"By all means," Lincoln said absently, and then, lost in thought, he returned to looking out the window.

Frederick 6:45 P.M.

Sergeant Hazner ducked down as a spray of shot slammed through the window. It had been fired from across the street. He leaned back up, drew a quick bead on the half dozen Yankees leaning out of the windows on the opposite side of the street, fired, and saw one drop.

He ducked down, motioning for one of his men to hand over a loaded musket. The photographer, long since giving up his quest for a photograph, was on the floor moaning with fear.

The stench in the room was dizzying, the air thick with ether. Bottles of chemicals had been shattered, and to the photographer's horror, several of the glass plates, including the precious one of Lee astride Traveler, watching the fight, had been blown apart, bits of glass sprayed across the room.

"Want a picture now?" Hazner shouted.

The photographer simply shook his head.

Hazner peeked up, caught a glimpse of several Yankees running across the street toward his building, fired, but wasn't sure if he'd hit one.

Below, he heard the door slam open, shouts.

"Come on, boys," Hazner shouted, standing up and running for the doorway. Of the six he had led in, only three were still standing. They followed him out. He hit the staircase, ducking as the two men below aimed and fired, plaster flying.

Hazner leapt down the stairs, bayonet poised. One man parried the strike, another edging around to swing a clubbed musket at him.

He countered the parry, bayoneting the man before him, ducking under the blow. One of his own men behind him shot the man with the clubbed musket, shattering his skull. The two others fell back, running out the doorway.

Panting, Hazner looked down at the man he had just killed. Damn, just a boy. Rawboned, uniform of dark blue, weather-stained, threadbare, patches on his knees, shoes in tatters.

Damn near look like us, he thought sadly.

He grabbed one of his men.

"Sit at the top of the stairs, shoot anyone who comes through that door."

The man nodded and Hazner went upstairs, ducking low, crawling to the window.

Frederick 7:00 P.M.

"Sir, I think we must pull back!" McPherson ignored his staff officer. The entire west end of the town was ablaze. In places Union and Confederate wounded were helping each other to get out of buildings. Hundreds of his men were streaming to the rear, limping, cradling broken arms, slowly carrying makeshift litters with wounded comrades curled up on them. A hysterical officer staggered past him, crying about losing his flag.

From the north side of town a steady shower of shot was raining down. Looking up a side street he saw men of his Second Division giving back, running down the street, shouting that the rebs were right behind them.

He had never fought a battle like this. Always it had been in open fields or a tangle of woods and bayous. Here it was impossible to tell anymore who was winning or losing. If he had been sent down here by Grant to be the bait, he had most certainly succeeded in his task. He was being hammered from three directions by two full Confederate divisions and at least a brigade or more of cavalry.

Down the street, several hundred yards away, a fireball went up, brilliant in the early evening sky. Across the street a pillared building was burning, dozens of men coming out of it, carrying wounded, and he shouted for his staff officers to find some additional men to help evacuate the wounded.

For a moment he was tempted to somehow try to arrange a cease-fire, to ask Lee to stop fighting for one hour. The town was burning; thousands of wounded were trapped in buildings, and they needed to be taken out.

But how? A fight in a town like this was utter confusion. Rebs might hold a block, a building, while across the street his boys were holding on. In several places, columns of troops advancing had turned a comer, only to collide with their foes, with the fight degenerating into a vicious street brawl until one side or the other pulled back.

"Sir, for Cod's sake, let's pull back."

He turned on the man, shouting the advance.

"No, sir. We go forward. Grant will bring up Burnside and we are going to hold this town!"

Frederick 7:15 P.M.

General Robertson!" Lee rode to Robertson's side, his division commander saluting. "How goes it, sir?"

Robertson shook his head and looked up at the darkening sky, now streaked with lightning.

"Sir, it's chaos in that town. Can't keep any control or command of troops. Its street by street, and those Yankees just won't give up. Frankly, sir, I can't tell you what is going on."

"Are we driving them?"

"Yes, sir," Robertson said, "but it isn't like any fight we've been in before. Hard to tell in a town like that. The men we're facing aren't like the Army of the Potomac. Never seen anyone try to hold a town like this before."

He pointed toward Frederick, the city ablaze, driving back the approaching darkness. It looked to Lee like something out of the Bible, apocalyptic, the air reverberating with thunder, explosions, the crackle of rifle fire.

"Drive them! Keep driving them," Lee shouted. "I want those Federals in there taken. Tonight."

"We'll try, sir."

Lee spurred his mount, going forward into the fight.

Frederick 7:20 PM.

Sgt. Maj. Lee Robinson, First Texas, Hood^s old Texan brigade, was at the head of the column, not carrying the colors for the moment, instead directing his men to keep moving, to drive to the center of the town regardless of loss.

Yankee snipers were at a score of windows, shooting down. He urged his own on as ordered. If they got tangled up in a building by building fight all semblance of order would vanish. The orders were to seize the center of town, and that was only one block ahead.

"Keep moving, keep moving!"

Frederick

7.21pm

"This way!" McPherson shouted.

Leading part of an Illinois regiment, McPherson pointed the way straight into the center of town. Two of his staff had dropped in the last block and a dozen men of the Illinois regiment. The center of the town, he thought. Hold that intersection and we can hang on awhile longer.

"Come on boys, come on!" He spurred his mount ahead.

Sergeant Hazner leaned up on the windowsill. If not for the spreading fires it would have been impossible to see a target. He saw the column, an officer on horseback, rose up to shoot, and a volley from across the street drove him back down.

Sergeant Robinson stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as a Yankee officer, alone, came around the corner on horseback. His own men staggered to a halt, the column around him confused for a brief instant, then raising their weapons up.

Robinson, rifle poised, aimed straight at the officer. He was less than ten feet away.

"For God's sake," Robinson shouted, "surrender!" The officer looked straight at him, grinned, offered a salute, and then started to turn as if to ride away.

Robinson shot him, feeling as if it was murder. The man jerked upright, swayed, and then tumbled from his mount.

A few seconds later Yankee infantry appeared, and at the sight of the downed officer a wild shout of rage rose up from them and they lunged forward.

Robinson's Texans deployed, delivered a volley at point-blank range, and charged in with bayonet. A frightful melee ensued.

"McPherson! McPherson!" the cry went up among the Yankees, even as the Texans waded in, clubbing and lunging.

Within seconds the Union troops broke and fell back, driven around the corner by the advancing Texans.

Robinson, however, stopped, and knelt down by the Union officer, who was still alive.

"Sir, why didn't you just surrender?" he asked.