"Ewell will file in here by midday, though his men will not be in shape to fight until rested, having marched all night If possible, I will forward up additional troops from him as well. I'll be in direct control here for now."

Pete looked back down at the map. Things were getting a little unorthodox. All three corps were jumbled up and split apart. The last time they had tried a maneuver of this scale was Second Manassas, and both corps had remained intact

What Lee was suggesting here was an ad hoc division of command, Lee directly controlling the center and left and Longstreet the right.

"A long front ten miles or more between Taneytown and Westminster," Longstreet offered.

"I know. Their response will be toward one flank or the other. If aggressive, they'll try and cut us in half here. If more concerned about regaining their base of supplies and protecting Washington, it will be toward Westminster. I suspect it will be the latter. Take that town; get Hill's men in position; see if that civilian's report is accurate.

"While you attend to that I'll have people out surveying the land in between along the south side of this creek.

"If all is secure here, I'll pass Ewell's command down to you as well, or at least give you Pickett by the end of the day. If their main assault comes in this direction,! want you to hold Westminster nevertheless, and I'll send down what I can."

Pete said nothing for a moment and just studied the map. The first hard stage of marching was over. Now it was time to secure the base and then find a good place to hold. If Warren and Hunt had been out exploring this ground, they had found it and would know it He had to get it first

Saluting, Pete left the room and then paused to look back. Lee was still leaning over the map. He caught Taylor's eye. "Get him to sleep," Pete whispered, almost mouthing the words, and Taylor nodded.

Alexander was out in the corridor, holding Pete's boots and a cup of coffee. "Let me help you get these on, sir."

Pete nodded his thanks and sat down, cradling the china cup filled to the brim with the warm brew as Alexander knelt to help him.

"Guess I'm coming with you?" Alexander asked hopefully.

'That you are, young sir. Get outside and round up the rest of the staff; they're going too. I want to move within ten minutes."

Alexander grinned. "I've already called to have our horses saddled."

At forty-two, Pete felt very old. Sighing, he stood up and walked out the door. The horizon to the east revealed the first faint glimmer of dawn of July 3,1863.

5:45 AM, JULY 3,1863 WESTMINSTER

Never had he seen such wild insanity. The main street of Westminster was packed solid with hundreds of wagons, tangled together so tightly that nothing could move. Several wagons were upended, mules still tangled up in their harnesses frantically kicking at each other in their desperate struggle to escape. Most of the wagons were abandoned, drivers having run off, joining in the uncontrollable-stampede heading east

He edged his mount along the narrow sidewalk, his horse nervously stepping over a body sprawled in front of a tavern that had been looted. The man had been shot in the back, a broken bottle of whiskey by his side. A civilian stood in the doorway, an old shotgun cradled in his arms.

Haupt nodded and said nothing. The civilian ignored him.

All order, all control had broken down during the night. How and why it had started he still didn't know. Suddenly hundreds of wagons had begun jockeying to get on the Baltimore Pike, drivers screaming that the Rebs were attacking. He had tried to send a scraped-up detail of men to stem the tide; but it was far too much, and most of them had simply joined the stampede.

Then the wagons still parked to the west side of the town had come pouring in, a wagon loaded with cartridge rounds upending and igniting. The thousands of rounds going off had truly enhanced the terror, flames leaping to a second wagon loaded with artillery shells and several hundred pounds of powder. That had exploded in a massive fireball. Several houses had caught on fire and burned, casting a lurid light on the mad scene.

The houses were still smoldering, a detail of civilians wearily carrying buckets to keep it from spreading. They looked at him coldly as he rode past.

In the early light of dawn, he surveyed the madness: the carnage, burned-out wagons, dead animals, another dead man, this one a cavalry trooper.

To the west he could hear the steady rattle of musketry growing closer.

A mule driver, terrorized, was still with his wagon, stuck in the middle of the street behind an upended load of rations, hemmed in on both sides and to the rear by more wagons, all of them abandoned. In his madness the driver was lashing out with his whip. There was no place for the poor tormented mules to go, and they screamed pitifully as their driver continued to lash them, crying out for them to move.

Herman drew his revolver, disgusted with the spectacle. "Goddamn you, stop that!"

The mule driver looked at him, eyes filled with fear, and continued to lash the bloody backs of the mules.

Herman cocked the revolver, aimed it over the head of the driver, and tired. He re-cocked the pistol and now pointed it straight at the driver's head.

The driver stopped the whipping, looking at Herman with a blank stare.

"Drop that whip, you damn coward."

The man did as ordered.

"Get down off that wagon and do one of two things: either find a rifle and get up on the line or go join the rest of your friends and get the hell out of here. But so help me, you raise that whip again and I'll blow your brains out"

The driver was off the wagon and, uttering a strange animal-like moan, he started to run, heading east away from the fight

The mules looked over at Herman, their backs lashed open. He was tempted to put them out of their misery but couldn't bring himself to do it. He rode on, heading up the slope, the rattle of musketry growing louder.

As he rode he turned and looked back. The street was choked, impassable. He shifted in the saddle, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the message that had come in an hour ago.

Headquarters, Second Corps, Army of the Potomac Near Gettysburg 2:00 AM, July 3,1863

To the commander of the garrison at Westminster Sir, my corps is now on the march, having departed

Gettysburg shortly after one this morning, and shall

approach Westminster via the road to Baltimore. I implore you to hold your position regardless of loss. I shall come to you with all possible speed.

Hancock

If anyone would come with "all possible speed," it was Winfield. If he had been in command of this army, there would have been no delay yesterday afternoon and evening.

But where was the cavalry? One good division right now could make all the difference. Instead, there was nothing but this scratch command and thousands of mule drivers running like madmen in every direction.

As he looked at the nearly impenetrable pileup of wagons clogging the street, a cold voice within told him it was over, to round up a crew, send them down the street, shoot the mules, and start setting the wagons on fire-and try to get out with what he could.

And yet Hancock had said he was coming.

He hesitated to leave his headquarters down at the depot, hoping that somehow, just behind the message that was over three hours old, perhaps Hancock himself just might come riding in with an advance guard.

No, it was twenty-five miles to Gettysburg, a ten-hour march for a corps moving fast, very fast

To the west the sound of fire was picking up. So they were pushing in at last. Hell, a guard of old ladies armed with brooms could have swept them out of there during the worst of the panic.