"No."

"Well, sir, the setup here is all wrong. You have just this one approach down to the river. You need a second one alongside it and upstream. That's where the boats should be hauled up to, backed around, and then pushed in. Once we get three or four boats out, it's gonna get tricky with this current maneuvering the following boats in place. You just can't run the following boats onto the bridge and dump them off the end."

Cruickshank nodded. This man knew the job; he didn't, and he realized he had better listen.

"Sir, let me go back and get my regiment. Some of us helped with the pontoon crossing back in the spring. We'll need at least two hundred men to cut the second approach."

"Go get them."

Venable, who was still by Cruickshank's side, rode off, the sergeant jogging alongside him.

The first stringers were laid in place and run out to the anchored boat. Within a couple of minutes he saw another problem. The stringers had been set into the mud on the bank, and, as the crosspieces were laid atop them, the whole thing started to sink.

"God damn it, take it apart," Cruickshank shouted. "We need supports, gravel, logs, something under here. Take it apart!"

He heard shouting and cursing behind him and then a rendering crash, Turning, he looked back. The third wagon had tried to negotiate the steep drop-off from the canal and rolled over on its side, mules tangled up in the mess, kicking and thrashing.

He struggled through the mud, men running toward the wreck. The driver, damn him, was dead, tangled up with his mules and kicked to death. The pontoon was completely staved in on one side.

"Get this wreck cleared," Cruickshank shouted, and then looked at the embankment.

They couldn't cut it down to level it, that would breech the canal. Men would have to be set to work. There wasn't enough time to extend the grade out, that would take hours and hundreds of men with shovels. He'd have to post a hundred here, rig up some cables with men hanging onto them to ease the load as it slid down the embankment.

Venable was coming back, Longstreet by his side. He could see that a regiment was moving behind them, the men obviously not too happy with their sergeant volunteering them for heavy labor.

Longstreet crossed the short bridge over the canal and nearly lost his mount sliding down the embankment slope.

"You've got to straighten this out," Longstreet snapped angrily.

"I'm trying, sir."

"The entire army will start passing through here tonight. This embankment, the grade has to be extended out, paved over with logs, better yet, gravel. We'll lose every artillery piece trying to negotiate it. We need a good approach to the bridge, well paved as well, otherwise the entire army will just flounder into this mud. Now get to it. I don't know how long we can hold this position, so get to it, Cruickshank."

Cruickshank just lowered his head.

"God damn it, sir, I'd like you to accept my resignation," he said wearily.

"What?"

"I'm resigning from this goddamn army. I'm a mule skinner, sir. First you gave me these damn bridges, which I don't know a damn thing about. Then you give me the goddamn railroad, which I definitely knew nothing about, and then you give me these sons of bitches again. Now you're screaming at me to build a goddamn road and a goddamn bridge, which I definitely know goddamn nothing about, goddamnit. I quit."

Longstreet looked down at him and actually smiled.

"You know, Cruickshank, if I wasn't so desperate, I think I'd shoot you."

There was no malice in his voice, just a sad weariness.

"I'd consider it a favor, General."

He dismounted and motioned for Cruickshank to follow him. The two walked off, Longstreet pulling out two cigars, lighting his own and handing the other to Cruickshank.

"We're trapped," Longstreet said softly. "The army is a shambles. I got men from two other corps mixed in with mine right now. My supply train is abandoned. Except for Scales, every one of my division commanders and over half my brigade commanders are down.

"If you don't get that bridge across and damn quick, we are lost, and with us gone, the cause is lost. Do you understand that?"

Cruickshank could not reply. Strange his feelings for this man. There had been times in the past, if given the chance, he'd have kicked his brains out, not even giving him a chance to duel, and then other times, like now, when he couldn't help but like him.

"I'll see what I can do," Cruickshank replied.

"Good, then, damn you. Part of it is my fault. I was too focused on the fight to take this place. I already should have had more men clearing the approach. You'll have a brigade of men working on this shortly."

"A brigade? Three thousand men."

"In this army," Longstreet replied sadly, "a brigade now means five hundred men. Get to work."

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia Five Miles Southeast of Poolesville

4.45pm

All around was chaos. Men were staggering back up the road they had forced-marched down but four hours earlier in their drive toward Darnestown, "Damns-town" as they were now calling it.

Supply wagons had been abandoned, pushed to the side of the road to clear the way. Men were told to pull out what they could, especially ammunition. Wounded and exhausted men were mounting horses and mules being cut loose from the traces.

How many times in the past have I seen this? Lee thought. But always it was the other side. Always it was their wagons abandoned, their exhausted men lying by the side of the road, their men collapsing into disorder and disintegration. "General Lee!"

A courier came up, one of Stuart's men, a newly promoted regimental commander, Colonel Duvall, followed by several dozen troopers.

"Sir, we got a crossing. The bridge is being built even now," Duvall cried excitedly.

"Where?"

"Sir, it's a rough track down to it. A lot of your men have already marched past the turnoff. General Longstreet, as ordered, tried for Edwards Ferry but it was too heavily fortified. He finally pushed down, about halfway between Edwards Ferry and Seneca. It's a good spot, sir, island halfway across."

Lee looked over at Walter and smiled. "Pete came through for us," he said.

Walter, expressionless, could only nod in agreement.

"I want a solid rear guard to be maintained. Slow down the Army of the Potomac behind us. If need be, sacrifice some of the artillery to do so. We need breathing space. I'm going up to see what we can do with this."

Lee set off with Duvall. In the column he spotted Judah Benjamin and reined in beside him.

"Good news, Mr. Secretary," Lee announced. "We have a crossing."

Judah nodded wearily but said nothing, silently falling in by Lee's side as the general continued to push his way up the road.

The Crossing 5:45 P.M.

Some semblance of organization was taking hold. Hundreds of men were dragging logs, brush, anything to lay down to create a roadway from the canal to the crossing. The sixth pontoon was in the water, the bridge now extending out over sixty yards. The sergeant in charge of construction was hurrying back and forth, urging men on. The crews were starting to learn the routine of maneuvering a boat into place, anchor it, span the gap with the heavy thirty-foot-long stringers, bolt them down on to the gunwale of the boat, then start laying the cross ties of heavy planking.

Cruickshank stood at the edge of the bridge watching as the sixth boat was steered down from where it had been pushed in forty yards upstream, men along the gunwale using bits of board and planking as oars and poles.

The current was stronger as they approached the middle of the river, the maneuvering more difficult, men shouting at each other, contradicting each other. The anchor lines went out and the boat stopped, but it was not lined up correctly, having drifted a dozen feet below the axis of the bridge. There was more swearing and yelling. A couple of men jumped over the side, but the river was too deep and they were swept away, one disappearing, the other floundering back to shore.