"Now is when to press them," Lee said, his voice sharp. "I want those people driven off that far hill within the hour. Colonel Taylor, let us go find General Ewell."

Longstreet began to speak, but a glance from Lee stilled him.

"General Longstreet, return to your corps. Have them come forward with all possible haste. General Hill is not well today. If need be, you are to assume control over his men still on the road and press them forward. I want Johnson and Anderson's divisions to come forward and prepare to go into action."

Without waiting for a reply, Lee reined Traveler around and started toward the town.

John saluted as he passed, but the general did not notice.

"By God, what is going on with him today?" Longstreet asked, looking over at Taylor.

"His blood is up, General. His blood is up."

Walter saluted as Longstreet, features grim, turned his mount and started back in the opposite direction.

Walter looked down at John. 'Take care, John. It's a hot day."

John saluted, saying nothing as Walter set off to catch up with Lee.

A hot day. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. "Sergeant, you got a drink?''

Hazner shook his head. "Gave my canteen to some Yankee."

"Damn it," John sighed.

"Sir, we better get back to the regiment. The Old Man's blood is up, and you know what that means."

John watched as Lee cantered down the road, heading into the town, hat off, acknowledging the cheers of his men, urging them forward. He could sense the vibrant excitement rushing through the army, the indefinable something, the inner spark that Lee could strike and, once struck, exploded into flame. It felt as if they were on the edge of a distant dream, that just beyond the mist, the smoke ahead, were the green, sunlit fields… of home.

"Perhaps today is the last day," John whispered. "Perhaps today we will finish it."

"That's it Dilger, feed it to 'em, damn them, feed it to 'em!"

Sitting down to see under the smoke, Henry braced his elbows on his knees and trained his field glasses on the column of Confederate infantry cresting over Seminary Ridge.

"Number one… fire!"

The first of Dilger's Napoleons recoiled with a thunderclap boom, smoke jetting from the muzzle and touchhole. "Number two… fire!" Henry waited expectantly. "Number three… fire!"

A yellow blossom of fire ignited fifty yards short of the Reb column.

"Number four… fire!"

No detonation from the second… "Goddamn fuses," he muttered softly. Number three's shell slammed into the flank of the column and detonated, toylike figures of men tumbling over.

"That's the stuff, number three!" Henry cried, coming back to his feet.

The powder-begrimed crew paused for a second in their labors, looking over at Henry, grinning, but knew better than to revel in their glory, and within seconds were back to work.

"Number one, set your damn sights!"

Captain Dilger, whose Ohio volunteer battery had been in action since midmorning, came up to the general. "Sir, ammunition?" Dilger asked, voice barely a whisper.

Henry unslung his canteen and handed it over. The captain

took a mouthful, rinsed, spat it out, and then took several long

gulps.

"I'm bringing up more," Henry said, "just keep pouring it in."

"Thank you," but his voice still cracked, raw from hours of shouting, breathing the thick, sulfurous fumes, and from sheer exhaustion.

"Pour it on 'em," Henry replied. "You've got infantry columns in flank, by God," and he pointed toward the seminary, where snakelike lines of butternut and gray, following their regimental flags, were pouring over the ridgeline north of town, streaming down into the fields beyond, maneuvering past the town and heading east

"My God, the arrogance of those people marching like that" Henry exclaimed excitedly. "Just pour it on. I'll make sure you get resupplied." He started to turn away.

"Sir?"

Henry looked back.

"Ah, sir. My men, it's been…" His voice trailed off under Henry's icy gaze.

"We hold this hill till the last gun, the last man," Henry replied sharply. "I don't give a damn if you are the last man standing, these guns don't go back another inch."

"Yes, sir."

Number one fired again. He turned his attention back, but the smoke was too thick; it was impossible to see.

"You have the range!" Henry shouted, section commanders and gun sergeants looking back at him. "Smoke or no smoke, keep pouring it on!"

He stalked off, barely flinching as a shot plowed through the trees overhead, branches ripping off, littering the ground around him.

Looking downslope, he watched as the infantry continued to dig in. Most of them were General Schurz's Germans, the one reserve brigade from Eleventh Corps who had been held back by Howard to fortify the hill. They were the only fresh troops left; and though most of their comrades had broken and run in the debacle north of town, these men still looked fit, eager to prove their name.

A colonel, seeing Henry, came off the line, approached, and gave a friendly salute. "Think the Rebs are going to keep coming?" he asked.

"By God, I hope the bastards do come," Henry growled.

Even as he spoke, there was a flurry of rifle fire, confused shouts. Out of the smoke clinging to the bottom of the hill, shadowy, forms emerged, dark blue uniforms, running, most of them unarmed. One of them spun around, going down, his comrades leaving him behind. They reached Schurz's line, refusing to stop, crying that everything was lost and that the Rebs were coming.

Henry watched disdainfully as the men, several of them officers, staggered past. A light breeze eddied across the face of the hill, lifting the smoke, revealing hundreds of panic-stricken Union troops still pouring out of the town.

The infantry colonel, features drawn, looked over at Hunt. "A shameful.day for Eleventh Corps," he sighed, shaking his head. "We broke at Chancellorsville and again today. Damn it all, sir, I have good men in my command; its just that we keep getting put out on the flank."

"Redeem it then, Colonel. I'm counting on you to cover my guns. You want to redeem your honor? Then hold, man. You've got to hold."

Dilger's battery fired again, the infantry downslope and in front of the guns crouching low, cursing as the shells screamed over them.

"If it comes to canister rounds, I want clear fields of fire in front!" Henry shouted. "We won't have time to stop for anyone still in front. Make sure of that, Colonel. When the time comes, you pull back in around my guns and clear the field for my canisters."

Henry turned and continued down the line without waiting for a reply. Next to Dilger, to the east and nearly astride the main road to Baltimore, were the three twelve-pound Napoleon smoothbores of Stewart's Battery B, Fourth U.S. Regulars.

Their professionalism showed. At midmorning, on the flank of the railroad cut the Rebs had surged up to the muzzles of their guns and the battery had held,-before being ordered to retreat back to the cemetery.

The intensity of their fight showed. Limber wagons, caissons, and even the field pieces were scored and splintered from rifle fire. The once-polished bronze barrels were blackened, the men grimy, uniforms torn, more than one soldier with a makeshift bandage around an arm or leg. Some infantry had been drafted into the ranks to replace those lost in the final melee, the new recruits serving on the wheels and prolonge to maneuver the pieces back into place after firing. The smoothbores didn't have the range to accurately shell the troops maneuvering to the north of town, so instead they were carefully dropping case shot against any columns of Rebs moving within the town of Gettysburg.

No need to offer advice here, Henry thought as the sergeant on the number two piece, not satisfied with the aim, crouched back down, sighting along the barrel, urging the two men working the prolonge to shift the trail piece a couple of inches to the right Both his hands suddenly went up, signaling that the gun was correctly laid. He barely touched the elevation gear positioned under the breech and detached the rear sight Reaching into the pouch dangling from his hip, he pulled out a fresh friction primer and inserted it into the breech, then clipped the lanyard to the primer. Stepping back and to the side of the gun, he uncoiled the lanyard until it was taut. The sergeant did his job with an almost detached calm, even though the air was alive with the hum of bullets, the shriek of enemy solid shot, and shells winging in. "Stand clear!"