"I suspect by then that Meade will be onto us and coming down your way. You must push on to Westminster; that is the key. As soon as Hill starts to come up in support of you at Taneytown, then Westminster must be taken. If you can secure that, we will have their supplies and that good base you speak of, the ground south of Pipe Creek. And then you will have the battle you seek, with them coming at you.

'Pete, you might be facing everything they have and doing so alone until the rest of the army comes up. Yet again, it will be like Manassas, when Jackson held alone for nearly two days."

Longstreet shifted uncomfortably. Jackson had been furious over that action, later stating that Longstreet had come up too slowly and taken too long to deploy out while Thomas held alone, his men reduced to throwing rocks at the charging Yankees before Pete's men finally swept in.

"End this war, Pete. And believe me, with you astride their line of communications, cutting them off from Washington, they will come on with a fury. Hill will push in on your flank at the right moment, with Stuart closing from behind. But I need you to move hard and take the foundation to do it on."

"Yes, sir. It will be done."

Lee hesitated. "End this cursed war," he whispered. "I fear we have but one chance left like this. Our final chance."

Startled, Longstreet stared intently at Lee. He drew himself up and saluted. "Yes, sir."

The ambulance ladened with headquarters gear moved to the edge of the road. The last of Robertson's brigade passed, men of the Third Arkansas. The headquarters ambulance rolled into the road behind their two ammunition wagons. General Longstreet, his staff trailing, fell into the road behind Robertson. Morning fog drifted up from the creek flanking the road. Without looking back, General Longstreet disappeared into the mist

Behind Lee the sun broke the horizon. Dawn of July 2, 1863, had come.

Focusing his field glasses, Henry Hunt scanned the road to Emmitsburg that bisected the open valley below. The road, well built and flanked by post and rail fences, cut straight to the southwest to Emmitsburg, ten miles away. Along a mile of the pike directly in front was Buford's cavalry division, most taking it easy, sitting around smoking fires made of piled-up fence rails. After yesterday's hard fight, they deserved some time to rest

A thin line of pickets was deployed along the slope rising up from the road to the west, a knot of riders loitering in a peach orchard along the east side of the pike. Focusing on the group, he watched as one of the men gathered handfuls of the nearly ripe fruit, dumping them into a saddlebag. Several troopers were playing catch with the fruit, one of them pitching a shot at the back of an officer riding past Fortunately for all concerned, the shot missed, and Henry could not help but chuckle.

Raising his gaze, Henry studied the ridge that sloped up to the west. A thin line of dismounted troopers was deployed along the ridge. Occasionally one would pop off a shot the puff of smoke drifting up. From the next ridge beyond he caught an occasional glimpse of movement Confederate skirmishers.

It didn't seem threatening, typical of the type of action along the flanks of a battlefield. The skirmishing was half-hearted, just an occasional shot to announce to the other side not to come too close. He lowered his glasses, carefully studying the layers of ridges that marched off westward, climaxing in the South Mountain Range, twelve miles distant It was hard to discern; the day was humid, a bit hazy, but it seemed as if a low cloud of dust was kicking up between the ridges below the South Mountains.

Not my job to play scout he thought. I'm here to see to artillery deployment get the batteries in place up here on this hill, then go back to headquarters behind the cemetery, check on ammunition reserves, and wait to see what comes next

Behind Henry one battery was now in place, bronze twelve-pound Napoleon smoothbores, perfect for close-in support The guns were well positioned, barrels depressed to sweep the lower slope of the hill. A second battery, ten-pound rifled Parrott guns, was coming up now, laboriously making its way through the trees. They had extra limbers to the rear, more than enough ammunition. Things, at least for the moment were just about taken care of here.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

Perhaps I can finally get a few hours' sleep before things heat up again. They didn't come in at dawn like expected. Maybe we battered them hard enough that Lee will back off. But if he backs off… then what?

A coil of cigar smoke drifted around Henry, and he looked over his shoulder.

Damn! It was Maj. Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Third Corps, now holding the left flank of the line around the lower end of Cemetery Ridge and the two Round Top hills. Sickles was coming toward him, puffing away like a belching locomotive, holding, of all things, a heavy goblet of cut glass, half filled with brandy. Sickles was short features florid, mustache drooping around the sides of his mouth. An energetic man with a high-pitched voice. Sickles was the backslapping and hearty manliness type that Henry found to be distasteful in an officer.

Henry turned away, hoping Sickles would simply wander on. Raising his glasses, he scanned what might be dust drifting along a distant ridge.

"You don't like me, Hunt, I can tell."

Henry lowered his field glasses and looked over at Sickles. He wearily shook his head. "Sir, it's not my place to like or dislike you. You're a general in command of a corps."

"You West Pointers," Sickles announced, as if launching into a speech for the benefit of the men who were digging in to either side of them, only a few feet away, "and I'm not part of your club. You West Pointers, I'm passable as a commander of a brigade of volunteers, but a corps? You just don't feel comfortable with that"

Henry looked pointedly to the infantry, who had stopped their work and were enjoying the confrontation, many of them grinning.

"These are my men, Hunt," Sickles announced with a flourish, the hand holding the glass of brandy sweeping out as if he were about to launch into a speech. "Best damn corps in this damn army. I don't care if they hear what I've got to say."

"I do," Henry replied, his voice pitched low.

'Take Hooker, for example," Sickles continued. "Wouldn't listen to me at Chancellorsville, the stupid son of a bitch. But then again, there was no love lost between the two of you either."

"We saw differently on a few things," Henry replied non-committally.

Henry slid off the rock he had been perched on and

walked down the slope a couple of dozen feet Sickles followed.

"Sir, such a conversation around the men is not in the best interest of morale," Henry said quietly.

Sickles laughed. "Part of the game at times" Sickles replied, but this time his voice was as low as Henry's. 'Troops like it when they feel their commander stands up to the high muckety-mucks. I know these men, Hunt They're tough soldiers, but they're citizen-soldiers, volunteers, not professionals. They fight for different reasons than you and I. If only someone on top really knew how to lead them, we'd've ended this war months ago.

"You weren't there at the Chancellor House when Hooker got knocked out by that artillery round. All of them, all those damn West Pointers standing around like a herd of sheep, hemming and hawing, no one with the guts to take over. I'd of taken command if I thought the others would have followed, but I didn't have that little date of graduation behind my name. We could have won that damn fight, smashed Lee up good that day rather than the other way around. Then Hooker, his brain all addled, stands back up and everyone starts saluting like goddamn puppets on strings. Puppets, Hunt, we're led by puppets."