Rodes nodded.

"When this war is over," Pete whispered, pointing toward the carnage, "what will we say to each other then?"

With that he turned away, stepping around the wreckage, the chaos, pausing for a second to look at a sergeant cradling the body of a major, the sergeant rocking back and forth, telling the major over and over how sorry he was.

Longstreet walked off to be alone with his thoughts.

Of the nearly fifty thousand men who had advanced, including those men of the two divisions of Sickles who had attempted to engage Early, nearly eighteen thousand were dead, wounded, or captured. Of the roughly twenty-six thousand Confederates who had faced them, close to five thousand were down as well. The terror of the twelve hours along Antietam Creek, the horrendous losses of that bitter day, had been compressed into less than four hours.

Second Corps was forever finished as a fighting command. As Hancock was loaded into an ambulance, around him close to 70 percent of his men were casualties. All three division commanders were dead or dying. Ninety percent of the officers of colonel's rank or above were dead, wounded, or captured. Entire regiments had been swept off the roster of battle. Slocum's Twelfth Corps had fared nearly as badly. Slocum was unconscious, like Hancock disobeying orders and going forward to be with his men, knocked out by a bursting shell. Both of his divisional commanders were dead.

Dan Sickles, ever the survivor, was getting out Breaking off the engagement in which he had briefly committed two of his divisions, one of which was badly mauled, he was even now preparing to abandon the line.

Kelly, dying, had refused to let go of his flag, respectful Confederates kneeling by his side, a son of Ireland, whom fate had cast up in Charleston rather than New York, reciting the rosary with him, then, as Catholic rite allowed, hearing his confession so that afterward as a proxy, he could carry that confession to a priest Kelly slipped away, his confessor prying the colors from the colonel's hands, folding it up, and tucking it under his shirt with the solemn promise that one day they would be returned to his brigade.

Porter, passed out from loss of blood, was loaded onto an empty caisson to be taken to the rear by gunners.

Where terrible blood lust had ruled only minutes before, small acts of compassion now held sway… a shared canteen, a slip of paper torn from the back of a pocket Bible and men used to write down a few last words of a dying foe, a soggy blanket wrapped around an old man with no visible wounds, but shaking uncontrollably with shock, lips blue, heart failing.

Prisoners, heads bowed, not with shame, but sheer exhaustion, labored up the slope, carrying the wounded with them. A large hospital flag went up just behind the crest, men laid down on the ground beneath it so that the field was soon a sea of anguish, men suffering under the cooling rain that again was drifting off, faint shadows flowing across the scarred landscape as the sun struggled to emerge.

Along the banks of Pipe Creek, Meade slowly rode back and forth. "My fault," he said, repeating it over and over, "it is my fault"

No one listened. Men staggered past some sparing an occasional glance, most not hearing, or if they did hear, not caring.

And ten miles away, Gen. Robert E. Lee turned off the road; He needed no directions; it was easy enough to find what he was looking for. Troops, men of Johnson's command, were spread out in an open field. Some had ponchos out strung together, and spread atop inverted muskets, men clustered beneath. Clear-enough sign that they had not moved for some time.

The rain was picking up again. Off to his left he could see a thin coil of smoke; something in Taneytown still burning, he realized.

He rode on, his anger building as he saw ho activity.

Ahead he could hear a scattering of fire. Skirmishers, an occasional thump of a field piece, but no movement The men sitting where they had most likely been sitting for hours. As he rode past word spread ahead, racing down the line. Men were up, some with hats off, others saluting. A few bold ones shouted questions, asking of the fight "over on the right"

He rode on.

At last he saw them. The carriage that Ewell had taken to riding in due to his missing leg, staff, Hood and Pickett together to one side, both looking up expectantly as Lee rode up to the small farmhouse.

"Where is General Ewell?" Lee asked sharply.

"Inside," Hood offered, pointing to the open door.

Without another word, Lee walked up the steps and into the front parlor. The house was modest, made of fieldstone, the ceilings low. Ewell, leaning against a table, stood up and saluted.

"How is it on the right?" Ewell asked.

"Longstreet held," Lee replied sharply. "The question is, General, why have you not advanced as ordered."

"Sir, we heard the cannonade, two hours of it Someone came in reporting that Longstreet was falling back."

"Who, sir?"

"A soldier with Early."

"A soldier with Early? No one from my command? No one sent by Colonel Taylor or General Longstreet or me?"

Ewell was silent From the corner of his eye, he saw Hood and Pickett standing outside the doorway.

"Why are you not advancing, sir?" and his voice was loud enough to carry outside.

"Sir, given the confusion of the situation, the report from that soldier, the intensity of the cannon fire, I realized, sir, that what I had under me was the only remaining reserve of the army. Sir, I thought it prudent to wait for further clarification before advancing north."

Lee nodded.

"General Ewell," he said, in a cold deliberate voice, "I gave you clear written orders before action was joined this morning. You were to wait until it was evident that the Union forces were fully committed and attacking at Union Mills. You were then to push north, finishing what was left of their Fifth Corps, and men advance behind their lines toward Littlestown."

He paused for a moment Ewell was silent staring straight at him.

"You have not done that sir."

"General Lee, with all due respect sir. We still do not know where Sixth Corps is. For that matter where their First and Eleventh Corps are located. I might very well be facing four corps over there, and I only have three fought-out divisions."

"You did not do as ordered, sir," Lee stated flatly.

Ewell lowered his head. "Sir, I thought it prudent not to."

"Prudent? By all that is holy, sir, it is such prudence that will lose us this war and waste the lives of our men. I did not ask you for prudence; I ordered you to show leadership."

Ewell looked down at the map and vaguely started to trace out the lines.

Lee stared at him and for a moment almost felt pity. Ewell had once been a good division commander, the right hand of Jackson. That Ewell was gone, lost with the leg shattered at Second Manassas. He had become doubtful, hesitant

Is that what I could have become? Lee wondered. What might have happened if I had shown hesitation these last four days, a moment of doubt a moment of deference when I could so clearly see what had to be done but could not quite face up to it… that the nature of this war had changed, and we must change with it if we are to win, if we are to have any chance of winning.

He turned his head slightly, saw Hood at the door, Pickett and Johnson behind him, staff gathered out on the lawn, all of them silent

"General Ewell," and his voice was pitched cool, even.

"Sir?"

Lee took a deep breath. "General Ewell, you are relieved of command." "Sir?"

‘I am relieving you of command, sir. Kindly report to Westminster and there take over the organization and distribution of supplies."