With General Lee
Noon Gen. Robert E. Lee reached the edge of the ford, several companies of cavalry deployed around him in a protective circle, carbines and pistols drawn.
The Union position here had just collapsed, nearly a thousand men taken prisoner, nearly all of them Ord's men, including General Ord himself, with a scattering of colored troops mixed in.
The ground was carpeted with bodies, ambulances from both sides now picking men up, six and seven to an ambulance, to be taken into the Confederate lines. Several surgeons were at work in the field, awnings set up, a vast sea of agony around them.
He spotted Jubal Early, standing by one of the tents, leaning on one of his staff, pants leg torn off just above the thigh, blood streaming down from his knee.
Lee rode up and dismounted, going to Jubal's side.
"I'm sorry to see you are hurt, sir," Lee said.
"Think I'll lose the leg," Jubal said weakly.
"Perhaps it will not prove to be that bad," Lee lied, a quick look down revealed that a bullet had shattered the poor man's kneecap. That he was even coherent at this point with such an agonizing wound was a mark of the man's strength.
"I've turned what's left of my division over to John Gordon," Jubal said, motioning toward the creek, "but sir, frankly, I no longer have a division. It is completely fought out."
"You did well this day, sir," Lee said, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then returned to Traveler and mounted.
The Union prisoners were slowly shuffling to the rear, many of them detailed to help carry wounded from both sides. It was a procession of agony, men crying, many in shock, some looking up at Lee in wonder, more than a few in defiance.
He saw a small number of black prisoners, with one white officer, being herded off to one side, the men surrounding them shoving with rifle butts and bayonet points. Lee went over to them.
"What is going on here?" he snapped.
A surprised sergeant looked up.
"Sergeant, what is your name?"
"Len Gardner, sir, Third Louisiana."
Lee turned to Walter.
"Note that name, Walter. Sergeant Gardner, if I hear of any accounts of abuse of prisoners I shall personally hold you responsible."
The group ducked down as an errant shell screamed overhead.
The white Union officer stood up first and stepped to Lee's side and saluted.
"Capt. Averall Heyward. Thank you, sir. I think they were getting set to execute us."
"That's a damn lie," Gardner cried.
Lee looked at Gardner and fixed him with a cold gaze.
"I tend to believe this officer's word over yours," Lee snapped.
"Captain, take your men, fall in with the other prisoners. You will be well treated. Walter, write down the following:
"I have spoken personally with the Union officer bearing this note. He shall report to me after the action of this day to inform me of any abuse dealt to him or any other man or officer serving with the United States Colored Troops."
Walter jotted down the note and handed the pad over.
Lee signed it, tore the sheet of paper off, and handed it to the officer.
"As more colored prisoners come in, use this note to round them up and keep them with you. One of my staff will stay behind with you to insure all of you are treated properly. That note will serve as a pass to my headquarters after this battle is over as long as you give me your parole now not to try to escape."
"God bless you, sir," the captain replied and saluted. "And I give you my parole on my word of honor as an officer."
"And God be with you, Captain."
Lee turned and rode to the edge of the ford and then spotted Ord. The man was surrounded by several staff officers and a lone Confederate guard. He was wounded, hit in the arm, which was already in a sling. Lee approached him and dismounted.
"General, are you sorely hurt?" Lee asked.
Ord looked at Lee and actually grinned.
"Not as badly as your men are, sir. Pardon me, sir, but we gave you a hell of a fight here."
"That you did, General."
"We bled you out here. My boys put up a hell of a fight to the bitter end."
"You can be proud of them, General." "Thank you, sir."
"A question, General. Are any of the colored troops with you?"
"No, they are with Sheridan." "Sheridan?"
Ord grinned. "He took over Burnside's command two days ago. Maybe that explains why they are fighting so ferociously over there." Ord pointed toward the smoke-shrouded railroad cuts."
Lee remounted and rode off. He shook his head with anger. "We must not lose our heads, our moral compass as an army. If our men start executing prisoners now, then we have indeed lost God's blessing at a time that we need it the most. It will bring shame to our entire cause."
Lee edged Traveler into the water. His mount wanted to drink but he would not let him, the water was so tainted with blood. He pushed across, staff following. To his right, a quarter mile away, Robertson's Division was engaged in what was already being called the Hornets Nest. The railroad cuts for the Baltimore and Ohio had been turned into bastions. He could not see the fight from here. There was too much smoke, but the air was alive with bullets zipping and screaming overhead.
He paused and watched it with frustration. Taking that position now did not serve the plan. It was Frederick and the pass over the mountains that Beauregard should have focused on.
"Walter, send someone in there. Find Robertson. Order him to report to me now. I will be up on the road."
Several staff, escorted by a half dozen troopers, rode off.
He turned and continued up the field. Several of his escorts dropped from their saddles as they rode up the hill, weaving past a hospital area for the black troops. He detailed off another staff officer to stay with the hospital, bearing the -same orders he had given on the other side of the stream.
They crossed over the killing ground of the corner field, raced over the railroad tracks and up to the Buckeystown Road. Again chaos, wounded by the hundreds staggering back, fence rails down, crops trampled, a farmhouse on fire, wounded being pulled from inside even as it burned.
Turning onto the road he now saw the rear of Beauregard's divisions, pushing up, ranks thinned, a terrible bombardment striking into them.
Lee clenched his fist in frustration. Not against the guns. Not another Malvern Hill.
He wanted to go forward, but Walter rebelled, pushing in front of him.
"Sir, I am sorry, sir, but I cannot let you ride into that inferno."
Lee hesitated. Walter was right. The battle now hung by a thread, the orders he had so often given to his beloved generals, to stand back, to manage the fight, to not go into the middle of it, had to apply now to him, too.
"Send some men up there," Lee snapped. "Find Beauregard. Bring him back to me now!"