Still farther south a group of officers worked their way through thick brush and timber to where they could see a ford. The ford offered a way of outflanking the rebels defending the stone bridge, but when the officers came in sight of the creek their hopes fell. The far bank was just as steep as the slope that lay beyond the bridge, and the ford, far from being unguarded, had a picket line of gray infantry dug into its sharp slope.

“Whose idea was this?” one man, a general, asked.

“Some damned engineer colonel,” an aide answered. “Thorne, he’s called.”

“The bastard can cross first,” the general said as he peered through field glasses at the far bank. The sound of the battle in the north filled the sky, but above its din he could just hear the sound of voices coming from over the water. The rebels here seemed lighthearted, as if they knew that on this terrible day of slaughter they had drawn a long straw.

A trampling of feet in the woods made the general draw back from the trees’ edge. Two of his aides were approaching with a farmer dressed in a thick wool coat and a shovel hat. Cow dung was plastered on the man’s pants.

“Mister Kroeger,” one of the aides introduced the farmer, who still retained enough Old World servility to pull off his hat when he was named to the general. “Mister Kroeger,” the aide explained, “says this isn’t Snaveley’s Ford.”

“Not Snaveley’s,” Kroeger agreed in a German accent. “Snaveley’s down there.” He pointed downstream.

The General cursed. He had fetched seven battalions and half a dozen guns to the wrong place.

“How far?” he asked.

“Long ways,” Kroeger said. “I use it for the cows, yes? Too steep here for cattle.” He motioned with his hand to demonstrate how steep the far bank was.

The general swore again. If he had been given cavalry, he told himself, he would have scouted these lower banks of the creek, but McClellan had insisted on the army’s cavalry staying close to the Pry farm. God alone knew what good they were doing there, unless McClellan fancied that they would protect him during a fighting retreat.

“Is there a road to Snaveley’s Ford?” he asked.

“Just pastures,” Kroeger answered.

The general cursed a third time, prompting the farmer to frown in disapproval. The general slapped at a horsefly. “Send a reconnaissance party downstream, John,” he told an aide. “Perhaps Mister Kroeger will guide them?”

“You want the troops in march order, sir?” the aide asked.

“No, no. Let them have their coffee.” The general frowned in thought. If this dung-encrusted farmer was right and the ford was a good long way downstream, then maybe it was too far away to let his men outflank the defenders at the bridge. “I need to talk to Burnside,” he said. “There’s no great hurry,” he added. It was, after all, still early. Most of America would not have had their breakfasts yet, certainly not the respectable part, and McClellan had sent no orders for the lower jaw of the trap to swing shut. Indeed, McClellan had sent no orders at all, which suggested there was plenty of time for coffee.