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."
Lee wanted to tear the reins out of Walter's hands to turn and madly ride into the town, to somehow retrieve the victory that should have been theirs this day.
"No, sir," Walter said quietly. "No, sir, not today."
Lee nodded and turned away.
"Hurray for the Union! We whipped you damn good!"
Lee stopped. It was a Union soldier down on the ground, his legs shattered, but up on his elbows, glaring defiantly at Lee. His escort circled in closer. One of the cavalry troopers, cursing, half-drew his revolver.
"No!" Lee snapped.
He looked down at the soldier and then dismounted and walked up to him. The boy looked up at him wide-eyed.
"Who are you?" Lee asked.
The boy gulped nervously.
"Private Jenrich, Forty-third Ohio."
Lee knelt down by his side and took his hand.
"Private, I shall pray tonight that you get safely home to your loved ones and that someday we can meet in peace."
Lee stood back up and looked at his men, all of whom were stunned, silent.
He said nothing more, riding on, leaving Private Jenrich who bent his head and sobbed.
The Hornets Nest Lee Robinson and what was left of the First Texas gave back, retreating toward McCausland's Ford. Precious few of his one once gallant regiment remained. To the north, through the drifting smoke, he noticed that the sound of battle was falling away into silence, and through the smoke he could see ghostlike figures heading to the rear.
It was a defeat. He had never known such a sensation before, defeat. They had nearly taken the first of the railroad cuts but the damned Yankees just would not give back, not run, not surrender. Was it because they were colored, or because they were Yankees?
Or was it because they were both?
He reached the ford, waded in, splashed the tainted water over his face, and knelt down in it for a few seconds as if it were a cooling baptism to wash away the sins of war.
Standing up, he led his men over the river.
Sergeant Major Bartlett led the skirmish line that cautiously advanced toward the ford. The regimenf was, in fact, nothing more now than a skirmish line, maybe a hundred men still standing. Sheridan rode behind them, a regiment of white troops spreading out.
Bartlett scanned the ground ahead and finally saw what he was looking for, the hospital area, and sprinted toward it. It was indeed a charnel house, several thousand men on the ground, many Confederates now mixed in, men left behind by their retreating foe.
He ignored his duty for the moment, his friend John Miller by his side, walking back and forth until he "spotted the regimental surgeon, down on the ground, a Confederate soldier lying on his side, groaning, as the surgeon probed into his shoulder and then pulled out a rifle ball. "Doctor!"
The surgeon looked up and recognized Washington, his features grim. "My son?" "Over there."
His son was lying by the colonel's side as if asleep. Both of them were dead.
Washington stopped, unable to move. Washington felt as if struck. He could not move or speak, then he slowly sank to his knees, gathering the limp body, still warm, into his arms.
Washington started to rock back and forth, cradling his son.
"Sergeant Major!"
He looked up. Phil Sheridan was gazing down at him. "What's wrong?" "My son," he whispered. Phil stiffened and said nothing for a moment. "What's your name. Sergeant Major?" Washington could not reply. "Washington Quincy Bartlett," John Miller said. "I saw you today, Bartlett, the way you held the barricade, rallied the men. Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Washington could not reply.
"I'm putting you in for one," Phil said, and he paused, as if adding an afterthought, "and my condolences, Sergeant." Phil rode on.
Washington did not even really hear what he said. All that he had fought for now rested limp in his arms.
It was far too much for Washington, and he dissolved into tears, still rocking back and forth, Miller kneeling by his side.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 7:00 P.M.
'We have three choices," Lee said softly. "We can resume the assault tomorrow, we can stand, or we can withdraw."
None dared to reply. Longstreet was absolutely silent, staring off. Hood had been wounded in the arm down by the Hornets Nest, and the surgeon had just reported he would most likely lose it. Beauregard, claiming fatigue, had withdrawn to his tent. Jeb, head and arm bandaged, sat across from Lee.
"I say fight," Jeb said softly. "I was within a couple of hundred feet of the heights before the attack collapsed. I still could have taken it."
