And yet again, all of what was said about the "good ground" came to pass here. If the rebel charge had been met on level ground and by men not already exhausted, the line just might have held, but their backs were to a downward slope now churned up into slippery mud, all was confusion in the smoke, none could see more than ten, maybe twenty feet, and what little could be seen was a glimpse of hell.

Men began to stagger backward; some in their terror simply threw aside their rifles and ran; others, as always those around a sacred flag or trusted officer or sergeant, backed out, slashing and stabbing at those who pressed too close.

The entire Union line disintegrated as Rodes's Second Brigade slammed in and the Third Brigade, a few minutes later, obliquely hit Lockwood's lone brigade on the Union right

John Gibbon, defiant to the end, stood clutching his ghastly wound. Mercifully, a North Carolina boy stopped short of him, grounded his musket, and then just simply offered a hand, not saying a word. Gibbon, nodding, slowly sank to his knees.

Those still standing from the second and third waves of Hancock's and Slocum's corps poured down off the slopes above Union Mills.

"Keep moving; don't stop!"

Hancock was still out in front, weaving back and forth in front of Wright's brigades, sword held high.

Already across the stream, they had taken almost no casualties, all the Confederate fire concentrated on the annihilation of those on the slope.

Though he could not see it, so thick were the smoke and the steadily increasing curtains of rain, Sickles, a mile and a half to the west, was going in with two divisions. Sickles's charge was just now slamming into the flank of Early's brigade, which itself was on the flank of the retreating Twelfth Corps.

Hancock caught a glimpse of a courier riding straight down the middle of the Baltimore Road, swerving off, going down into the streambed, and then just disappearing. He suspected it was from Meade or Sedgwick.

To hell with them now.

From out of the maelstrom cloaking the ridge ahead, he saw a wave of men emerging, falling back, some running like madmen. Spurring forward, he waded straight into their ranks, standing high in the stirrups.

"My men. Rally to the old Sixth! Fall back in. Rally!"

At the sight of their corps commander, many of the men actually did turn about, though there was little fight in them now, exhausted as they were.

The blue wave of the Sixth Corps hit the bottom of the slope and started the final climb up toward the blood-soaked ridge.

"My God, another one," Porter gasped. "When will they stop this!'

Rodes had somehow managed to rein in his men charging down the slope, and they were now falling back up the slope in fairly good order, firing a volley, withdrawing a couple of dozen yards, then firing again before sliding into the trench.

Porter's guns had switched back to solid shot and case shot with fuses cut to two seconds, firing downslope into the mist, the passage of the shot visible by the twisting swirls lashed through the smoke.

"One more time!" Longstreet shouted, stepping back from the walls of the bastion, looking at the gunners. "They can't have anything behind this."

Venable and Moxley were waiting outside the bastion, holding Longstreet's horse. He left the position, pausing for a second to look back. The battlefront was emerging out of the smoke, a powerful block. He caught a glimpse of a divisional standard, the new ones that the Army of the Potomac had just instituted. He wasn't sure which division it signified, but it was obviously Sixth Corps. So, after all these days, he knew exactly where they were at last, the heaviest corps of their army, coming straight at them.

He judged the width of the line, a half mile or more across. Most likely a second division behind it..Thank God, they had not come up ten minutes earlier.

He turned to Moxley. "Ride like hell. This will hit here," and both ducked as a shell screamed in close, but failed to burst

"Pender and Pettigrew are to leave a light screen, one brigade each to cover their lines, but then start moving everything else down here."

"Sir?" Moxley looked at him, a bit confused.

"Every regiment, every battalion, I want them here! Get a message back to General Lee as well. Tell him we've pinpointed the location of Sixth Corps. They are directly in front of us. They are not before Taneytown; they are here!"

Moxley saluted and galloped off, his horse kicking up sprays of mud

Longstreet swung up into the saddle. The rain had closed in hard, dropping visibility to less than a hundred yards, so that for a moment the advancing lines were lost to view. There was no need to see them; one could hear them, the ground, the air vibrating from the steady trample of eighteen thousand men, coming straight at him.

Henry watched the advance, tears in his eyes, knowing that the timing was off, that they should have gone in ten minutes earlier.

Barely able to speak, he grabbed the nearest battery commander. "Pour it in. Sweep that crest Don't stop!"

The major shook his head. "Sir, we're out. Just canister and half a dozen rounds of case shot as reserve."

"Then fire the case shot!"

Even as he spoke, Meade, who had swept past Henry twenty minutes earlier, in response to the word that Sickles was advancing, reined in.

Sedgwick, hat off, came racing up to join Meade.

"Did you order your men in?" Meade shouted.

"No."

"Then why are they going in? Did we break through?"

Sedgwick hesitated. "I'm not sure. I sent a courier down to order them to stop, but they are still going forward."

"They're going in without orders?" Meade cried.

Henry looked at the two, at first mystified, and then overwhelmed with despair.

"I did not yet order the final advance," Meade gasped.

Henry, all thought of propriety gone, stepped forward between the two. "Let them go!" Henry shouted, his voice breaking. "They still might carry it."

"It's out of control, Hunt," Meade said, his voice cold and distant. "Sickles went in without orders; it's too late to stop him; now this, my last reserve other than First Corps."

Henry wanted to ask him why, if that was the case, had he had Sedgwick move up halfway in support to start with. He sensed that at this moment Meade was losing his nerve, thinking more of a battle lost than a battle that could still be won.

"They can still carry it" Henry offered.

"Those are my men going in without my orders," Sedgwick announced stiffly.

"Then go in with them now, sir," Henry replied, his voice filled with rebuke. "Show them that you can still lead."

Sedgwick glared at him coldly. "Goddamn you, sir. I'll have you court-martialed for that"

"Go ahead," Henry said wearily, shaking his head.

The nearest battery fired, and Meade, startled, looked up.

"I thought you said we were nearly out of ammunition."

"I'm putting in what we have left" Henry replied, turning away from Sedgwick. "My God, those men need my support Sir, they are our last hope. Let them go in."

Meade was silent watching as the Sixth Corps started up the slope, disappearing into the smoke and mist

"Go, John, see what you can still do." Meade sighed.

Sedgwick glared angrily at Henry for a moment and then, with a vicious jerk of the reins, turned his mount around and raced down the hill.

Henry said nothing, looking up at Meade, who sat astride his horse as if transfixed, not moving, almost like a statue, rain dripping from the brim of his hat

Flashes of light danced along the ridge crest; long seconds later the rumble of a volley rolled across the valley.

"I've lost control of the battle," Meade whispered, speaking to himself.

Even as he spoke, Henry saw a rider emerging through the drifting clouds of smoke, standing tall in his stirrups, shouting for General Meade. A gunner pointed and the courier turned, seeing the flag of the commander of the army, and raced up, then reined in hard, mud splattering up from his horse.