Henry almost felt a moment of pity for this foul-mouthed ward politician turned general. He had been humiliated in front of his entire command. Every soldier, down to the most dim-witted private in the Third Corps, would know about that humiliation within the hour.

"You'd better get back and establish headquarters," Henry finally offered.

"Hunt would you do me a favor?"

"What sir."

"Go south. You've got a good mount Just take that road down to Emmitsburg. You could get there in an hour. Scout it out."

Henry said nothing. Scouting was not his job. It was artillery and Sickles knew that If Meade found out that the chief of artillery had gone off scouting at the request of Sickles, he'd be out of a job.

Dan lowered his head and turned his mount back. "Hunt, this day will wind up haunting both of us for the rest of our lives." He rode off, leaving Henry alone at the peach orchard, except for the orderly, who like all orderlies waited patiently.

Henry nudged his mount forward, the orderly falling in by his side, the young officer knowing better than to say anything. For a brief moment Henry was tempted to detail the lad off, send him down the road as Dan requested. No, one boy wandering off on his own would most likely get lost or wander into trouble and get himself killed.

All the way back to headquarters, and even as he settled back under the elm tree, Dan's words haunted him. The nap was an unsettling one and brought Henry no rest or peace.

President Abraham Lincoln settled into the chair by the table covered with maps. Sighing, he adjusted his glasses and wearily looked at them, half listening as Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War, droned on about the situation. To one side of the table were the latest newspapers from Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, all of them screaming about the rebel invasion.

"The reports indicate that Lee's casualties last night were substantial," Stanton announced. 'It's a heartening indicator."

"Strange," Lincoln whispered, "we now call the deaths of so many young men heartening."

"It's the most successful repulse we've seen yet of an attack by Lee, in fact the first clear defeat since Malvern Hill a year ago…"

"And do you think he will come on again today?" Stanton nodded.

"Why?"

"It's not like him to back off from an attack."

Lincoln picked up one of the maps brought over from the War Department showing southern Pennsylvania and most of Maryland. Blue and red pencil markings traced out the route of the two armies as they converged on Gettysburg.

"Should we be confident that General Meade will react correctly?" Lincoln finally asked.

"He was chosen by you," Stanton replied cautiously.

"Upon your recommendation."

"He is the only one capable right now. Unfortunately, Reynolds turned it down."

"And now he is dead."

"Yes."

Lincoln nodded, looking back at the papers, one of them dated from Chicago only two days ago. How remarkable, he thought When I came to Congress from Springfield only

seventeen years ago the journey had taken more than a week. Now papers can be rushed from Chicago in just two days. The Chicago paper's top story was a report from Grant's army proclaiming that Vicksburg would fall within the week.

"There is nothing we can do to affect things now," Lincoln said, again looking back at the map. "Let us trust that General Meade will prove himself worthy of the men who serve him;"

Brig. Gen. John Buford fought to regain his saddle, his mount nervously shying back from the shell burst that had detonated a dozen feet away. The trooper who had been reporting to him was down, lying still in the middle of the road, covered in white dust. "You hurt, General?"

Head ringing from the concussion, John turned. It was Gamble, commander of his First Brigade.

He was stunned from the blast, and it took a moment for his thoughts to clear.

Gamble leaned over, grabbing the reins to John's horse.

"Are you hurt, sir?"

"No, no. I'll be fine in a moment"

"They're spreading the line," Gamble shouted, "extending to our right!"

John nodded, willing the pounding in his chest to settle down, his thoughts to clear.

It was getting decidedly hot the air thick, sticky. He looked back to the east toward Taneytown. The rest of Devin's brigade was coming up on the pike, troops of cavalry spreading out across the fields, riding hard.

But the horses were blown, moving slowly. Hard days of campaigning, the fight yesterday, were telling now. Cavalry could move quickly when need be, but then horses had to be rested. Push too hard and your entire command is on foot. That's why he had requested the pullback to the rear, to give the mounts a day or two to feed on the rich pastures, get reshod after nearly two hundred miles of marching in the last two weeks, and even more importantly, resupply his command with ammunition and rations.

And now this, a battle that was never supposed to happen, a dozen miles to the flank and rear, with me in the way, taking a break at Taneytown when a scout brought the word in that Rebs were on the road to the west

From the bluff overlooking the river, he could see the bridge below, a solid affair, stone foundation, wide enough for two wagons to pass. Ten more minutes, and the Rebs would have had it. Only a hard ride, a flat-out gallop of five miles by his lead regiment the Eighth New York, a ride that had killed at least a dozen mounts and blown the rest could secure the crossing, even as the Rebs were racing in from the other side.

Now the damn affair was spreading out. This wasn't a raiding force probing the army's flank; it was a full-out attack. As his regiments came up from Taneytown, the Rebs were pouring their men in as well, rapidly extending to either side of the bridge, looking for places to cross and envelop him.

The Rebs had at least a division on the other side of the river, the trooper who was killed having just reported that they had taken a man who claimed to be with Law's brigade, Hood's division.

Damn, if I'm facing Hood down here, a dozen miles south of Gettysburg, that must mean all of Longstreet is behind him. They wouldn't just send a lone division this far off the flank. No, this was like Second Manassas all over again, with Longstreet again on the other side. Fix our attention in one direction, then slip around to the flank or rear. It was always the same with the Army of the Potomac. We focus on Lee, then he weaves like a boxer, dodging off in another direction, and our damn generals sit there dumbfounded. Once, just once, why couldn't it be the other way around?

The opposite bank of the creek was a shadowland of smoke and flickering gunfire. The air was still, humid, the smoke cringing to the ground, hanging in choking clouds beneath the trees that lined the banks of the stream. His men were giving back, rifle fire echoing in the shallow valley, but doing so slowly, with measured pace. Ammunition was low; every shot had to count.

He turned about and drew back a hundred yards, coming back out at the crest on the east side of the creek. Heat shimmers were rising off the pike to Taneytown, distorting the column of troopers coming up to reinforce the line.

"Should I tell Devin to put his men in on the right?" Gamble asked.

John raised his field glasses, scanning the opposite slope on the far side of the river. He caught glimpses of an infantry column a half mile away heading to his right. A second artillery battery was swinging into line. I don't have a single damn field piece, Calef won't be up for another half hour, and now there are two batteries on the other side, most likely more coming up.