Lee did not reply directly. He knew Jeb had barely gotten halfway up, losing scores of troopers trying to charge the guns while still mounted.
Lee looked over at Walter and then to Judah.
"Withdraw," Judah Benjamin said calmly.
"Why so?"
"Sir, I am no general or tactician. But the campaign here in Maryland is over."
"We came so close today," Lee whispered, as if in shock. "So close. I could see victory like a golden light above our colors. So close."
He fell silent.
"Grant's army is as badly mauled as ours," Jeb said. "We can finish him tomorrow."
"And how many more armies will be here this dme tomorrow?" Judah said. "Another Confederate army perhaps?"
Lee looked over at him stonily.
"No, there will be no more armies," Lee replied, "no more reinforcements. We are it."
"And how many men are still capable of fighting?" Lee looked over to Walter.
"Sir, there are no clear reports yet. It will take days. Every division was engaged. Robertson is dead, so is McLaw, both their divisions fought out. Beauregard's two divisions in the assault, I'd guess, fifty percent or more lost."
"General Longstreet, your command?" Lee asked.
"Fought out, sir."
Lee looked at him carefully. He had not yet asked why Longstreet had not pushed the attack more boldly from the northern flank and in the center. But he suspected he knew the answer. Longstreet was trying to hold some strength back.
Longstreet finally stirred.
"This army has lost nearly half its fighting strength in the last three days. I suspect casualties will be in excess of twenty-five thousand, perhaps close to thirty. Added to our losses of last week at Gunpowder River and the earlier-losses in front of Washington and at Union Mills and Gettysburg-the Army of Northern Virginia is finished as an offensive force."
He had said it straight out. Bluntly and without tact.
Lee nodded, dipping his head.
"Sir, it is time to get this army south of the Potomac," Judah said, forcing his way back into the conversation.
"And the president's orders?" Lee asked.
"He is not here. I am, sir, and I think that gives me some authority as the civilian representative to order you to do so."
Lee forced a smile.
"To take the responsibility from my shoulders?" he asked.
"If you would let me."
"No, sir, I will not let you take that responsibility before our president. I am commander in the field. I must act at this moment in best accordance with the needs of this army, the main surviving hope of our cause."
"Washington faced worse after Brandywine and Germantown," Judah said.
Lee smiled but shook his head.
"He was not facing what I now face."
He sighed and lowered his head.
"Those wounded capable of being moved, with what transport we have left, to be loaded up tonight. Take only those men with good prospects of healing, of returning to the fight. All others to be left behind."
The men around the table stirred. "Walter, we will leave a note for General Grant asking for his charity to our men. I am sure he will comply." "Yes, sir."
"General Longstreet. Can you hold this position through tomorrow?" "Sir?"
"I want Grant to think we are still in position, considering a resumption of the fight. Meanwhile I will take what is left of Hood's and Beauregard's commands and head south, down toward Hauling Ferry, along with our pontoon train."
"Sir, my scouts reported yesterday, and again today, that the Yankees have heavily fortified that crossing."
"We will move with speed. If God is willing, we will launch a surprise attack at dusk and overrun that position. They are, after all, garrison troops. Once the ferry is taken, the pontoon will be laid during the night, I will secure the position, and then, General Longstreet, you will withdraw down to it."
"Yes, sir, I think that is possible."
"Gentlemen," Lee sighed, "if we are finished as an offensive force, so is Grant. We return to Virginia and the war will continue. Perhaps what we've achieved here will be sufficient to overturn the Lincoln administration and victory can yet be ours."
He stood up, the gesture an indication of dismissal, and walked out from under the awning.
The rain was coming down steadily, not hard, just a constant drizzle. Through the gloom and smoke that still clung to the fields, he could see on the far side of the river hundreds of lanterns, bouncing about like fireflies, details of men looking for lost comrades, bringing in the wounded. All was silent except for distant cries of pain, prayers, pleas for help.
He lowered his head.
"My fault, it's all my fault now," he said.