“Apparently, sir.”

“Then doubtless you heard me. All goes well.”

Thorne could not tell, for the attack of Hooker’s corps was hidden by trees and smoke. The noise told him that a considerable battle was being fought, for both artillery and musketry sounded hard and fast across the creek’s valley, but no one could tell from the noise what was happening on the ground. All Thorne knew for sure was that the First Corps, under General Hooker, with thirty-six guns and over eight thousand men, was attempting to drive down the Hagerstown Pike toward the heart of the rebel position. That much was fine, but what Thorne did not understand was why McClellan had not launched his other troops across the Antietam. The rebels would have their hands full containing Hooker, and now was the time to hit them in the flank. If McClellan threw everything he had against the rebels then the battle would surely be over by lunchtime. The Confederates would be broken and fleeing to the Potomac where, piling up against the single ford that was their retreat, they would be easy pickings for the Northern cavalry.

“What of the other attacks, sir?” Thorne asked, gazing at the battle through a pair of field glasses.

McClellan chose not to hear the question. “Fine china,” he said, inspecting the coffee cup that was prettily painted with pansies and forget-me-nots. “They live well here,” he spoke to an aide and sounded grudging, as though a rural farmer had no right to possess such good china.

“The purpose of good government, sir, is to provide its citizens with a prosperous existence,” Thorne snarled, then turned his glasses northward to where another corps of the Northern army was waiting beside the Hagerstown Pike while Hooker’s men attacked. Two whole corps had crossed the river the day before, but only one was driving south. “Is Mansfield to back up Hooker?” he asked.

“Mansfield will do his duty,” McClellan snapped, “as will you, Colonel Thorne, if you have any duty other than to bother me with questions that are none of your concern.”

Thorne backed away from the reproof. He had done what he could to spur McClellan, and to do more was to risk arrest for insubordination. He paused beside the ever-growing crowd of local people who had come to cheer the North to victory and to observe the great Northern hero, McClellan, and, so far as Thorne could judge, Hooker’s attack did seem to be deserving applause, but he still feared for the day. It was not defeat that Thorne feared, for the North outnumbered the South far too heavily to risk defeat, but he did fear a stalemate that would allow Lee to survive and fight another day. McClellan should be swamping the rebels with attacks, drowning them in fire and crushing them with his vast army, but all the signs suggested that the Young Napoleon would be cautious. So cautious that he was here, in his armchair, rather than in his saddle and close to the fighting. Lee, Thorne knew, would be close to where the dying was happening. Thorne had known Lee before the war and he admired the man, and Lee, Thorne knew, would not be admiring the china before a gallery of awestruck spectators.