Men up at the bow pulled on the anchor lines, gradually hauling the boat into a near alignment, a couple of feet off center but about as close as they could get.

"Stringers!"

Cruickshank stepped off the bridge and down into the pontoon bridge, feeling it rock and sway as men ran up, pushing and struggling. Men aboard the anchored boat threw lines over, the lines were lashed to the ends of the stringers, and between the crew on the next boat out pulling and men on the edge of the bridge pushing, the stringer went across and was locked into place.

More men came up, two to each plank, dropping the cross ties into place, and another thirty feet was spanned.

The next boat was now easing into the river and Cruickshank actually felt that for once he was pulling something off correctly. Every man about him knew what was at stake, and though more than one man finally had to stagger off to one side to collapse from total exhaustion, others filled in.

The survival of the Army of Northern Virginia was as dependent on them now as it had ever been on any volley line.

To one flank the rattie of musketry continued, Scales holding back the Yankees to the west.

Hancock grinned as the team of black laborers, a hundred of them to each piece, urged on by Jim Bartlett, dragged two of the thirty-pound Parrotts up the slope. The horses had been left behind, but the men were here to help maneuver the weapons into place. Others were hauling up the shells and wooden tubes containing the ten pounds of powder needed for each shot. Two more guns were on the next barge, teams of men struggling to off-load them.

The first two guns were rolled into place. The range was just about a mile, long shooting for a three-inch ordnance rifle, but well within the capability of the heavier pieces.

A captain of artillery came up to Hancock's side and saluted. Hancock merely pointed down to the river. "Lovely," the captain exclaimed, "just lovely." "Let's try some case shot for openers, nine-second fuses!" The crews set to work, the captain standing behind each piece, carefully setting the rear sight in place, gunnery sergeants following his directions as they dropped elevation screws.

Powder was rammed in, followed by the shells. The captain stood back and looked over at Hancock. "Care for a shot, General?"

Hancock grinned and limped over, picking up the lanyard. He caught Jim's eye.

"Mr. Bartlett, after all you've done, why don't you take the other one."

Jim nervously walked up to the breech of the gun, the sergeant looking at him over with a jaundiced eye, but then under the gaze of the general he relented and handed it over.

"Just step back till it's taut," the sergeant said. "When the captain gives the command, step back hard, jerk, and turn away."

Jim did as directed, the line taut in his hand. "Fire in sequence so we can judge the shot," the captain announced.

"Number one!" He pointed toward Hancock. "Fire!"

The thirty-pounder leapt back with a sharp recoil, a tongue of flame bursting from the muzzle. The noise was stunning. "Number two!"

Jim gripped the lanyard and thought of his son and grandson, wondering what they would say of this moment. Though he and his men had not been in the fight directly, still here, at least, was one shot that might count.

"Fire!"

He stepped back, pulled, but nothing happened and several men laughed good-naturedly. "Harder!" the sergeant yelled.

This time he threw what little weight he had into it, and nearly stumbled backward. The gun leapt back with a roar.

Grinning, he looked over at Hancock, who gave him a friendly salute.

"Something to tell your grandkids about," Hancock shouted.

Cruickshank looked up, heard the shell screaming in, a geyser of water erupting about fifty yards upstream. Men working along the bridge flattened themselves. Seconds later a second shot, this one overhead, a sudden flash, water around the bridge spraying up from the cascade of case shot, several men dropping. A heavy shell fragment slashed into one of the boats, seconds later someone was crying they had a leak.

Cruickshank stood up, looking to the west, and saw the two puffs of smoke from a distant rise.

Must be thirty-pounders, he thought, and then a bit forward there were more puffs. Seconds later half a dozen lighter shells rained in, five of the six scattering wide, dropping into the muddy embankment, one kicking up a geyser in midstream, but one striking and exploding on the embankment of the canal. "Watch it!"

He turned to look back. The crew of the seventh boat had ducked down when the first two shells came in and now the boat was broaching, turning sideways. Carried on the current it slammed into the sixth boat, which had just been anchored.

The anchor lines of the sixth boat let go from the impact, and now the entire front of the bridge started to buckle, bending, groaning. Men ran about shouting. He could feel the entire bridge swaying beneath him.

"Drop the front end!" someone screamed; it was the sergeant in command.

The men in the sixth boat worked frantically, trying to pull the bolts from the stringers that locked them to the gunnel, and then the gunnel itself just ripped away, stringers dropping into the water, half sinking, the sixth and seventh boats now wrapped around each other and drifting downstream.

The pressure on the bridge eased off, and it straightened, planking that had connected the fifth boat to the sixth dropping into the water until only the two stringers were left, bobbing in the water.

"Damn all to hell." Cruickshank sighed as he sat down and buried his head in his hands.

Cruickshank!" It was Pete, coming toward him. He didn't even bother to look up.

5:45 P.M.

This is it?" Lee asked as Duvall reined in and pointed down a narrow farm lane. "Yes, sir."

Lee looked at the road. It was barely a dirt track, a pathway used occasionally by some farmer gathering wood for the winter, perhaps cut through years ago when the forests here were first harvested and now barely used. It was apparent, though, that it had seen recent heavy use, the track muddy, torn up by the passage of troops.

"The road General Longstreet used was a bit farther over, but this is the quickest way down to where the bridge is going in."

The men filing along the road back toward Poolesville had been passing this point for at least an hour or two. He would have to send someone forward to stop and reverse them and it would be a mad tangle, for the rest of his column five miles back would have to turn off here as well.

Lee looked around, watching as men continued to file past.

He turned to a cavalry sergeant who along with several other troopers stood by the side of the road.

"Halt the column, Sergeant," Lee said. "Have them stop right here, and pass the word back up the line for the men to fall out for rest and to eat. I should be back within the hour."

He turned down the track, Duvall in the lead, his men drawing pistols as they rode into the woods. From nearly all directions could be heard distant fire, the thumping of artillery, joined now by a deep rumble ahead.