But the charge went forward, and, dutifully, he went forward with it. The charge rushed the barricade that was heaped with the fallen from the two previous attacks. Flashes of gunfire rippled on the other side. Robertson was actually in the lead, on foot, pointing forward, and one of the first to gain the top of the barricade.

"Come on!" he screamed and jumped over to the other side.

Robinson slammed in against the side of the barricade, looked up over it, caught sight of a man not ten feet away, and dropped him. Sliding back down, he reloaded. He came back up, men pushing up around him, and was up and over the barricade. In the narrow confines of the railroad cut, it was no longer combat, it was a primal act of murder on both sides. All the hatreds of the war, the causes, the fears, played out. He saw Robertson lunging for a regimental flag, a black sergeant major clubbing him down. Robinson started for the sergeant major, almost was in reach, the black sergeant major turning to face him, screaming with rage, then was shoved back as the man in front of him was bayoneted.

Men were trampled underfoot, screaming, the fighting surging back and forth.

On the Catoctin Road Henry Hunt stood with raised field glasses, watching the advance. He felt he would sell his soul now for a dozen limber wagons. His batteries were wearily coming up the long slope, nearly all with empty ammunition chests, and then, as if in answer to his unholy prayer, a couple of canvas-topped wagons came over the ridge and started to slide down pavement that was increasingly slippery from the rain.

In the back of each wagon were two limber chests, a total of two hundred rounds of three-inch ammunition, solid bolts, case shot, and a few rounds of canister.

He ordered two of his batteries to stop, unlimber, and runners to begin fetching the ammunition. It wasn't much, but he could certainly put down one hell of an enfilade into the left of the advancing rebel line. After several minutes, his first gun kicked back with a sharp recoil. He was still in the fight.

Robert E. Lee nodded to the commander of the third division in the assault. The man turned, stood in his stirrups, and pointed forward.

The wave of men set forward and as ordered did their first oblique to the left. Lee rode by their flank as they advanced, staff and cavalry escort around him.

No rifle fire yet from the other side; the head of the advance was not more than six hundred yards from the town. His heart swelled. This could be his Austerlitz, the one battle spoken of so often at the Point. The climactic battle of decision. He could sense it now. All the fighting of the previous two months had at last led to this moment.

Sir, we'd better get back," Ely announced.

The advancing wall of rebs was now just four hundred yards off. Grant reluctantly nodded, deliberately pacing parallel to his line for a hundred feet so that the men would see him, then climbed up over a barricade blocking a street. These were McPherson's boys. Tough-looking, more than one with a bandaged head or arm, and they looked angry, damn angry.

"McPherson!" Someone screamed. "Remember McPherson!"

The cry was picked up, racing across the front, and it sent a shiver down Grant's spine. Even in death that young hero still led.

It was hard to gain a vantage here to watch the fight or direct it. One of the problems of defending a town was that units were impossible to control once they were into the streets. He was anxious, though, about going to the west side of town. If by chance Lee did seize the town, he'd be cut off from what was left of his command if he was to the west of it.

Ely had already found a place, leading him back one block to the burned-out depot on the east side of town. The telegraphy link there had been reestablished, and to his amazement several reporters were gathered round clamoring for some time on it, one of them from the New York Tribune. At his approach they turned and started to shout questions.

He ignored them and followed Ely up a flight of stairs in a burned-out warehouse. Part of the second floor was intact and from there he had an excellent view of the entire assault coming in and the sweep of battle to the east as well.

The Hornets Nest was completely hidden by smoke; to the northeast Banks, to his disgust, had conceded the National Road bridge, but at least was holding the ground above it a couple of hundred yards back. The rebs seemed reluctant to cross, however, for a battery of Napoleons was pounding any who tried to cross.

The rebel advance was down to a couple of hundred yards. Some of the rebels were no longer visible, the buildings before him blocking the view.

A spattering of fire erupted from the edge of the town and then a torrent as regiments stood up from concealment and opened up. The impact staggered the rebel advance, which slowed across a division-wide front, and then thousands of rifles were raised up, then lowered, and a tearing explosion ripped across the plain. A couple of seconds later bits of charred wood and shattered brick exploded around Grant, the reporters and hangers-on down in the street below ducking at the sound.

The fight was now truly on as the rebel's second division, on their left, advanced another fifty yards, slowed, stopped, and fired into.Banks's reserve division, catching some in the flank as they continued to file out of the town.

Within a minute, all ahead was cloaked in smoke, explosions flashing, huzzahs and rebel yells echoing. Never had he witnessed anything like this. Never. Smoking his cigar, hands in his pockets, he waited for the fight to play itself out.

1:30 P.M.

Lee continued to ride with the advancing division, ignoring the protests of Walter and others. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire too soon. Regardless of their losses they should have pressed in to fifty yards or less before firing. Through the smoke he could dimly see where hundreds were falling.

"Straight in, boys!" Lee shouted, and he stood in his stirrups, pointing now to the western edge of the town and the open field beyond.

"Straight in at the double, and remember-home, boys, home is just on the other side of that town!"

He spurred Traveler forward, and with this movement the rebel yell tore down the line, men held rifles up, flags tilted forward, and the charge to cover the last three hundred yards was on.

Traveler suddenly jerked around as if hit, and Lee felt an instant of terror. Their bond was close, going back years, and in so many fights his comrade had never been scratched.

It was Walter, leaning over, jerking Traveler's reins, pulling his head to one side, causing him to slow and stop. Lee glared at Walter. "Let go of me!" "No, sir."

"That is an order!"

"No, sir! Court-martial me after this is over, sir, but no. Your place now is here, sir!"

The cavalry escort had pushed in around Walter, many staring straight at Lee, a few too frightened to do so.

"Listen to him, please, sir," one of them shouted, and that brought on a chorus of agreements for Walter.

Lee found himself suddenly in tears, tears of pride for the gallant men streaming past him, shouting his name as they charged, for the sight of the flag, his flag, held high, disappearing into the smoke, the sight of Jeb Stuart, hat off, waving it high, urging the men forward, even for Walter and the love he showed at this moment.

He lowered his head, nodded.

"You are right, Walter,"

Walter sighed, tears welling up.

"Sir, forgive me. But if we lose you, we lose the cause."

"No, Walter," Lee replied, "the cause is being decided now, by them."

He pointed toward the wall of men surging forward.

In his heart he knew this was the highwater mark. If they could wash over it, all would be won. If not… he dared not think of it at this moment.