Lee wanted to tear the reins out of Walter's hands to turn and madly ride into the town, to somehow retrieve the victory that should have been theirs this day.

"No, sir," Walter said quietly. "No, sir, not today."

Lee nodded and turned away.

"Hurray for the Union! We whipped you damn good!"

Lee stopped. It was a Union soldier down on the ground, his legs shattered, but up on his elbows, glaring defiantly at Lee. His escort circled in closer. One of the cavalry troopers, cursing, half-drew his revolver.

"No!" Lee snapped.

He looked down at the soldier and then dismounted and walked up to him. The boy looked up at him wide-eyed.

"Who are you?" Lee asked.

The boy gulped nervously.

"Private Jenrich, Forty-third Ohio."

Lee knelt down by his side and took his hand.

"Private, I shall pray tonight that you get safely home to your loved ones and that someday we can meet in peace."

Lee stood back up and looked at his men, all of whom were stunned, silent.

He said nothing more, riding on, leaving Private Jenrich who bent his head and sobbed.

The Hornets Nest Lee Robinson and what was left of the First Texas gave back, retreating toward McCausland's Ford. Precious few of his one once gallant regiment remained. To the north, through the drifting smoke, he noticed that the sound of battle was falling away into silence, and through the smoke he could see ghostlike figures heading to the rear.

It was a defeat. He had never known such a sensation before, defeat. They had nearly taken the first of the railroad cuts but the damned Yankees just would not give back, not run, not surrender. Was it because they were colored, or because they were Yankees?

Or was it because they were both?

He reached the ford, waded in, splashed the tainted water over his face, and knelt down in it for a few seconds as if it were a cooling baptism to wash away the sins of war.

Standing up, he led his men over the river.

Sergeant Major Bartlett led the skirmish line that cautiously advanced toward the ford. The regimenf was, in fact, nothing more now than a skirmish line, maybe a hundred men still standing. Sheridan rode behind them, a regiment of white troops spreading out.

Bartlett scanned the ground ahead and finally saw what he was looking for, the hospital area, and sprinted toward it. It was indeed a charnel house, several thousand men on the ground, many Confederates now mixed in, men left behind by their retreating foe.

He ignored his duty for the moment, his friend John Miller by his side, walking back and forth until he "spotted the regimental surgeon, down on the ground, a Confederate soldier lying on his side, groaning, as the surgeon probed into his shoulder and then pulled out a rifle ball. "Doctor!"

The surgeon looked up and recognized Washington, his features grim. "My son?" "Over there."

His son was lying by the colonel's side as if asleep. Both of them were dead.

Washington stopped, unable to move. Washington felt as if struck. He could not move or speak, then he slowly sank to his knees, gathering the limp body, still warm, into his arms.

Washington started to rock back and forth, cradling his son.

"Sergeant Major!"

He looked up. Phil Sheridan was gazing down at him. "What's wrong?" "My son," he whispered. Phil stiffened and said nothing for a moment. "What's your name. Sergeant Major?" Washington could not reply. "Washington Quincy Bartlett," John Miller said. "I saw you today, Bartlett, the way you held the barricade, rallied the men. Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Washington could not reply.

"I'm putting you in for one," Phil said, and he paused, as if adding an afterthought, "and my condolences, Sergeant." Phil rode on.

Washington did not even really hear what he said. All that he had fought for now rested limp in his arms.

It was far too much for Washington, and he dissolved into tears, still rocking back and forth, Miller kneeling by his side.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 7:00 P.M.

'We have three choices," Lee said softly. "We can resume the assault tomorrow, we can stand, or we can withdraw."

None dared to reply. Longstreet was absolutely silent, staring off. Hood had been wounded in the arm down by the Hornets Nest, and the surgeon had just reported he would most likely lose it. Beauregard, claiming fatigue, had withdrawn to his tent. Jeb, head and arm bandaged, sat across from Lee.

"I say fight," Jeb said softly. "I was within a couple of hundred feet of the heights before the attack collapsed. I still could have taken it."

Lee did not reply directly. He knew Jeb had barely gotten halfway up, losing scores of troopers trying to charge the guns while still mounted.

Lee looked over at Walter and then to Judah.

"Withdraw," Judah Benjamin said calmly.

"Why so?"

"Sir, I am no general or tactician. But the campaign here in Maryland is over."

"We came so close today," Lee whispered, as if in shock. "So close. I could see victory like a golden light above our colors. So close."

He fell silent.

"Grant's army is as badly mauled as ours," Jeb said. "We can finish him tomorrow."

"And how many more armies will be here this dme tomorrow?" Judah said. "Another Confederate army perhaps?"

Lee looked over at him stonily.

"No, there will be no more armies," Lee replied, "no more reinforcements. We are it."

"And how many men are still capable of fighting?" Lee looked over to Walter.

"Sir, there are no clear reports yet. It will take days. Every division was engaged. Robertson is dead, so is McLaw, both their divisions fought out. Beauregard's two divisions in the assault, I'd guess, fifty percent or more lost."

"General Longstreet, your command?" Lee asked.

"Fought out, sir."

Lee looked at him carefully. He had not yet asked why Longstreet had not pushed the attack more boldly from the northern flank and in the center. But he suspected he knew the answer. Longstreet was trying to hold some strength back.

Longstreet finally stirred.

"This army has lost nearly half its fighting strength in the last three days. I suspect casualties will be in excess of twenty-five thousand, perhaps close to thirty. Added to our losses of last week at Gunpowder River and the earlier-losses in front of Washington and at Union Mills and Gettysburg-the Army of Northern Virginia is finished as an offensive force."

He had said it straight out. Bluntly and without tact.

Lee nodded, dipping his head.

"Sir, it is time to get this army south of the Potomac," Judah said, forcing his way back into the conversation.

"And the president's orders?" Lee asked.

"He is not here. I am, sir, and I think that gives me some authority as the civilian representative to order you to do so."

Lee forced a smile.

"To take the responsibility from my shoulders?" he asked.

"If you would let me."

"No, sir, I will not let you take that responsibility before our president. I am commander in the field. I must act at this moment in best accordance with the needs of this army, the main surviving hope of our cause."

"Washington faced worse after Brandywine and Germantown," Judah said.

Lee smiled but shook his head.

"He was not facing what I now face."

He sighed and lowered his head.

"Those wounded capable of being moved, with what transport we have left, to be loaded up tonight. Take only those men with good prospects of healing, of returning to the fight. All others to be left behind."

The men around the table stirred. "Walter, we will leave a note for General Grant asking for his charity to our men. I am sure he will comply." "Yes, sir."

"General Longstreet. Can you hold this position through tomorrow?" "Sir?"

"I want Grant to think we are still in position, considering a resumption of the fight. Meanwhile I will take what is left of Hood's and Beauregard's commands and head south, down toward Hauling Ferry, along with our pontoon train."