more disciplined than most, They were, however, humans of flesh and blood, They were hungry, cold, and tired, and had already been retreating, which further sapped their morale. Almost as one, those who could turned and began to pull back from the awful carnage and their insane enemy. The Irish moved towards them and the British walk became a trot, and then the rout was on. Lord Napier and other officers waved their swords and cursed as the British infantry streamed past them. Then, confronted with the reality of defeat, they. too. moved away from the field of death as quickly as they could.

Attila Flynn had not advanced with the army. Although far from a coward, he was not a soldier and saw nothing to be gained by putting himself in jeopardy. The cause of Ireland needed him, and his death in battle would solve nothing.

As the sounds of fighting diminished in the distance, Flynn walked across the field over which the Legion had advanced. A great victory had been won. Victoria's army was shattered and running away. But what a price had been paid! The Union newspapers had referred to casualties in other battles as the “butchers bill.” which was an apt description. Human meat carpeted the field. These were the dead_: as the wounded had been dragged to the rear. Some of the dead were whole and lay as if sleeping, while others, equally whole, were contorted and twisted in their final agonies. Worse were those who'd been blown to bloody parts by the British cannon. Limbs, heads, and torsos lay scattered like a child's broken toys.