Longstreet, pushed fifty yards back from the fight, turned viciously on his staff, swearing at them, caught up in the madness of the moment. The heat, the terrible hours of volley fire along Gunpowder River, the memory of Union Mills, all the dreams, all the hopes, all the bitter frustrations were now played out along this nameless fence row bordering a nameless cornfield in Maryland.

Neither side would give, and both sides fought with passion, with abandon, all the causes of this insane conflict forgotten except the desire to win regardless of cost.

And then behind him, coming out of the smoke-filled gloom of the woods, Longstreet saw a wall of men advancing, colors to the fore, Jubal Early in the lead. Hood's corps was coming up.

Jubal, spying Longstreet, rode up and saluted.

"I'm coming in," Jubal announced triumphantly.

And for the moment, all the rivalry between the two was forgotten. Longstreet reached out and grasped Jubal's hand.

"You know what to do!"

Jubal grinned.

"Hell of a march and now a hell of a fight!"

Jubal reined his mount around, even as the horse whined and writhed in pain, a minie* ball striking its neck, blood spraying out.

"Louisiana, charge!"

Hays's Louisiana brigade leapt forward, baying like wolves at the scent of blood. It was only fifty yards to where the Texans struggled with the Sixth Corps, and the collision of wood and steel with wood, steel, and bodies reverberated, staggering the Union line back. The Louisiana brigade charged with rifles loaded, and as they pushed past the Texans, they leveled their weapons and fired at point-blank range; hundreds of Union troops dropped from the onslaught, and within seconds, they broke, streaming back into the cornfield that was now leveled for most of its width.

Regardless of pride, of memory, of all that they fought for, in that hundred-degree heat they could no longer withstand this arrival of fresh brigades, where only minutes before they had been pursuing a beaten foe.

The Texans and the soldiers of the bayous began to swarm over the shattered fence in pursuit.

"Hold, hold your position!"

Longstreet's command was already being shouted by Early, Robertson, and brigade and regimental commanders. "Load!"

Men feverishly drew rammers; the Texans, many driven back from where they had stuck ramrods in the ground, tossed weapons aside, picking up the Springfield rifles of the Yankees piled around them.

The retreating men were now a hundred yards back, some disappearing back into the corn that was still standing, some turning, defiant, ready to renew the exchange.

'Take aim!"

With that, as rifles were leveled, the will of the Union troops broke, some flinging themselves to the ground, others falling back, but a brave few, the tragic remnants of the Iron Brigade, still remorseful over the loss of a precious flag, were trying to regroup, and many a rifle turned in their direction.

"Fire!"

The volley cut across the field, cornstalks going down, men going down, and what was left of the elan of that confident Union charge broke as the survivors fell back into the corn and disappeared.

A defiant cheer erupted from the rebel line, men from neighboring states slapping each other on the back, yelling, laughing, even as they drew cartridges and reloaded. Some fired blindly into the smoke and tattered remnants of com, but there was nothing left to aim at.

Longstreet dismounted and walked down to the volley line, men turning, looking at him wide-eyed, as some were beginning to emerge from the hysteria of battle, the wild cheering now replaced by panting for breath. Some men sinking to the ground, some doubling over and, from nervous exhaustion and heatstroke, beginning to vomit, some laughing with a wild, mad edge in their voices. Most were silent, shocked, taking in the carnage around them.

Longstreet caught sight of the man who had snatched the prized flag of an Iron Brigade regiment, the Texan sitting on the ground, surrounded by admirers, but his head was between his legs, the man was sobbing, hand grasping the sleeve of the Union flag bearer he had just killed. His comrades were understanding, respectful, one rubbing the back of his neck.

He saw Lo Armistead struggling to stand up, still helped by his corporal, a few Virginians gathering around him like children having just found a beloved parent. These men were silent, some taking their hats off.

Robertson, fiercely proud, this fight an exoneration for the defeat at Fort Stevens, walked the line, shouting congratulations, but few responded.

Longstreet turned, looking up at Venable, who was still mounted, blood streaming from the bayonet slash to his thigh.

"You all right, son?" Longstreet asked.

"Didn't go in, just cut me," Venable replied.

"Get a courier to General Lee. Tell him we've held the line; they won't come on again tonight and I now await his orders."

Venable saluted, turned, urged his winded horse up to a slow canter, and rode off.

Pete, unable to control the shaking of his legs, sat down against a tree, sap oozing out from where it had been torn by a dozen or more rounds. Exhausted, he simply lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Headquarters Army of the Susquehanna

August 19,1863 7:00pm

Some of the more excitable around headquarters claimed that they had been able to hear artillery fire. That was absurd; the battle that was most likely unfolding was over a hundred miles away; though late the day before, he did believe that he had heard some gunfire from Grierson engaging Hampton.

Grant sat wrapped in silent gloom. The doctor from the headquarters hospital had just left his tent Herman Haupt was dead.

He had died two hours ago from acute dysentery. The genius who had been responsible, perhaps more than any other, for the miracle of moving an entire army nearly a thousand miles, supplying it, bringing it nearly up to fighting level, was gone and Grant raged at the loss.

Grant cursed himself. He should have ordered him relieved from duty weeks ago, and yet he had used him. Used him up as easily as he would use a division of troops to take a hill, buy time, storm a fort, watching dispassionately, knowing that a thousand would die by his command to go forward.

And yet, in the using, what had been achieved? He looked at the final manifest that Haupt had submitted to him only yesterday before staggering out of the tent and collapsing facedown on the ground. Rations to feed seventy-five thousand for a month stockpiled, three hundred rounds of rifle ball per man, three hundred and fifty artillery rounds, mixed, solid shot, shell, canister, eight hundred and fifty more wagons coming in, three thousand six hundred mules to pull them, two thousand nine hundred remounts, four hundred tons of oats, pontoon bridges, enough wagons, some of the replacement bridges for the railroad, and, of course, the men, still not enough men.

One more division was starting to come in; already the trains were unloading them, but he would have preferred another entire corps. Couch's militia had proven to be little more than an abysmal waste. They had signed for ninety days, and most of them were making it clear that in three more weeks they were out of the army, but for the moment he still had them.

He wasn't ready to go; his plan had been meticulous, well laid out, and now Sickles had completely destroyed it.

That Sickles would meet Lee, alone, was now a foregone conclusion. The telegraph line from Perryville, up to Philadelphia, New York, and then to Harrisburg had been fully restored and had been buzzing all day with reports from "The Army of the Potomac before Baltimore." The first reports boasted of a victorious advance; the last, dated an hour and a half ago from a correspondent with the New York Tribune, reported heavy fighting and casualties.