He turned away, leading Traveler by his reins. He caught a glimpse of his headquarters detail watching him at a discreet distance, looking anxious. He ignored their concern, his gaze fixed to the southeast.

Anderson's skirmishers swept down onto the open plains south of town. The first wave, moving two hundred yards behind the skirmishers, came over the ridge, the formation breaking up as it scrambled over barricades and around buildings. A cheer erupted from the regiment nearest to him.

The men were looking his way, pointing, an officer pausing, turning, raising his sword in salute.

Lee raised his hand, and the cheering redoubled, picked up, echoing down the line.

Such displays always embarrassed him, and at moments like this left him humbled. In minutes those boys would wade into an inferno of case shot shrapnel, and canister. More than one was poised at the edge of the eternal.

Why? For Virginia for this thing called the Confederacy? He looked back at Taylor and the others, boys really, just boys dressed up and playing at glory… More than one of them would do it for me. Use such devotion only when you must when there is no other way, he thought with sharp self-reproach.

The first assault on the hill had placed him in that position yet again. An hour ago he had ridden into town, instinct telling him that Ewell would not press the issue hard enough.

He had found his corps commander in the center of the town and issued a direct order to send everything he had in against the hill.

Ewell had argued against it, wishing for Johnson to come up first and secure his own left flank.

"Give me a brigade, sir, and I'll take that hill!"

It was old "Dick" Trimble, attached to Ewell's headquarters, who had interrupted their argument Essentially a general in waiting, he was ready to be slotted in when a command opened up… as they always did on the field of battle.

Lee had looked into Trimble's eyes and seen that gaze, the sense that a man would willingly die at that moment and all he had to do was nod.

He had made that nod, telling Trimble to round up what troops he could, believing that one more push could trigger another panic in the Union ranks… and now Trimble was reportedly dead on that hill, that accursed hill.

He raised his field glasses, scanning to the east side of town. Nothing. It was impossible to see where Johnson was forming, but nevertheless fire from that flank should be increasing; there should be some sign that an attack was underway.

Why wasn't he there?

'Taylor!"

"Sir!"

Within seconds Taylor was at his side. "Ride. I want Ewell to get his people in there! No more waiting." "Sir!"

Taylor viciously raked his spurs, mount half-rearing, and he was off at a gallop, leaping the broken fence that lined the Cashtown Road, riding down the hill and into the center of town, where Ewell's headquarters were located in the square.

6:2OPM

"Here it comes, Howard. My God, what a sight!" Winfield Scott Hancock reined in, raising his glasses, scanning the Reb battle line cresting Seminary Ridge. One brigade was clearly in view, already passing the seminary, angling to their right Mounted officers were farther to the right. Now flags were appearing there as well, skirmishers coming forward on the double.

Down in the open fields, Buford's skirmishers, exhausted from having been in action since dawn, were still doing their job of holding his left flank, reluctantly pulling back yard by yard, retreating in relays, a forward line breaking off, mounting, riding back a couple of hundred yards, passing through a dismounted line of their comrades, who then mounted again.

One-armed Oliver Otis Howard, commander of the shattered Eleventh Corps, remained silent watching the display, like Hancock,' field glasses raised.

The battle below them spilled out across the pastures and the neatly arrayed fields of summer wheat and cornfields to the west of the road to Emmitsburg.

"Smart of Henry to order his guns to cease fire," Hancock said. "Saves ammunition till they're close and clears the smoke a bit"

Howard nodded.

Winfield looked over at him. Howard was still feeling prickly over the orders from Meade to relinquish field command to an officer who had only been promoted to corps command less than a month ago. He sensed that Howard was still shaken by the rout norm of town, but now that the crisis was upon them, nothing showed but a steady calm.

"And still nothing from over there," Howard announced, glasses trained to the east side of town.

One brigade was fully deployed, well over a thousand yards away. Behind it in the dips and swales, he caught glimpses of columns moving along the road, racing through farmyards, tearing aside fences… more troops still maneuvering from marching column to battle line.

Shells flung by Stevens's battery were detonating across the front of the line of the first brigade, where the Rebs crouched in the waist-high corn. To their flank a battery was wheeling into position, a good fourteen hundred yards out

He grinned. A lot of good those guns would do supporting their attack, firing up toward higher ground at that range. Perfect. There was no real position for the Rebs to establish counterbattery and suppress Henry's guns.

"They're off, Howard. By God, they're off. Damn it they should either send that brigade in now with whatever they've got in the town or wait the extra half hour until everyone is formed. God, I can't believe Lee is attacking like this."

"In another hour it'll be getting dark. He must push it now while there's still light"

Hancock nodded. It was obvious that the big salvo from the Reb batteries deployed around the seminary was some sort of signal for a general assault. Strange, at times you could hear something like that twenty miles away, and then at other times you could be a mile off and it was barely noticeable.

"Just wait" Hancock muttered, glasses trained on Johnson's men. "Dear God, a half hour is all I ask."

The silence that had hung over the field for the last ten minutes was shattered when a field piece, one of Wiedrich's guns at the tip of the salient on the north slope, fired. A second later the gun to its left kicked back. The salvo raced across the northern and western slope of Cemetery Hill, jumping to Stewart's battery, then Dilger's, and continued.

The first of the shells sparked, igniting in the air near the seminary above a knot of officers. Geysers of dirt shot up; the line seemed to be smothered under a curtain of fire.

"Thirty-eight… thirty-nine…" one of his staff was counting, voice pitched high with excitement

"Forty-three!"

As the explosion from the last gun on the left drifted away, a cheer echoed along the line and within seconds one of Wiedrich's Napoleons finished reloading and cut loose with a second round.

"With the guns on the east flank of this hill, we roust have sixty pieces, sir!" one of his staff cried excitedly.

"And enough ammunition for a half hour at this rate of fire," Howard replied laconically.

Hancock caught a glimpse of Henry galloping past the gatehouse. Several limber wagons were coming up the road, horses covered with sweat, crews lashing teams that were obviously blown, barely able to walk up the final slope. Henry, waving his hat, reined in, pointing for them to cut off the road. Gunners leapt off the wagons; stragglers on the road were pressed into service, helping to tear down the fence flanking it.

From the crest, Henry's guns were tearing into the advancing line with brutal accuracy. In the still evening air, the smoke was quickly banking up around the hill, but the gunners knew enough to keep depressing their barrels and cutting fuses shorter.