Lee nodded his thanks and approached to within a half dozen feet, and raising his field glasses, he looked out.

Smoke obscured the road directly below, but what he saw beyond was what he had come to find out. A corps at the very least, the column visible clear across the valley and back up to the mountain beyond.

"It's their Seventeenth Corps," Scales said. "We've taken a few prisoners. James McPherson is their commander."

Lee sighed inwardly..

It was far too bitter, and he looked away for a moment. James was brilliant, tough, a good leader. He'd push straight in, sensing that if he let his opponent consolidate his hold on this ridge, the campaign was already over, the initiative now on the Southern side.

He remembered conversations with the young cadet about military history, about Napoleon's use of mass at the crucial point of battle. McPherson would not wait; he'd come slamming in; he was already doing that. Studying the road again, Lee saw the regiments were shaking out of column and coming up the slope in battie line, moving fast.

"Sir, when can we expect reinforcements?" Scales asked, interrupting Lee's thoughts.

"Sir?"

"Reinforcements?"

"Hood's old division is coming up. They took trains from Baltimore and should be getting off now."

"Back where we dismounted?" Scales asked. "That's several hours of marching."

Lee nodded, saying nothing.

"Artillery, sir, a few batteries would be mighty helpful."

"Back with the trains as well."

Scales fell silent as Lee raised his glasses again.

He scanned the advancing columns of blue. They were moving hard; he could see scatterings of men by the roadside, collapsed. McPherson would be calling for double time to bring up his men; his corps would be exhausted by the time they reached this crest. Back at the opposite crest, the South Mountain range, Lee saw that the road was empty except for some wagons. A break in their column of march? Maybe there was an opportunity presenting itself. Catch McPherson by himself and defeat him in isolation.

He watched, ignoring another shower of glass that sent Walter Taylor nervously to his side, almost blocking his view.

"Let them come," Lee said quietly, his voice almost tinged with sadness. "Let them come."

"Sir?" Scales asked.

"Hold as long as you can," Lee said, "but don't overex-tend. I want your division intact, sir, not a wreck. Hold as long as you can then pull back."

"I don't understand sir."

"If we hold here, McPherson will finally halt, build up, and then come on in full strength against your one division. But there is a chance we can actually lure McPherson in. He is impetutous when he feels he is winning. We lure him over this ridge and then hit him with our reserves coming up."

Lee stepped away from the window and began to outline his plan.

Below Braddock Heights 3:00 P.M.

James McPherson, hat off, shouted for the next regiment in line to break to the right, cross the field, and deploy into line. The men were pale with exhaustion. The Second Brigade of his Second Division was now up and deploying out.

The fire coming from the crest was murderous, but through eddies in the smoke he could see his own volley lines, extending out farther and farther to either flank as each new regiment fell into line.

They were stretching them out up there. The rebs must be damn near as tired as my boys going up that slope. Just one good push and he'd be through them; he could sense that.

The Third Brigade was now approaching, men moving fast.

"Straight up the slope, my boys!" McPherson shouted. "Straight up till you're engaged, then give them hell!"

Braddock Heights 3:35 P.M.

The men of the Fourteenth South Carolina were starting to run short of ammunition. They had been trading fire across the orchard for over an hour. Nearly a quarter of the men were down.

Hazner, crouched behind a tree, struggled with his ramrod to pound another round down the fouled barrel of his gun. Reloading he rolled over on to his stomach, leveled the barrel against a log, and waited. The smoke parted for a moment; he caught a flash of black, a cap, aimed carefully, and fired. The hat disappeared and he grinned. He might not have hit the man, but he sure had given him something to think about.

The orchard between the opposing sides was shredded. Two regiments fighting it out on either side had most likely fired more than twenty thousand rounds back and forth during the last hour. Trees were nearly stripped bare, apples exploding so that there was the interesting scent of cider, more than one man commenting that they wished they could crawl down there and gather up some of the shattered fruit. The trees inside the woodlot they were deployed in were torn and splintered, a few smaller ones actually toppling over.

The fire from the other side began to slacken and then stopped.

"Everyone load, hold fire," Brown shouted.

It was obvious something was building. They were going to try another charge.

A distant hoarse cheer, the Yankee "huzzahs" given three times, rolled up the hill.

A staff officer, this one mounted, came through the woods toward the Fourteenth, Brown standing up to meet him, but making it a point to keep a tree between him and the Yankees.

"Column coming up the road. Enfilade it, but then you are to pull back."

"Fall back?" Brown asked, obviously confused. "Hell, sir, just get me some more ammunition and some water. We'll hold."

"Orders from General Lee himself. He doesn't want this division torn apart. We're pulling back into Frederick. Rally your men in the center of town."

The officer turned without waiting for a reply and rode to the north, toward the next regiment in line.

Brown turned. "You heard him boys. We're pulling back. Wounded who can walk, start moving now."

A couple of dozen men who had been resting just behind the volley line struggled to their feet and began staggering back. Those who could not move looked toward Brown beseechingly.

"Sorry, boys," Brown said sadly. "We got to leave you. Don't worry. The Yankees will take good care of you."

"Yeah, right," one of them hissed. "Point Lookout for us if we live."

"Here it comes!" someone shouted.

Hazner turned and saw the head of a column coming up the road. At the same moment the regiment they'd been facing across the orchard stood up and came out into the open, advancing at the double.

'Take aim straight ahead, boys," Brown shouted.

Hazner agreed. To hell with the column. It was the men they were facing they had to worry about.

"Fire!"

A ragged volley swept the orchard, dropping another dozen, but this time the Yankees did not slow; they just kept on coming.

"Fall back, men, stay with me!"

The Fourteenth moved woodenly at first. After the long march, the bitter fight, they were exhausted. Behind them the Yankees, sensing the breaking of their opponents, let out a cheer, and seconds later a volley ripped through the woods, the Fourteenth losing a half dozen more.

Hazner reached the crest of the ridge. Along the road to his right he could see where troops were falling back, cavairy mounting up, infantry pushing around them. A thunderous fire erupted from the road, a sharp volley sent into the advancing column, and then those men turned and started to run.

Over the crest, Hazner, falling in by Brown's side, started down the slope. It was steep and he ran like a drunken man, nearly tumbling over, men around him cursing, panting, some tangling up in the brush and falling, getting up again.

Behind them he could hear taunting yells. Looking back, he saw where the Yankees had gained the ridge. Some were pushing on, others stopping to reload.

Ahead and below the town of Frederick was two miles off. Beyond, he could see smoke cloaking the river valley and a distant column of troops moving along the National Road.