But Lee was the enemy this day, and an enemy who needed to be destroyed if the Union was to be preserved. Thorne took out his notebook. He knew that whatever happened today, McClellan would paint it a victory and McClellan’s supporters in the Northern press and in the Congress would demand that their hero should keep command of the army, but only total victory would justify McClellan keeping command, and Thorne was already seeing that happy outcome slip from the Young Napoleon’s nerveless grasp. If Lee did survive to fight another day then Thorne was determined that the North would have a new general, a new hero, to do what should be done this day. Thorne wrote his notes, McClellan worried about a surprise rebel attack that would wrong foot his army, and across the creek men died.

The Confederate reinforcements swelled the defenders’ fire, while the Yankees at the edge of the cornfield died. Their fire slackened and the rebels, scenting an advantage, began to advance in small groups. The Yankees retreated, yielding the cornfield’s edge, and that prompted a sudden shrill outbreak of the rebel yell and the Georgian Brigade was charging into the corn with fixed bayonets. The surviving Yankees broke and ran. Swynyard held his men back, shouting at them to align themselves on the wood instead. “Bayonets!” he shouted. “Forward!”

The Georgians stormed into the cornfield. A few wounded Yankees tried to hold them off with rifle fire, but those brave men were killed with bayonets, and still the Georgians advanced through corn that had been cut down by canister, trampled by boots, scorched by shell fire, and dampened by blood. Beyond the ragged corn the Georgians could see a pasture thick with the retreating enemy and they gave the rebel yell as they hurried forward to chase the Yankees even further.

Then the Yankee gunners saw the rebels in the corn and the canister started again; great gouts of death fanning over the broken field to spin men down and douse the corn in yet more blood. The Pennsylvanians in the trees took the Georgians in the flank with fast rifle fire and the rebel counterattack stalled. For a moment the men stood there, dying, achieving nothing, then they too pulled back from the wrecked corn.

Starbuck found the remains of his three companies close to the wood. Potter’s company was still fighting among the trees, while Captain Dennison’s men had vanished. Cartwright was shaking with excitement, while Captain Peel was white-faced. “Lippincott’s dead,” he told Starbuck.

“Lippincott? Christ, I never even knew his first name,” Starbuck said.

“It was Daniel,” Peel said earnestly.

“Where’s Dennison?”

“Don’t know, sir,” Peel said.

“I don’t even know your name,” Starbuck said.

“Nathaniel, sir, like you.” Peel seemed embarrassed by the admission, almost as if he thought he was being presumptuous.

“Then well done, Nate,” Starbuck said, then he turned as Lieutenant Coffman arrived with an order from Colonel Swynyard. Starbuck’s men, along with the big 65th Virginia, were to attack into the trees to rescue the brigade’s skirmishers from the deadly Pennsylvanian Bucktails. It took a few minutes to align the three Yellowleg companies; then, without waiting for the larger Virginian regiment, Starbuck ordered them into the trees. “Charge!” he shouted. “Come on!” He was screaming the rebel yell, wanting to put the fear of God into the enemy, but when the Yellowlegs charged past the skirmish line they discovered the Yankees were gone. The Bucktails had fired so fast that they had exhausted their ammunition and were already slipping back out of the wood. They left their dead behind, each corpse with a buck’s tail on its hat. Swynyard’s attack, denied its prey, slowed and stopped.