"All of the Yankees will be concentrated here at Gettysburg. They'll have to turn around and force march back. It will be a mad tangle. That is the disadvantage this town hides. Getting in is easy; getting back out quickly, that will be a problem. And while they do that, we simply dig in and get ready to receive them."

"How are these roads?" Longstreet asked, at last breaking eye contact with Lee to look at Hotchkiss.

Lee smiled inwardly. Longstreet was rising to the challenge, the bait. It would become for him an issue of pride, to match Jackson and what was now the immortal legend.

"Emmitsburg to Taneytown to Westminster is a good pike, sir," Hotchkiss replied. "Solid bridge over Monocacy Creek."

"I crossed through Westminster, sir," Stuart quickly interjected. "Excellent roads. You could move an entire corps along them without a problem."

Lee held up his hand, indicating for everyone to remain calm. For a moment this afternoon he thought that final victory was, indeed, unfolding before Gettysburg. He realized now that if he had not launched that final, desperate evening assault he would have rejected Longstreet's reasoning, which had triggered this new line of thought, believing that come dawn the fight could be pressed to a successful conclusion on this ground. He knew now that Longstreet, without a doubt, was right Today, exactly one year later, he had fought Malvern Hill here at Gettysburg on July 1st. He would never make that mistake again.

The battle here at Gettysburg was finished.

"We turn this back into a battle of maneuver, gentlemen, the thing we have always done best the thing that our opponents have never mastered. But let me say it before all of you quite clearly. I am not seeking a half victory. By abandoning this field, some will see that as an admission of defeat something we have never yet done, completely abandon a field. In so doing we return to a war of maneuver. We cut their line of supply while at the same time continuing to secure our own line of supply by moving our wagon trains back down to Greencastle. The ultimate goal must be to force the Army of the Potomac to territory that we choose and then fight a battle to finish this once and for all."

He looked carefully at each one in turn. 'That is what I will expect from you, what our country expects from all of us, and nothing less is acceptable. We are here to win not just a battle."

He paused for a moment

"We are here to win a war."

He looked around the room. Ewell's gaze seemed a bit distant; most likely he was still in shock after the debacle before Cemetery Hill, but Longstreet Stuart and even Hill had stirred. In their eyes was that light, that terrible fire he had seen before in men anticipating battle and knew could blaze within him as well.

There was a final gaze back at the map of Gettysburg, then over to the other map, his glance catching a creek north of Westminster… Pipe Creek.

He took a deep breath and pushed the map of Gettysburg aside.

Perhaps the fate of our nation rests on what I've just done here, he thought, but that thought held only for a moment until finally, like the map, he pushed it aside as well. Such thoughts, at such moments, could only serve to cripple one's will, and there was a campaign to be planned.

2.00 AM, JULY I, 1863 ' CEMETERY HILL

"It's General Meade."

Henry Hunt, who had fallen asleep sitting against the wheel of a caisson, stirred, looked up blankly. Hancock stood above him, silhouetted by the moonlight

"Better get up," Winfield said, and leaning over, he offered his hand.

With a groan Henry took the hand, and came up to his feet.

"How long did I sleep?" "An hour, maybe two." "Sorry."

"You needed it" "What about you?"

Hancock chuckled. "No rest for the wicked."

In the bright moonlight Henry could see the cavalcade, a troop of cavalry riding escort guidon of the Commander of the Army of the Potomac shining silver in the moonlight staff officers trailing behind as Meade trotted around the side of the gatehouse to the. cemetery and came up the hill. One of Hancock's staff rode down to meet them and pointed the way.

Henry stretched, absently tugging at his uniform, trying to smooth it out. His mouth felt gummy, the taste sour. His eyes were scratchy. As he stretched, every muscle and joint ached in protest

He caught the scent of coffee and nodded his thanks as a sergeant approached bearing a hot cup. He blew on the rim, took a scalding mouthful, and rinsed his mouth out; then he took a deep swallow, the coffee jolting him awake.

Still a bit disoriented, he looked around. In the moonlight it seemed as if the grounds of the cemetery were a seeming mass, a strange, almost frightful sight, as if the graves had opened and the dead were rising up.

The men were digging in. Shovels flashed in the moonlight; lunettes were going up around the guns rimming the crown of the hill. Shattered caissons, upended wagons, dead horses, empty limber boxes, anything that could stop a bullet or shell were being piled up, strengthening the defensive line.

Farther down the slope, he could see dozens of lanterns, slowly bobbing and weaving about, stretcher parties working to bring in the wounded.

"Lee asked for a truce a couple of hours ago," Hancock announced. "Their boys and ours are down there helping the wounded. Damn, Hunt, there are places you can barely move the ground is so covered with bodies."

He had a flash memory of the flag bearer torn apart, the ground smeared with blood, entrails, parts of bodies. Lowering the cup of coffee, he caught a scent of the air. It was a mixture of raw, upturned earth (cemetery dirt, he. realized coldly), the still-clinging sulfur smell of burnt powder, but layered in was the stench of open flesh, bodies torn open; and though he knew it was his imagination, he felt the air already held the first sickly sweet smell of decay, the flesh preparing to go back into the ground from which it came.

He gagged, then, embarrassed, mumbled that the coffee was strong.

Meade approached, Winfield stepping forward to meet him, offering a salute. Henry put his cup down on a caisson lid and came to stand by Winfield's side.

"Winfield, Hunt, glad to see you're both alive," Meade offered as he dismounted.

"How are things on the road?" Winfield asked.

'Usual. Total chaos. God, is there anything left of Eleventh Corps up here? I swear I saw every last one of them halfway back to Taneytown."

"Some of them held," Winfield offered. "Ames's brigade put up a hell of a fight"

"I heard. Too bad about Ames."

Henry didn't know, and he looked over at Winfield.

"Reb stretcher party brought him in an hour ago," Winfield offered. "He died just after they carried him into our lines."

"Damn," Henry whispered. "A good man."

Meade said nothing, walking up to the line of guns ringing the crest carefully stepping around the tangle of bodies that still Uttered the slope. "So they came up this far?"

"Right to the mouth of the guns," Winfield replied. "Henry's people tore them to shreds."

Again the image of the flag bearer, cut in half. Henry pushed the thought away.

"Winfield."

"Sir?"

"Is this position worth holding?"

Henry could see Winfield's features crack into a grin. "It's Fredericksburg in reverse. By God, I hope they come again tomorrow. We have the ammunition now and two more batteries. Let them come."

Meade nodded, looking down the slope toward the town. "So he asked for a truce."

"Right thing to do," Hancock replied. "I was thinking of offering one myself but didn't have the authority. It's ghastly down there. Some of our men were crawling down to offer them water; a couple got shot doing it I'm glad he offered."