Grant had essentially promoted him again at this moment, but Phil showed no reaction.

"Hunt is resupplying the guns he has left; they will resume their old position and bombard the line. If an opening develops, we push it. We also captured ten of their guns, Napoleons. Hunt is incorporating them into his command. Call on him if you need close-in support."

Phil said nothing, finally put his cup down, and saluted. "I better get back to the men I have left," he said and walked off. "Sir?" It was Ely. "Yes?"

"Sir, I have some returns," he said quietly. He held up a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Just tell me," Grant said.

"Sir, we might have upward of twenty-five thousand casualties for the last three days."

"What I figured," Grant replied, looking over at Ely.

The men of his staff were all silent. Nearly half their own men had fallen in the melee yesterday; all were in shock at the horrific losses. He wondered at this moment whether Ely, in presenting the returns, was offering a suggestion, that it was time to break off the fight.

Grant turned and looked at him.

"How many do you think Lee lost?" he asked.

"I'd judge as many or more. The Hornets Nest, we might have lost more than them, but it absolutely shattered Robertson's command. It was up here, though, that Lee was really pounded. The estimate is we lost somewhere around three thousand repulsing the attack; estimates are he might have lost eight to ten thousand."

Grant could not speak.

He did not want to say more. If he dwelled too long on just how much suffering had been created, and, yes, created by his own hand, he'd break. There was many a bottle to be found in town. It would be easy enough to say no fighting today, to find a bottle, get good and drunk, and try to get some sleep.

He sighed, pulling his hat brim low against the steady drizzle.

"Push him," he finally said. "I'm taking over Banks's Corps personally. After Sheridan feels better, I'll cut orders for him to consolidate his command with that of Ord while I incorporate McPherson in with Banks. That should give us two light corps for maneuver. No one is fit to move today, but I want Lee to know we are still here." "Yes, sir," Ely replied quietly.

"Look, Major Parker," Grant said softly, so quietly only Ely could hear. "The question now is simply this: Who will decide to quit? I can turn this army around today and retire over the mountains, and every man in it will then believe that we were fought to a standstill and lost.

"But if I stand this ground, if we continue to stare Lee in the face, if tomorrow we advance, those same men will march believing they have achieved victory. Yes, a victory bought at a terrible cost, but victory nevertheless, and they will march and fight as victors. If we stand and then move forward while Lee is forced to retreat, his men will reach the opposite conclusion, and they will withdraw from Frederick as a defeated force. That, in its simplicity, is often the essence of war. That will set the groundwork for the next step in this campaign."

Ely said nothing. Grant was slightly embarrassed that he had felt it necessary to explain himself.

"Go about your duties."

"Yes, sir."

"Ely, is the telegraph connection back up?" "No, sir." "Why not?"

"The telegraph wagon for headquarters was smashed in the fighting. The wire from town to halfway up the pass was cut in hundreds of places. Several hours ago, when I realized how long it would take to get service back up, I did send a courier back with news to Hagerstown."

"I wish you had done that sooner," Grant said, and there was a slight note of chastisement in his voice. "The president must be worried sick by now. Besides, our other commands must have clear news of what happened here."

"Sorry, sir," Ely replied. "It's just that with all that had to be done, I let it slip. I'm sorry."

"Too late now. How long for another telegraph wagon to get up?"

"It should be here by late morning. Ten miles of wire are to be brought up." "Thank you, Ely." "Sir."

He stood silent, hands in pocket, and wondered what was being said in Washington now. Was Sykes continuing to advance, or had something gone wrong there? Were the fortifications at the fords strong enough to hold if Lee should turn that way? As he looked across the rain-soaked battlefield, he felt that never in his life had he been so lonely as now.

9:00 A.M.

General Lee rode across the field parallel to the road down to Hauling Ferry. It had been a hard choice, one he had agonized over ever since rising shortly after midnight.

Upon awaking, his first temptation was to reverse his decision and keep the army in place for the day, to see if Grant just might counterattack.

But the realization that his rear was now threatened had settled the question. Jeb had come to him shortly after one in the morning with a report that Yankee cavalry was astride the Baltimore and Ohio, nearly cutting Armistead off. Behind the cavalry it was believed additional Yankee infantry was moving, possibly only the militia that had fooled them a week ago into thinking Grant was coming due south, but fresh troops, nevertheless.

Lee could sense that a vise was beginning to close. If I wait, Grant will indeed wait in response until I'm hit from the rear.

His hand forced by events, he and his men, the veterans of Hood's and Beauregard's Corps, had set out before dawn. Hood had indeed lost his arm and was out of the fight. Beauregard was now complaining that he was sick and could not move.

Ahead, skirmishing began to flare, Jenkins's cavalry, probing down the road to Hauling Ferry.

The men marching on the road, as he gazed over at them, filled his his heart with anguish. They were what was left of Beauregard's two divisions in the attack. Their ranks were painfully thin, around more than one regimental flag barely fifty men now marched. They were numbed, shocked, shuffling through the mud, heads bent low. He thought of but two weeks before, the march north from Washington, toward Gunpowder River. Though the heat was terrible they were at a floodtide of youth, of enthusiasm, of belief in victory, heads held high as they marched forward.

And now this.

One more fight, that is all I need out of them this day. One more fight. Surely they will rally to that if I lead them. Secure the crossing, Longstreet comes down tonight slipping out of the trap, and we are across the river. From there all things again become possible. Though Grant was not driven from the field, Lee still believed he had beaten him. If I have lost my offensive power, so has he. He came on arrogantly, but if allowed to stay in command, he will never do so again.

The Yankees will have to reorganize, recruit, and how can they recruit after three such stunning blows delivered against them in less than two months? Surely Lincoln will collapse now or at worst they will stop on the banks of the Potomac and wait till spring. Time enough for the wounded to heal, the ranks to be replenished, perhaps France still to come in and break the blockade.

We can still win this, he whispered to himself, even as he rode toward the distant rattle of gunfire coming from the Potomac crossing.

The Road to Hauling Ferry, near Buckeystown Ford 10:00 A.M.

When the column stopped again, Cruickshank rode wearily forward. The road was getting muddy and one of the huge wagons had skidded off to one side, a wheel sinking into a culvert. The dozen mules hooked to the wagon were clawing at the ground and braying as the driver, swearing furiously, lashed at them.

"Stop it," Cruickshank said, his voice barely above a whisper, having long since shouted himself hoarse.

"Goddamn stupid bastards," the driver shouted. "Hate goddamn mules."