"Sir, I think you should see this."

John Williamson drifted in the half-real world of waking and numbed sleep. He tried to ignore Hazner for a minute, to hold on to just one more precious minute of rest, the opiatelike sleep of complete exhaustion, devoid of dreams, of nightmares, of all that he had seen.

"Sir." Sergeant Hazner roughly shook him, and John sat up. Hazner was crouched before him, a dim shadow in the moonlight

"What is it?"

"Over there by the road, sir. Something is up."

John turned, fumbling for the glasses in his breast pocket. The world around him was hazy, wrapped in early morning mist and smoke drifting from smoldering fires. The air was rich, damp, carrying the scent of crushed hay, and that other smell, the smell of a battlefield. Where the battle had started, dead men and horses scattered about their campsite alongside the pike were beginning to swell.

The camp was quiet at least nearby, but he could hear low moans, cries from a nearby barn, bright with lights. Even as he put his glasses on, two stretcher bearers staggered toward him, carrying their burden, who was babbling softly, lost in delirium. Even in the dark he could see that the stretcher bearers were Yankees, white strips of cloth tied around their arms to indicate they were prisoners who had given their parole and were now pressed into service.

One of them looked over at John. "Vere the hospital? Ve lost?"

It took him a moment to understand what the Yankee was saying. His accent was thick, German from the sounds of it

John pointed toward the barn. The Yankee nodded his thanks and pressed on.

John spared a quick glance down at their burden. In the soft glow of moonlight the man they were carrying already looked dead, his features ghostly white, dark, hollow eyes wide with pain. Since he was wrapped in a blanket it was impossible to tell which side he was on.

Across the gently sloping valley below, lanterns bobbed up and down, like fireflies drifting on a summer night The rising mists gave it all a dreamlike appearance, of spirits floating in the coiling wisps of fog. A lantern or candle would stop, hover for a moment and then move on. He watched as one knot of men stopped, lantern laid down on the ground, men gathering around, one going down on his knees and covering his face, while comrades gently picked up a body to carry it off.

Around him all was still, what was left of his regiment lost in druglike sleep. A man cried out softly, tossing, and sat up, breathing hard. Embarrassed, he looked about caught John's gaze, then looked away, lying back down.

Fires had burned down to glowing embers, thin coils of smoke rising straight up, mingling with the damp night air.

"I think that's your friend, Colonel Taylor, over on the road," Hazner whispered, touching John on the shoulder and drawing him back.

"So?"

"Well, sir, if he's out and about back here behind the lines at this time of the morning, that tells me something is up."

"And you want to know what it is." John sighed. "Is that what you woke me up for?"

"Well, sir, I don't have the social connections you have."

"Goddamn, Hazner. Can't it wait till morning?" 'It will be that in another hour, sir. I was about to get you up anyhow."

Every joint of his body ached in protest, and he was tempted to tell Hazner to go to hell and lie back down. But the sergeant was right. If something was up, it'd be good to know it now.

After the bloody assault of the afternoon, the regiment had gone into reserve. He had watched the final assault go in against that damn hill on the far side of the town, a charge that had gone down into flaming ruin, wiping away the sense of triumph. Perhaps the regiment would be ordered up, and the thought of that knotted his stomach. Not another charge, not like yesterday, God forbid, never another charge like that

He looked to the road and saw that it was indeed Taylor, half a dozen staff with him. They were dismounted, gathered in a tight circle, one of the men holding a lantern over a map that was pressed against the flank of a horse. John moved toward them, feeling a bit nervous about intruding, but Hazner had set him on a course and he could not turn aside, for now his curiosity was up as well.

As he approached, Walter looked up. "John?"

"How are you, Walter?"

"Good to see you're still alive."

"Same for you."

There was an awkward moment and John felt he should withdraw.

"A hard night" Walter finally offered. "How did it go up there?'

"They held the hill. We lost a lot of good men, and now the Yankees are digging in. You can hear them up on that hill moving more men in."

"So that means we attack again come dawn?" John struggled to control the pitch of his voice, offering the words casually, as if discussing a distasteful chore that he simply needed the light of day to accomplish.

Walter sighed. "John, you know I can't discuss that with you."

"I know, Walter. But if my men need to get ready, I'd better see to it"

An approaching horseman, coming from the west, stilled their conversation. John recognized the rider as one of the young couriers on Lee's staff, a cheerful lad still filled with a starry-eyed dream of glory. The boy's mount was exhausted, blowing hard, covered in lathered sweat. The boy reined in before Walter and saluted.

"Sir, I was sent back to tell you that the road is clear all the way down to Fairfield, and that scouts have been posted in that town. A patrol led by Major Hotchkiss is moving toward Emmitsburg but has encountered nothing so far. At least one brigade of Yankees marched through Fairfield early in the evening, just after dark, coming up from Emmitsburg, but turned east toward Gettysburg, moving on the road that comes out near the rocky hill south of town."

"How do you know that?"

"We captured a few stragglers, sir. Third Corps."

"But the road we want is clear?"

"At least to Fairfield, sir. One of the stragglers said there was nothing behind them."

"Did you hear him say that?"

"Yes, sir. But any man that would talk like that I wouldn't trust sir. No honor in a man who would say that to someone on the other side."

One of Taylor's followers snorted disdainfully.

"No honor in any of them bastards."

"Lieutenant Jenson, go tell that to the Yanks still holding the hill," Walter replied softly.

"Did you see General Longstreet on the turnoff to the Fairfield Road?" Taylor asked.

"Yes, sir. I passed the word to one of his staff. They said he was trying to get a few hours' sleep before setting off."

"Jackson would already be moving," Jenson whispered.

Walter turned and looked sharply at his companions. "I will not tolerate that" he replied sharply. "If the general were here, you wouldn't have dared say that"

John watched the interchange. Jenson lowered his head

and muttered an apology. John could see that Walter was exhausted, leaning against his horse for support Hazner approached, bearing two cups of coffee, and with his usual good sense he held one out to Walter, who gratefully took the steaming cup while John took the other one. Such a gesture meant that John could linger for a few more minutes and perhaps find out what was brewing.

The first sip was hot and when it hit his empty stomach, John gagged. He'swallowed down the bile, took a deep breath, then another sip, which settled the rebellion. Walter half drained the cup and set it back on an upright fence post Then he looked up at the courier.

"Good work, Vincent General Lee is asleep. His headquarters is the house across from the seminary. Report there, but don't disturb the general. Like Longstreet he needs some rest too."