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.'
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?
