Chancellorsville, he would not be worried, as he was not worried then.
He knew the crossing had started before dawn. A courier had come in an hour and a half ago confirming that.
It was now just a matter of waiting, and waiting was hard this morning.
Grant had outfoxed him on several points. Baltimore was gone, the river was blocked, but in doing these things Grant had left Washington open.
Beat him now, today. Beat him fully, and send him and his men running, and then the promise of that first night at Gettysburg will be fulfilled. All things will still be possible… and the war won.
One Half Mile North of Buckeystown 7:00 A.M.
Men of the South! Men of the Carolinas, of Georgia, of Alabama and Mississippi. Men of Florida and Virginia. Today is our day!'
Beauregard, standing in his stirrups, trotted down the long double-ranked battle line,' sword held high. The moment was transcendent, his eyes clouding with tears. Never had he seen such as this, an open field, two divisions deployed across a front nearly a mile long, battle flags held high.
'Let history one day record that it was we, we here, who on this day won our independence!'
A wild cheer went up, the rebel yell. Though only those within a few hundred yards could hear his words, that did not matter. All could see him, the cheer racing up and down the battle line, resounding, swelling, deafening!
'Forward to victory!'
Drummers massed behind the center of the line started the beat, a steady roll. Buglers picked up the call, echoing the advance. Beauregard turned to face forward, sword resting on his right shoulder, horse rearing up, and then stepping forward with a noble prance.
Behind the line were arrayed twenty-two field pieces, elevated to maximum. As soon as he turned and started off, they fired in unison, the signal to the assaulting force, and to Lee, that the attack had begun.
The mile-wide battle line began to sweep forward.
Behind them, the exhausted troops of Robertson were just beginning to emerge on the main road, McLaw's men not yet up in place. But he could wait no longer. They had to go in now while surprise was still on their side… and victory was ahead.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna
7.10A.M.
All were turned, facing south.
They had heard the distant report of the massed volley of artillery in the south. Distant, but distinct above the general fusillade roaring along the river bottom. One of the scouts Ely had sent out was coming up the hill to headquarters, urging his mount on. He reined in before Grant and saluted.
'At least two divisions, sir,' he announced. 'Sorry I took so long, but I wanted a good look at them, try to count their flags and such.'
'Where's Lieutenant Moore?' Ely asked.
'He got hit. Killed, sir, some of them reb skirmishers are damn good shots.'
His horse was bleeding from two wounds, testament to the accuracy of fire he had faced while scouting.
'Continue with your report,' Grant said quietly.
'Sir. I counted enough flags for at least two divisions. It's Beauregard. I remember seeing him at Shiloh, sir. It's definitely him.'
'Just two divisions?'
'No, sir. They were deployed out into a front of two divisions, behind them about twenty, maybe twenty-five guns. But I could see more men coming up from the road, also moving through fields. I'd reckon at least one more division, maybe two. I caught sight of a Texas flag with those men.'
'Robertson perhaps,' Grant said softly.
'Could not say, sir. Did you hear those guns fire off?'
'Yes, we did,' Ely interjected.
'That was a signal. They're advancing. Like I said, two divisions wide, right flank on the river, coming straight up the road from Buckeystown.'
The man fell silent and Ely offered him a canteen, which he gladly took and drained half.
'Good report, soldier,' Grant said. 'Take care of your horse and get something to eat.'
Grant walked away from the scout, Ely following.
'Ely,' he said quietly, 'send for Ord and Sheridan now. No hurrying about, no panic, but I want them up here quickly.'
Grant turned about and walked to the campfire, knowing all eyes were upon him. Everyone at headquarters had heard the report.
He sat down by the cookfire. He was hungry again, and after losing his first attempt at breakfast he was tempted to try again. This time he'd have to keep it down. Everyone was watching, and if he threw up, all would think it was nervousness and not just the headache. Besides, he'd need food; it was going to be a long day. He sat down, took a piece of hardtack offered by the cook, and chewed on it in silence.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
McCausIand's Ford
8:15 A.M.
Up, men, up!' Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long-distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.
A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.
Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.
He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight- lipped.
'Think we're going in?' Miller asked.
'Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing.'
And now the command. 'Up, men, up!'
Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.
'By column of regiments, starting from the left!' 'That's us,' Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.
'By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!'
Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.
Bartlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.
Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.
'Sir, I thought we were going to fight?' the officer cried. 'My boys are ready.'
'You will fight, damn it!' Sheridan cried. 'We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the
