All the time the sound of gunfire was increasing, now counterpointed by the shriek of heavy shells, most likely from the monitors.

Finally, McDougal approached Cruickshank.

"I've given you three trains, as promised. They'll run fine."

The three engines were already maneuvering out of their sidings, pulling the precious supplies that could sustain the army through an entire long day of battle.* Again a moment's hesitation. Cruickshank looked back to the warehouses crammed with enough for a dozen more trains but already, across the far side of the railyard he could see a column of infantry pulling back, heading northwest, out of town.

"A deal is a deal," Cruickshank replied and stepped past McDougal, walked to the passenger car, and mounted the back steps. Leaning out, he waved to one of his men who was in the locomotive cab. The engine lurched, beginning to inch forward with a blast of steam.

"General, darlin'."

He looked down, McDougal walking alongside him. "What now?"

"You know you forgot my day's wages for today. Since I only worked half the day, that'll be thirty dollars in silver." "Go to hell!"

"Where I expect to meet you, too, sir."

McDougal reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it up to Cruickshank.

"We'll drink another when we meet in the lower regions," McDougal shouted.

Cruickshank almost allowed himself to smile. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long drink and climbed to the back platform of the train.

McDougal stood in the middle of the track, waving, growing smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed… the last train out of Baltimore, smoke boiling up from the city beyond.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 12:45 P.M.

'hey're going in!" one of his staff cried.

He did not need to be told. Though the smoke all but masked the movement, he could see the dark columns coming down the slope toward his left flank, heading toward the same ford they had attempted to breach the day before. This would be the obvious point of attack now that his guns had drawn back.

Alexander was already redirecting his fire, shifting from long-distance counterbattery to direct support, pounding the heavy columns, which looked to be of corps strength, perhaps fifteen thousand men. At last Grant was committing himself.

He felt it was time to move, to go down behind the McCausland Farm, to see directly to the repositioning of the guns and to ensure the movement of one of Beauregard's divisions into a support position if the pressure on Hood's men down at the ford became too heavy.

"Sir?"

It was one of his staff, holding a note, his hand shaking. Lee took it and scanned its contents and felt as if he had just taken a visceral blow. It was from Judah Benjamin. He looked back to the west.

Was this coincidence or part of your plan? he wondered, looking toward what had been identified as Grant's headquarters area.

If planned, it was masterful. Seek battle here, block the river, for that report had just come in a half hour ago, and now strike my base of supply.

He looked down at the assaulting column, his own troops having opened up on it with a thunderous volley, Union troops by the scores dropping, and still it pushed forward.

He crushed the telegram in his fist.

Fine, then, he thought. Let it be here. It will take two, perhaps three days for whatever is hitting us in Baltimore to take effect. So come on and attack, and let us see how we match each other. In that time I will crush you, and then all your maneuverings will be meaningless.

He went over to Traveler, mounted, and rode down to face the approaching charge.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

McCausland Farm 4:30 PM.

It had been a bloody nightmare; in fact, it still was. Ord slowly walked up the long slope from the ford to the burned-out ruins of the farm.

Never had he seen such carnage, and all joy of battle, all enthusiasm, was purged out of him. Barely a step could be taken without tripping over a body.

It started two hundred yards back from the ford, clusters of men dropped by rebel artillery, then lines of them down by the crossing itself. He had finally waded the stream on horseback and just below the crossing the slow-moving water was tinted pink from the dozens of bodies that had drifted down from the crossing and then snagged on rocks or broken tree limbs, cut down by the incessant fire.

At the first Confederate entrenchment the ground was churned up, muddy, from the deadly hand-to-hand fighting, bodies and wounded intermingled.

Slowly he moved up the long, deadly four-hundred-yard slope to the farmhouse. Over half the men of his First Division carpeted the ground. In places it looked as if they were a line of battle down on the ground, just resting, having been cut down by terrifying volleys that had dropped up to a hundred at a time.

He rode on, the air overhead a constant hum of mimes, spent canister, and shrieking shells fired high.

He stopped by the farmhouse, stunned by what was before him. He had missed Shiloh, but had often heard stories of the absolute destruction around the Hornets Nest. This, he realized, must far transcend it.

The ground for several dozen acres was nothing but churned up dirt and mud, the result of Hunt's morning barrage. Nearly thirty destroyed guns littered the slope, some collapsed down on one wheel, others overturned, others with entire crews and horses from the limber team dead.

But it was the infantry fight here that had been truly horrific. On the one side it had been men of Early's command, tough veterans; on his side were three divisions, and they had fought it out toe to toe. He actually had to dismount to weave his way through the carnage. Dozens of stretcher-bearer teams, some of them Confederates with white strips of cloth tied around their sleeves or hatbands, were gingerly picking their way through the chaos, pulling men out, rolling them over, making a quick judgment, picking some up, leaving others behind.

He had ordered up the corps ambulances, the few that had pressed ahead after the forced march of the infantry two days before. These were parked at the bottom of the slope, loading up, and then splashing across the ford to the hospital area.

The roar of battle ahead was a continual thunder. He pushed forward through a constant stream of men staggering to the rear. Most were walking wounded, men hobbling along, two comrades, one with a shattered left leg, another with a broken right leg, with arms wrapped around each other, moving slowly. A man, stripped to the waist, dirty, lank hair hanging to his shoulders, a bullet hole in his stomach, came back, waving a leafy branch, eyes glazed, hysterically chanting the refrain from the "Battle Hymn." "Glory, glory, hallelujah… glory, glory hallelujah…"

"Edward!"

He saw Grant riding up, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth, gingerly maneuvering Cincinnatus through the piled-up bodies and then corning forward..

Exhausted, Ord did not bother to salute.

"How goes it?"

"How goes it, sir?" Edward asked. His normally high-pitched voice was near to warbling. Unable to contain himself, he pointed across the slopes to McCausland Farm.

"That's my corps there," he said.

"What's ahead?"

"Not sure. I know we shattered a division, Jubal Early. Tore them apart once we gained the farm. Reports say that a reserve division ahead, not yet identified, but supposedly Beauregard's, is blocking our advance. Also, the guns not destroyed by Hunt are still over there."

Grant did not need to be told. He could hear their thunder, shot that missed the ranks ahead skimming overhead.

"General, there's no further purpose to this advance," Ord announced. "My corps is fought out."