Ahead he could, at times, make out men pushing in toward the town. His heart thrilled at the sight of it, the flags of the Confederacy held high!

Unable to contain himself, he rode forward, a stern glance at Walter silencing protest.

"We have them now!" Lee shouted. "We have them now! Go, my boys, go!"

The charge up Fourth Street toward the depot was gaining some small momentum. The men who had held the barricade but minutes before were nearly all dead, wounded, or captured. The surviving Yankees were beginning to break, to scatter into homes, shops, rebel officers at the front screaming for their men to ignore them for now, to press on through the town and to the open plains beyond.

"Out of the town and we've won!" more than one screamed.

Another rebel yell now, wild and defiant, filled with hopes of victory as they swarmed up the street.

'Get ready!" Hunt screamed A few Union men were still out in the street, running, and then they saw the gun aimed directly at them. They knew what would happen in a few seconds. Men dodged, threw themselves into doorways and alleyways.

The rebel charge, swarming forward, was gaining momentum until the men up front saw, through the smoke, the muzzle of a three-inch ordnance rifle, not a hundred feet away, aimed straight at them.

'Fire!"

The ordnance rifle recoiled with a thunderclap roar, the charge of canister bursting from the barrel. As the first tin cleared the muzzle the tin sheathing peeled back, the fifty iron balls beginning to spread out, deviating to one side or the other, up or down an inch or so for every foot forward; the second can emerged, peeling back, its shot spreading as well. At a hundred feet the spread would be a deadly cone a dozen feet wide.

The impact was devastating, twenty pounds of iron balls, each weighing a little more than two ounces, each traveling at over seven hundred feet a second. A single ball could decapitate a man, tear off an arm, a leg, go clean through a man, tear apart a second, and drop a third behind him.

The entire front of the charge collapsed in a bloody heap.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared.

The swabber leapt forward and ran the sponge down the barrel to kill any lingering sparks. Another pre-packaged charge went in, a second tin on top, and was rammed down, crew to either side working the wheels to re-aim the gun straight down the street.

"Stand clear!"

The battery sergeant drew the lanyard taut and jerked it.

A hundred more balls tore down the street, plowing like a giant's hand into those not swept away by the first blast. Windowpanes shattered from the blast, glass tinkling down, sometimes entire sheets slashing into a man; canister that had gone wide ricocheted down the narrow valley of the street, bouncing off walls, then tearing into men fifty, a hundred feet, farther back.

"Again, double canister!" Hunt roared.

To the west, from Fourth and Fifth Streets, the guns were firing as well, recoiling. At Third Street the charge was far enough forward that it spilled out onto Main Street, almost overrunning the gun, the crew keeping their nerve. The rammer went down, staff still in the gun, the battery sergeant firing it off anyhow, one hundred iron balls and the ramrod blowing down the street, shattering the charge.

Out of the smoke enveloping Fourth Street a charge began to surge forward again, the men in the fore disbelieving. Victory had been so close, so goddamn close, just past that gun.

An officer leapt out front.

"Home, boys, home!"

He ran straight for the piece, the men at the fore raising rifles, firing, the gun sergeant going down, and half the crew. Grant, startled, realized that a ball had plucked the rim of his hat. He remained motionless.

Hunt shouldered his way in, picked up the lanyard, waited a few seconds, a few maddenly long seconds, the rebel charge getting closer, ready to spill into Main Street, where, if once gained, the rebs would swarm around the gun.

"Look at 'em!" Hunt was screaming. "Can't miss, look at 'em!"

Even as he stepped back, shouting for the crew to jump clear, he jerked the lanyard again.

The rebel major leading the charge disappeared, as did scores of men behind him.

Sickened, Grant turned his back for a moment. He had actually caught a glimpse of a man decapitated, the rebel major, head spinning up into the air, bringing back the nightmare memory of Mexico, a comrade standing next to him, head blown off by a round ball fired by a Mexican battery.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared, wild-eyed. While waiting for the gun crew to reload, he pulled out his revolver and emptied it into the smoke.

Another man picked up the ramrod, shoved the round in, crew forgetting to sponge the piece in the heat of battle. Hunt plucked a friction primer out of the haversack of the dead sergeant, fixed it in place, attached the lanyard, stepped back, and jerked it, another roar, the gun recoiling up over the curb.

"Double canister!"

"Hold, Henry," Grant shouted.

Henry looked back at him.

"For God's sake, Henry, hold fire."

2:00 P.M.

If ever there was a moment when the vision of all that could finally be had materialized, it had been but ten minutes ago. The flags going forward into the town, Stuart's men were going up the slope, the rebel yell was resounding. Now the dream was dying.

He was silent, back astride Traveler, oblivious to the shot whistling by, spent canister rounds whirling overhead. No one was advancing now. Before the front of the town clusters of men were still fighting, aiming up at second- and third-story windows, riddling anyone who leaned out, but in the sidestreets he could catch glimpses of Union troopers leaning out of windows, firing down.

It was from the streets themselves that the horrible message was now clear. Hundreds of broken men were running back, flags missing or held low, a few officers, hysterical, trying to get in front of the broken formations, urging men to rally, to go back in again.

More artillery fire from within the town, counterpointed by horrific screams.

What had been a surging forward but fifteen minutes ago was collapsing into a rout.

"My God," Lee whispered.

The first of the uninjured to fall back were streaming past him, men silent, walking as if already dead, pulling along wounded comrades, a half dozen men, sobbing, carrying a blanket with an officer in it, McLaw, face already gray in death.

Lee slowly urged Traveler across the front of the retreat. "My men, my men," he cried. "What has happened?" "It was too much."

He looked over. It was Beauregard, riding toward him. "What do you mean too much?"

"You asked too much, General Lee. They had artillery waiting in the town, each street covered with guns, double canister. It was too much."

Lee stared at him, unable to reply. Beauregard rode on.

Lee looked at the beaten, retreating men.

"Can we not still rally?" he cried.

Some of the men stopped, boys of McLaw's old command.

"We'll go back if you want," one of them gasped, and a feeble cry went up. "Order us back in," another shouted.

But even as the small knot gathered around Lee, thousands of men to either side of him were streaming back in defeat.

From the town he could hear a deep-throated cheering, a Union regimental flag defiantly waving from a rooftop, a tattered Confederate flag being held up beside it and then pitched off the roof.

"Can we not still rally?" Lee asked, but this time in barely a whisper.

He looked up toward the slope of the Catoctins. Jeb's boys were giving back as well, artillery farther up the road pounding them hard. They were beginning to draw back.

"General Lee, sir?"

It was Walter, reaching over to take Traveler's reins. "Sir, I think we should withdraw. We are coming under fire here."