A resounding cheer arose. The men who but a minute before were nervously awaiting the orders to charge could not now be held back. They started up the slope, passing through the guns, which fell silent.

Several of Hancock's staff helped him to mount. He fell in alongside the advancing lines, struggling to draw his sword, pointing it forward. A rider came up beside him, wearing an army slouch cap that looked rather absurd when contrasted with his mud-covered butler's jacket.

"I'm not missing this, sir!" Bartlett shouted.

"Come on then, old man!" Hancock roared.

The charge swept down the slope.

Bartlett looked back. Mingled in with the infantry were many of "his" men, carrying axes and shovels, racing forward as well.

6:40 PM.

Pete Longstreet was silent, turning back and forth, watching as the vise closed. If they had planned this, it could not have been done more masterfully, he realized. We could have been to the island in another thirty minutes; if need be, men could have started crossing and waded the last few yards to the other side, to Virginia.

Panic was breaking out. Scales's men were on the run, falling back toward the center, a wall of Union infantry in pursuit. From the other side of the clearing Anderson and Rodes's men were holding for the moment, but more and more infantry were coming up the towpath on the double, pushing into the fight.

"General, we have to get out!"

It was Scales, wide-eyed, hat gone, his voice edged with hysteria.

"Can't you hold?" Longstreet cried.

"With what, sir? If I had the men I had at Fort Stevens, if I had the men I had but three days ago, yes, but not now. Not now, damn it!"

The work crews at the bridge had stopped, were looking in one direction and then the other.

From the far side of the field men were beginning to break as more men of the Army of the Potomac surged into the fight.

More officers were coming up to Pete, shouting, asking for orders, yelling they had to get out.

Pete was silent, gazing at the bridge… the damn bridge. If we had had it in but one day ago, we'd all be across. We'd still have an army.

A shell detonated down where the remaining bridging material had been unloaded, striking a wagon with a pontoon still on it, the entire affair blowing apart, mules collapsing, screaming, and that set the panic off. Men turned away and started to run toward the canal embankment to get out. Others stormed onto the bridge itself as if instinct was telling them safety lay to the south.

"Order the men out," Pete said. "Full retreat."

He turned his horse, and started north, staff falling in with him.

He turned and saw Brown, down on the ground. Hazner turned and ran back to the colonel's side.

Horrified, he saw that the colonel had been shot in the back.

Hazner tried to pick him up, but the man screamed and he gently set him back down.

"Hazner. Guess this is it," Brown said.

"No, sir. I'll get you out."

Brown feebly motioned back. The Yankees, advancing in the twilight, were less than fifty yards off.

"Not this time, my friend," Brown said.

Brown fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pocket Bible.

"My diary, a few notes inside the Bible for my wife. See that she gets them."

Hazner gulped hard and nodded.

"Now go!"

Hazner stood up and stuck them in his haversack, to rest alongside another diary, that of his old friend killed at Union Mills. He felt as if the burden he carried was more than he could bear.

He saw young lieutenant Hurt limping along, blood dripping from a flesh wound to the leg.

"Come on, Lieutenant," Hazner shouted, gulping back his tears. "Let's get the hell out of here."

He grabbed the lieutenant, half lifted him, and together they ran.

They were running. Never had Chamberlain seen the rebels run like this before. Not at Fredericksburg, definitely not at Taneytown. He rode at the front of the advance as it swept along the canal path. Men were no longer shooting, just charging past the rebels as they dropped rifles, some putting their hands up, some collapsing, others still running. A mob of them were pouring over a makeshift bridge spanning the canal, and he pointed toward it. Though this was not his command, the men seemed to follow his orders, and they raced toward the canal crossing, shouting and cheering.

He fell in with them, crossing the canal, then nearly losing his seat as his horse slid down the far side of the embankment. He grimaced, the agony in his hips feeling as if someone had stuck a hot poker through his side.

. The infantry with him spread out across the flood plain, driving hundreds of rebels before them, the enemy running, nearly all of them without weapons. They funneled onto the bridge, and he pushed forward. He had his sword out, could barely wield it, but when he did, he struck out with only the flat side of it.

They reached the approach to the bridge, the rebel mob running before them. An officer on horseback came riding up, infantry following.

"Form a volley line!"

He turned and saw the men spreading out, raising their rifles.

"Volley fire on my command!"

"For God's sake, no!" Chamberlain cried, and rode directly in front of the men.

"Who in goddamn hell are you?" the officer roared. "Colonel Chamberlain."

"Well, Colonel, this is not your command, and I outrank you."

Chamberlain saw the glint of a single star on the man's shoulders.

"You will not fire!" Chamberlain shouted, looking past the general to the infantry forming up.

'They're beaten. It would be murder." He paused. "They are no longer our foes."

The infantry lining up, as if guided by a single hand, grounded their rifles, some nodding. "Bully for you, sir," one of them shouted.

"I'll have you for this, Chamberlain," the general shouted.

"Yes, sir, report me to General Sykes. We are soldiers, not murderers, and if you plan to shoot, I will be in front of you when you do."

There was a long pause, and with a curse the general jerked his reins and rode off.

Alone, Chamberlain turned and rode onto the bridge. The back of the mob was barely visible in the twilight and then they just seemed to disappear, men leaping off the sides of the bridge, off the front of it. Some were down in the boats hiding. He rode on, saber drawn but down by his side, and he heard some infantry behind him, the men it seemed whom he had unintentionally taken command of.

Hundreds of rebels were in the river, heads bobbing, those who could not swim being swept away, their cries horrifying. Others were already crawling up onto the island, standing silent, looking back.

He rode to the end of the bridge. A lone man was standing there, arms folded, hat brim pulled low, a general, with a roughly made star stitched to his collar.

"I think, sir, you are my prisoner," Chamberlain said.

"Goddamn," the man sighed.

"Sir?"

"Just that, goddamn," the rebel said. Chamberlain smiled. "Profanity won't change it."

"Frankly, I don't want it changed. I'm goddamn glad it's over." "I see."

The man looked up at him.

"Would you happen to have a bottle on you, some good bourbon perhaps?"

"I'm a temperance man," Chamberlain replied.

'Typical of my luck," Cruickshank replied. "Get taken prisoner by a temperance man." 'My men, my men," Lee sighed, watching as what was left of Longstreet's once valiant corps came staggering across the fields and into the woods. And then he saw Pete riding up to him and let out a cry of relief.

"I'm sorry, sir," Pete said woodenly. "Sorry, I just wish…"

"Come along, General," Lee said softly. "If there is fault, it is mine. Come along now. We must plan for tomorrow. It is not over yet."