6:00 A.M.

Remember!" Henry Hunt shouted. "I want measured fire. I want every shot to count. You Western boys claim you're so damn good, now prove it to me!" His booming voice carried up and down the line. Gunners looked up from their pieces, officers standing behind them, gazing in Hunt's direction, his last comment producing some grins, but also a few catcalls about the kind of "damn" shooting he was about to see.

He waited a few more minutes, the red-golden orb of the sun now clear of the horizon, the top of the fog bank catching the light, wisps of it curling up like glowing streamers. A bit of fog and wood smoke clung to the opposite bank, but the higher hills were clearly visible. Behind him the Catoctin Range stood out boldly; looking back he saw the white tops of wagons coming down out of the pass, supply trains, an endless column of them, most likely clear back to Hagerstown.

He continued to wait, feeling the tension, for all of it now rested on him, his one command.

Again it was like Union Mills, when he was ordered to open the action, Meade by his side, waiting expectantly for the rain to ease, the fog and smoke to clear enough, so that he and his gunners could see their targets. The tension was the same, but this morning the air was clear, and what he wanted was directly in front of him. It was a bit similar to Union Mills, too, rebel batteries were dug in, but due to the twisting Monocacy and the lay of the land, he would have them in a partial enfilade. At least eighty guns lined the crest of the McCausland Farm, fourteen hundred yards away. Their only advantage was they were a good hundred feet higher, but still they stood out clearly.

One other thing was different. Grant was not by his side. They had discussed the plan of action yesterday afternoon, a brief conversation again just before sunset when Grant rode down to survey the position, and now he stood alone. He liked that. Meade had clung to his side throughout the bombardment at Union Mills and had even subtly tried to force him into actually taking responsibility for the ordering of that disastrous charge.

No, Grant was leaving him to do the job, and he liked that trust.

A few more minutes passed.

Scattered rifle fire began to crackle down in the fog, which was beginning to burn off, skirmishers opening up. It was time.

"Battalions, make your shots count!" Henry roared and then raised his fist. "On my command!" He slammed his fist down.

"Fire!"

The battle of Monocacy Creek had begun.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:10 A.M.

There it goes!" Walter exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. Puffs of smoke, scores of them, erupted from the Union grand battery a mile away, guns fired almost in unison. Lee stood silent, watching.

Approximately seven seconds later the first shell landed, impacting in front of the batteries rimming the edge of McCausland Farm. Then dozens of geysers of earth erupted, explosions in the air from well-cut fuses, smothering his own batteries in smoke and fire. A caisson went up with a flash; a gun upended, flipping over; another collapsed, pieces of its wheel flying through air.

The concussion of the guns rumbled over them, a continual roar, followed seconds later by the softer popping of exploding shells, and the thunderclap of the exploding caisson.

"So it will be our left," Longstreet announced, coming up to join Lee.

They waited, banks of smoke covering the Yankee gun position. No fire for several minutes, the smoke slowly clearing, and then a few guns fired, followed seconds later by dozens more.

His own batteries started to reply, and Lee raised his field glasses to study the result. Shots went wide, plowing up earth several hundred yards ahead of the enemy batteries, others struck behind it, one lucky, or well-aimed, shot dismounted one of their pieces.

Several minutes passed, another gradual rumbling, several more of his own guns were destroyed.

Lee watched, saying nothing. The Yankees were firing very slowly, deliberately, waiting for the smoke to clear. Well-trained crews rolled their pieces back up. Then section commanders took the time to carefully aim their piece, removing the delicate rear sight, stepping back, then giving the command to fire.

The guns at McCausland Farm were his reserve batteries, and crews were primarily infantrymen "volunteered" into the artillery after the huge haul of equipment at Union Mills. They had trained for the last seven weeks, but seven weeks did not equal two years of battle experience. It was going to be hell for them down there.

His own trained batteries were deployed on the slope just below him, the range to the enemy guns almost a mile-very long shooting indeed.

He had noticed it yesterday, the way Grant was deploying, and it demonstrated a good judgment of ground, and of target. He was tempted to order the batteries to pull back, but decided against it for the moment. It was a grim calculation. Pull back now and it might actually trigger an effect not desired, for Grant might hesitate, wondering what he was up to. Also, regardless of the measured pace of the Yankee fire, long experience had taught him that, over time, accuracy would decrease due to smoke, fatigue, due even to such factors as the heating of gun barrels, which generated subde changes in trajectory.

He knew, as well, that even if he wound up trading guns at four to one down at McCausland Farm, it would seriously cut into Grant's small artillery corps, and still leave Grant with well over a hundred and twenty pieces to face whatever came next.

"Walter, tell our batteries below to open up, but with very limited and controlled counterbattery fire."

"Range is rather long, sir," Walter said.

"Precisely why I want it limited. We have a lot of ammunition but should not be profligates with it at the start. Tell Alexander to pick out his best crews and have them start to reply. I want the Yankees to know we will not just sit back and do nothing."

Minutes later the first of Alexander's guns opened up. It was already getting hard to see the opposing battery. In the still morning air smoke was piling up, like a vast fog bank drifting slowly, mingling with the natural fog down in the river valley, which was slowly burning off as the sun cleared the ridgeline behind him.

All up and down the length of the river rifle fire was erupting. The Yankees had dug well during the night, establishing a forward line that at places bordered on the creek. Already a particularly bothersome spot was becoming evident, the railroad cut on the other side, the curve of track behind the destroyed depot The cut could almost be enfiladed by the guns of Alexander's main battery and the blockhouse. He sent another courier down, ordering him to turn his Napoleons in that direction.

The first of the wounded started to come back, the men who could walk, cradling a bloody arm, or moving wood-enly, face and scalp bright red. And mingled in with them were the inevitable shirkers, men shamming wounds or acting as if they were helping an injured comrade, the provost guards shouting out the age-old litany "Show blood!" and, if the man could not, turning them about with the flat of their swords, driving them back into the fight.

A half hour passed, the bombardment pounding McCaus-land Farm dropping off slightly, but still hitting in with a couple of dozen rounds a minute, the fire still well aimed, a dozen pieces on his side destroyed. He watched the men through his field glasses, ghostly in the smoke, standing to their work, firing back.

All along the front now, from north of the National Road bridge, to south of McCausland Farm, there was a continual blaze of fire, occasional spent rounds humming overhead, cracking into the trees behind him.