It took five minutes for the artillery crew to maneuver the wheel into place, secure the lug nut, and the piece lurched forward.

Behind him, with much cursing and swearing, his crew lashed their horses and mules, the twenty-four wagons again rolling forward, wheels sinking deep into the mud that still clung to the road down in hollows and stream crossings.

They edged up to an open field where the artillery crew had pulled over and unhitched their horses to let them graze while men hauled up buckets of water from a stream. An infantry regiment was resting by the side of the road, men sprawled in the damp grass, some taking down fence rails to make fires.

There was a distant rattling behind them and the less weary looked up, turning toward the north. Stuart, in spite of his injuries, was in the saddle, guarding the rear, trying to slow down the relentless advance of Grant. From the sound of gunfire the Yankees were only a couple of miles back.

"Keep it moving," Cruickshank shouted, urging his exhausted teams on. "Keep it moving."

Darnestown, Maryland 3:15 P.M.

His men had covered nearly twenty-five miles since dawn. The militia had long since been left behind, but that did not worry him. The crossroads of this small village was just ahead. General Sykes reined in, shouting orders, the head of the column shaking out into line of battle.

To his right, a mile away, across open fields he could see them coming, red flags held high, shifting from column to line as well. It was a race to secure the village crossroads.

He rode across the front of the line, sword held high, trailed by his staff.

"Men of the Army of the Potomac!" he shouted. "This is your time. This is your time to regain our honor!" A resounding cheer rose up, grim, determined. The battle line swept down toward the advancing foe.

Lee watched with field glasses raised, heart pounding. But an hour more and we could have been into this village, secured it, then turned south toward the Potomac, where surely Longstreet even now is securing a crossing place. And now this.

At the front of his column men were deploying out, the same men battered before Hauling Ferry the day before. There was no cheering now, no defiance. Only a grim silence as lines were formed, ramrods drawn, rifles loaded. One battery was up, unlimbered, opening with a salvo as the advancing blue wave closed to eight hundred yards.

The enemy charge came on, relentless, their cheers filled with a terrible anger.

More of his men were coming up, moving to either flank to broaden out their front, but the men moved slowly, without the elan of but three days past.

The enemy were six hundred yards off. Another volley from the guns, several striking the line, but the charge continued forward.

He drew back to a wooden knoll, staff gathered around him. No one spoke.

Four hundred yards, then three hundred. A regiment in the center raised rifles and fired, too soon he thought, others began to fire as well. Clouds of smoke billowed across the field, and still the charge came forward.

They were relentless, bayonets glistening, cheering madly, not as Union troops cheered in the past, the disciplined three hurrahs, but an almost guttural roar, a scream of rage. An officer on a white horse was in their middle, sword raised, pushing forward, other officers, mounted, joining in as well.

Two hundred yards, and then a hundred yards. They did not slow or waver. The massive blue wave broke into a run.

Several of his regiments presented and fired disciplined volleys. Scores of Yankees dropped, but the charge pressed in.

And then his men broke.

One or two turned at first, then dozens, and finally the entire line shattered apart, men streaming to the rear.

Horrified, Lee said nothing, watching as his valiant army disintegrated under the hammer blow rolling toward them. Above the smoke he saw the Maltese cross of the Fifth Corps. This was not Grant; this was a ghost resurrected- this was the Army of the Potomac, and in that instant he understood the rage, the elan that drove them forward. On this field they were bent on restoring their honor and inflicting their revenge.

He turned Traveler and rode back to the west, joining in with his retreating men.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 3:45 P.M.

"Elihu Washburne?" Grant exclaimed in surprise as the secretary of war came riding up, escorted by several dozen cavalry troopers.

"General, how are you?" Elihu exclaimed, leaning over from his horse to shake Grant's hand.

Grant could not reply at first. He had felt deathly ill all day, barely able to remain in the saddle.

The march had been tedious and frustratingly slow. His own men, to be sure, were exhausted, but then again, so were the rebels they were pursuing. The rebel cavalry, though, was still doing a masterful job of contesting every ford, every place where defendable ground could buy the retreating columns ten or fifteen minutes' respite.

Sheridan was at the fore, driving relentlessly, but for the men in column behind the advance, it was the most exhausting kind of march. Advance a few hundred yards, wait in place maybe for a minute, maybe for a half hour, then sprint forward a quarter mile, then slow down, stop, then lurch forward again.

The sides of the road for miles was littered with the castoffs of an army in retreat. Broken-down limber wagons, overturned and destroyed supply wagons, and prisoners by the hundreds, men who had given up and collapsed.

But it was littered as well with the debris of an exhausted army in pursuit, yet more cast-off equipment, gray-faced soldiers lying by the side of the road, unable to advance another step after so many hard days of marching and three days of pitched fighting.

He could so easily sense the inertia that built at such times, understand why so many generals would, at this moment, call a halt to allow their men to "rest, reorganize, and refit." Regiments were jumbled together, not just men from one regiment slowing and bleeding back into the unit behind them, but entire brigades and divisions were mixed together. All that kept them moving forward now was their own will, the will of each man who, sensing victory, would not give out, and his will as well, driving them forward even if but one man was left standing at the end.

"I have a dispatch from the president. I think it is important that you read it, sir," Elihu said.

Elihu handed the envelope over.

"Yes, sir. Is it urgent?"

"Well, sir, I think you should read it soon, but for the moment it can wait."

"I want to keep pushing," Grant said. "Ride along with me. I'll tell you what is happening and we can discuss the president's wishes when we stop for a few hours."

"Fine with me," Elihu said, and he fell in by Grant's side.