Rumors had been drifting through the vast wagon parks since mid-aftemoon. Meade was dead, the army defeated yet again; then someone reported he had climbed a church steeple and seen smoke off to the west Now those cavalry boys riding in, all lathered up, scared half to death.

So now he knew… and he'd be damned if he got killed just because some goddamn general wanted to make a name for himself. He'd seen battle once, at Fair Oaks. The humiliation of being drummed through the camp, the sign declaring that he was a coward hung around his neck, the taunts of the bastards for his having excused himself from certain suicide by running away, didn't bother him all that much. Let them get killed. In fact, he later heard most of them had gotten killed at Antietam..

Lousy bastards deserved it Service with the supply trains, which his captain had sent him to, that's where a man of intelligence should be anyhow. Good rations in the wagons, always a chance for a bottle, even for the girls who trailed along behind the army, though such pleasures did eat up most of the pay of twelve damn greenbacks a month.

And twelve dollars a month wasn't enough to stay here. Not with those wolves coming this way. He'd seen them once, not much better than animals the way the Rebs came charging in. And by God, that's what they would do here come dawn.

Dick Hansen slipped away into the dark, dodging through back alleyways, finally reaching his wagon. The mules, stinking lousy beasts, were hitched up. Let the others unhitch theirs, but not Dick Hansen. Something told him it was going to get hot, so he had left them in their harnesses throughout the day, ready to go at a moment's notice.

He climbed up onto the rough seat and untied the reins.

"Come on, you sons of bitches," he hissed.

"Hey, Hansen, what the hell are you doing?"

It was Ben Fredericks, another driver with First Corps, his wagon parked next to Dick's. Ben, sleepy-eyed, was peeking out from the tailgate.

"We're ordered back to Baltimore," Dick announced.

"What?"

"Whole goddamn rebel army is coming this way!" Dick shouted. "I was down at headquarters. Orders are coming out now for us to get the hell outta here."

"What the hell you say, Hansen?"

Shit It was Sergeant Vernon, supposedly in charge of their detachment coming out from behind his wagon parked behind Fredericks's.

"You heard me, Sergeant A whole rebel corps is marching right this way."

"From where, damn it?"

"That road going west Taneytown, I heard. They've licked the army, and we're ordered out of here." 'I ain't heard nothing."

'•Well, you just heard it from me, Sarge, and I'm following orders!

"Come on, you sons of bitches!"

He cracked the whip over the ears of the lead mule, and the six whip-scarred beasts lurched forward, squeezing between two parked wagons, heading out across the field, weaving their way around hundreds of other wagons.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The cry echoed and reechoed across the field.

"Army's beat, Rebs are coming here by dawn, and we're pulling back to Baltimore. You all better get moving right now!"

And the panic began.

11:30 PM, JULY 2,1863 THE ANTRIM, TANEYTOWN

"General Longstreet, it's General Lee."

Sprawled out on a sofa in the front parlor, Longstreet came awake. Someone had draped a comforter over his body, and he pushed it back. Embarrassed, he sat up.

I wasn't supposed to do this, Pete thought Not with men still on the march. All he could remember was coming into the house, speaking to the owner for a moment assuring him that his property would be respected and all that was needed was the parlor.

He had sat down, just to take a moment-to collect his thoughts.

"How long have I been asleep?" Pete asked. "About four hours, sir. We kind of figured you needed a bit of a rest"

"You shouldn't have done that" "Sir, you needed it"

It was Alexander, his young acting chief of corps artillery, leaning against a table brought into the middle of the parlor, several of his staff gathered around the maps spread out on it There was the smell of coffee in the air and fresh baked bread.

"Good hosts," Alexander said, coming over, offering

Longstreet a fine china cup filled to the brim with coffee and a piece of buttered bread.

Pete nodded thanks, drank down a mouthful of the scalding brew, and then consumed the bread.

"Where's General Lee?"

"He's in the town, sir. Someone just rode in to report. I sent an orderly up to guide him here."

Pete nodded, standing up, suppressing a groan from the ache in his back and lower legs.

"What happened while I was asleep?" Pete asked.

"Nothing to worry about, sir. A rider came in from McLaws about a half hour ago. He's halfway to Westminster, reports no resistance. Hood's division is here; they're deployed out north of town blocking the road from Gettysburg. A bit of skirmishing there a couple of hours ago, a few cavalry stragglers. A report that some Yankee infantry is on that road on the other side of a creek a couple of miles north of town."

"Infantry? How much. Who?"

"Not sure, sir. It was dark. But they're there."

"Hill?"

"Head of his column is coming in now. Pettigrew, he's commanding Heth's division. They're filling in on the right of Hood and going into camp. Pender is behind them."

A commotion outside stilled their conversation. Pete looked out the window. It was General Lee, staff trailing behind him, dismounting.

Pete stepped out of the parlor. The wide double doors of the mansion were open, torchlight outside casting a warm light on Lee, who stiffly dismounted, patting Traveler on the neck before letting an orderly take his beloved mount away.

Pete went out onto the porch and saluted as Lee ever so slowly came up the steps.

"General, it does my heart good to see you," Lee said.

The way he said it caused a flood of emotion inside of Pete. He had always respected Lee, admired his audacity, even though he had not agreed, at times, with how that audacity was played out But the way he said, It does my heart good," touched him. He knew it was real.

Pete extended his hand, helping Lee up the last step. The clasp held for a second. Lee, several inches shorter, looked up into Pete's eyes. "You should be proud, sir, in fact the entire South will be proud of what your boys did today."

"You were the one who gave the orders," Pete replied, suddenly embarrassed.

"A day ago, at just about this time, I was ready to attack at Gettysburg yet again. I realized, though, that your words, your advice, were correct If ever someone writes a history of this army, they will cite this march as one of the great feats of this war, sir."

"Ewell and Stuart?" Pete asked, features red, wishing to change the subject

"I received a report an hour ago from Taylor. Two of Ewell's divisions were on the road after dark. The last is to pull out by midnight Stuart will stay in the Gettysburg area through tomorrow, demonstrating to their front and right"

"We need to concentrate our army now, sir," Longstreet said. "We are in a dangerous position at the moment. Those people are concentrated and rested. We are strung out yet along thirty miles of road and tired. We must bring everything together tomorrow."-

As they spoke, the two walked into the parlor, Pete's staff respectfully coming to attention. Lee gazed at the map for a moment, nodding approvingly, asking about the Union deployment north of Taneytown and the latest report from McLaws.

Finally he went over to the sofa that Longstreet had been dozing on and sat down.

Nothing needed to be said. The staff withdrew out into the corridor, the last man out extinguishing the coal-oil lamp – on the table. Before they had even closed the door, General Lee was asleep.