Staff officers at the intersection were directing each regiment as it approached. First Division was to file off to the left of the road and form line of battle. Second Division, which was a half mile down the ford road but coming on fast, would break out and form to the right. Behind them was the battalion of artillery, twenty-two guns, and they would form up in the center, still mounted and ready to move forward.

Beauregard pulled out his watch. Six in the morning. At this rate, on this road, it'd be at least three more hours before every last man was up. Too long.

Anxiously, he looked to the north. Jeb's mounted skirmishers were already forward by a half mile, occasional pops indicating that the Yankees were out there and by now had to know what was up.

"Keep moving, boys! Keep moving! In one hour we go in!"

Buckeystown Ford

6:20 A.M.

Sgt. Lee Robinson waded across the stream, marching with his Texans at the head of Robertson's Division, the general just ahead of him on horseback.

The going had been frustratingly slow throughout the night. Move a few hundred yards, halt for ten minutes, double-time for a minute, back to marching pace, then halt again.

It was typical of a night march and had left him and his men exhausted. The road they had been on was open, and some of the regiments had actually departed the road and simply moved across the fields, paralleling it until stopped to wait until first light.

First, though, Beauregard's two divisions had to cross, followed by the battalion of artillery, which clogged the road ahead.

On the far side of the creek he could see the narrow lane that all of them were trying to funnel into. Artillery clogging the road.

Robertson looked at them in frustration. "It'll take hours," he hissed. He turned to his staff.

"Go straight up this slope. To hell with the road," Robertson exclaimed. "Find farm lanes, anything. If need be, just cut across open fields. I want my boys into this fight!"

Minutes later Lee Robinson was given the word.

"First Texans! Right up the hill, now move it!"

They'd done this before. It meant hard marching and climbing, but if it got them in quicker, then that was part of war.

Without complaint, he led his men forward, through the yard of the mill, and then straight up a narrow farm lane and into the woods above.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:50 A.M.

Lee paced back and forth, unable to contain his nervousness. Pete sat silent by the morning campfire, sipping a cup of coffee. Down below the entire valley was again cloaked in the fog of battle. The day was very still, the air heavy, damp, which held the smoke in place, so that it was impossible to see more than three or four hundred yards. Lee went over to the campfire and sat down. "It should be starting by now," Longstreet offered, breaking the silence.

"Yes, it should be," Lee replied, trying not to sound cross. If Jackson was in charge, as he was at Chancellorsville, he would not be worried, as he was not worried then.

He knew the crossing had started before dawn. A courier had come in an hour and a half ago confirming that.

It was now just a matter of waiting, and waiting was hard this morning.

Grant had outfoxed him on several points. Baltimore was gone, the river was blocked, but in doing these things Grant had left Washington open.

Beat him now, today. Beat him fully, and send him and his men running, and then the promise of that first night at Gettysburg will be fulfilled. All things will still be possible… and the war won.

One Half Mile North of Buckeystown 7:00 A.M.

Men of the South! Men of the Carolinas, of Georgia, of Alabama and Mississippi. Men of Florida and Virginia. Today is our day!"

Beauregard, standing in his stirrups, trotted down the long double-ranked battle line,' sword held high. The moment was transcendent, his eyes clouding with tears. Never had he seen such as this, an open field, two divisions deployed across a front nearly a mile long, battle flags held high.

"Let history one day record that it was we, we here, who on this day won our independence!"

A wild cheer went up, the rebel yell. Though only those within a few hundred yards could hear his words, that did not matter. All could see him, the cheer racing up and down the battle line, resounding, swelling, deafening!

"Forward to victory!"

Drummers massed behind the center of the line started the beat, a steady roll. Buglers picked up the call, echoing the advance. Beauregard turned to face forward, sword resting on his right shoulder, horse rearing up, and then stepping forward with a noble prance.

Behind the line were arrayed twenty-two field pieces, elevated to maximum. As soon as he turned and started off, they fired in unison, the signal to the assaulting force, and to Lee, that the attack had begun.

The mile-wide battle line began to sweep forward.

Behind them, the exhausted troops of Robertson were just beginning to emerge on the main road, McLaw's men not yet up in place. But he could wait no longer. They had to go in now while surprise was still on their side… and victory was ahead.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

7.10am

All were turned, facing south.

They had heard the distant report of the massed volley of artillery in the south. Distant, but distinct above the general fusillade roaring along the river bottom. One of the scouts Ely had sent out was coming up the hill to headquarters, urging his mount on. He reined in before Grant and saluted.

"At least two divisions, sir," he announced. "Sorry I took so long, but I wanted a good look at them, try to count their flags and such."

"Where's Lieutenant Moore?" Ely asked.

"He got hit. Killed, sir, some of them reb skirmishers are damn good shots."

His horse was bleeding from two wounds, testament to the accuracy of fire he had faced while scouting.

"Continue with your report," Grant said quietly.

"Sir. I counted enough flags for at least two divisions. It's Beauregard. I remember seeing him at Shiloh, sir. It's definitely him."

"Just two divisions?"

"No, sir. They were deployed out into a front of two divisions, behind them about twenty, maybe twenty-five guns. But I could see more men coming up from the road, also moving through fields. I'd reckon at least one more division, maybe two. I caught sight of a Texas flag with those men."

"Robertson perhaps," Grant said softly.

"Could not say, sir. Did you hear those guns fire off?"

"Yes, we did," Ely interjected.

"That was a signal. They're advancing. Like I said, two divisions wide, right flank on the river, coming straight up the road from Buckeystown."

The man fell silent and Ely offered him a canteen, which he gladly took and drained half.

"Good report, soldier," Grant said. 'Take care of your horse and get something to eat."

Grant walked away from the scout, Ely following.

"Ely," he said quietly, "send for Ord and Sheridan now. No hurrying about, no panic, but I want them up here quickly."

Grant turned about and walked to the campfire, knowing all eyes were upon him. Everyone at headquarters had heard the report.

He sat down by the cookfire. He was hungry again, and after losing his first attempt at breakfast he was tempted to try again. This time he'd have to keep it down. Everyone was watching, and if he threw up, all would think it was nervousness and not just the headache. Besides, he'd need food; it was going to be a long day. He sat down, took a piece of hardtack offered by the cook, and chewed on it in silence.