"Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir."

"Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours."

Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day." Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. "Cut away and be quick about it." "The ether?"

"I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!"

Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.

"Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!"

"My ambulance!" the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.

Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.

He knew he should think, should pass orders as to what must be done next. Shock was taking hold, he had to focus, and his focus was now on but one more gesture.

Hawkinson and the doctor came back, carrying the stretcher. Eager hands reached out, lifting him off the ground, bringing him up, turning to head for the ambulance.

"No, damn it, stop!"

"I'm taking you back to the rear, General," the surgeon shouted, ducking low as yet another shot winged overhead. "No. Now up on your shoulders, boys, on your shoulders."

"General, are you mad?"

It was Birney, dislocated arm cradled against his side.

"Eight of you, on your shoulders with the stretcher. I want the boys to see me this day!"

The surgeon started to cry out in protest, but Hawkinson shouldered him aside.

"Goddamn it, you heard the general, now who's with me!"

Men pushed in, shouting, eager for this moment, and together they hoisted Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac, up high, struts of the stretcher resting on their shoulders, the general above them, cigar clenched between his teeth, sitting up, stump of his leg held high. At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up.

"Now down the volley line!" Dan cried. "Walk me down the volley line."

The strange procession set off, moving in behind the fighting men of his old Second Division, and at the sight of his approach the men looked up, fell silent, those on the ground coming to their feet; hats came off, men began to shout.

"Give it to 'em, boys!" he screamed hysterically. "Remember you're the Army of the Potomac! Now charge and give it to 'em! Remember you are the Army of the Potomac…"

"General Sickles, your orders!"

It was Birney, nursing his dislocated arm, running alongside the stretcher. Dan looked down at him but his eyes were wild, filled with battle lust, this final march of a warrior to some Valhalla, like departure from the world of mere mortals.

Birney fell back, watching as his old general was carried off, disappearing into the smoke. Around him men were on their feet, shouting madly, clenched rifles raised, and then, incredibly, they started down the slope, heading toward the enemy guns.

"For God's sake, General, who is in charge here now?" Birney saw that it was Ely Parker by his side. "Colonel?"

"I heard that report. You are being flanked. You must get this army out. Who is in charge here now?"

Birney drew his sword with his one good hand.

"I don't know, Colonel," he gasped. "I don't know. But I can tell you this: when it's over, tell General Grant we died game. We set the stage for what he will do after we're gone. Now, Colonel, get the hell out of here."

Birney, sword raised high, disappeared into the smoke, following his men.

On the Banks of Chesapeake Bay,

near Gunpowder, Maryland

August 20,1863 3:30 P.M.

“The Chesapeake Bay, sir," Walter Taylor announced.

Lee nodded, lowering his head. Numbed by exhaustion, he struggled to get his right foot out of the stirrup. Traveler, trembling and lathered in sweat, remained still. An orderly ran over and ever so gently helped Lee to swing his leg up over the saddle and dismount.

For a moment he had no feeling in his legs, the sensation frightening. Forgetting all sense of protocol and decorum, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and, when the first cooling breath of air hit his sweat-soaked body, he almost staggered, head light, nausea taking him. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away, the world spinning as he doubled over and vomited.

Walter was by his side, holding him by the shoulder, shouting for someone to fetch towels, something cool to drink. He tried to wave them off. He slowly righted himself.

"War is for young men, Walter. I'm getting rather old for this."

"Sir, many a man half your age has collapsed today," Walter offered.

Lee felt weak, frighteningly weak, fearful for a moment that he might faint.

Walter and two others led him up to a wide, open porch, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun. The porch was packed with men, most of them wounded, Yankee prisoners who looked at him wide-eyed, a few coming to their feet, respectfully saluting. He was ashamed that they should see him thus, but his body no longer cared about propriety.

A woman came hurrying out of the house, bearing an earthenware pitcher, cool droplets coursing down its side, a white towel in her other hand. Her ivory-colored day dress was deeply stained with blood. It was obvious she had been tending to the wounded when he rode up.

"Madam, I thank you for the charity you've shown to these men," he gasped as they guided him to a wicker rocking chair. Walter had his coat off and they sat Lee down. The woman upended the pitcher, soaking the towel, then ever so gently wiping his face and the back of his neck. The cool water hit him like a shock, and for a second he feared he would vomit again, something that would have mortified him. He leaned over, gagged, but fought it back.

Another woman was by his side, a colored servant, kneeling down, holding an earthen mug.

"Cool water, General. Just the thing you need; now drink it slowly, sir."

She held the mug as he took it with trembling hands, slowly swallowing, the servant looking at him, an older woman, his age, perhaps older, smiling, nodding her approval, whispering as if he were an ill child taking his medicine. He drained it and she took the mug.

"Now you let that settle for a moment and if it comes back up, I don't want you to feel no shame. It'll take the heat out of your body."

"Thank you, thank you," he gasped.

She smiled, refilled the mug, and offered it to him even as the mistress of the house continued to wipe his neck and brow.

"Now you can hold your own mug, sir, but sip slowly; you'll be all right in a few minutes."

She stood up and scurried off, going back to a Yankee lying on the porch, kneeling down to wipe his brow with the hem of her dress, her face filled with the same beatific compassion she had shown him.

His staff stood around him in respectful silence. He waited a moment, another spasm of nausea hitting him, not as strong as the last. He fought it down without gagging.

He felt something cool running down his back, and looked up at the woman; she was slowly pouring a trickle of water down his back.

"Thank you, ma'am; your kindness is a blessing."

She nodded, eyes lowering.

"I am sorry, ma'am, if we have inconvenienced you this day."

She started to turn away, then hesitated.

"I have a hundred dead, dying, and wounded in my house, sir," she announced, her voice beginning to break. "Is that an inconvenience? There are two boys I don't even know dying in my daughter's bed."

He could not reply.

"For God's sake, General, when will this madness end? Is it worth it anymore?"