“Dressing ranks. Getting a speech.”

“Let’s hope it’s a long one.” Truslow had torn away the pants leg from his wounded thigh and bound the injury with a bandage torn from a dead man’s shirt. He spat tobacco juice, lifted his rifle, and fired. He was aiming at the cannon that still stood on the knoll in the cornfield, keeping its gunners in shelter so they could not rake the rebel line with canister. He reloaded, took aim, then turned to his right before pulling the trigger. There were shouts among the trees and Truslow was suddenly shouting at his men to fall back. The Yankees were coming through the woods again.

Starbuck saw a banner among the shredded leaves. He fired at the color bearer, then fell back with Truslow’s company. “Rothwell!” he shouted through the trees, knowing he would not be heard, but knowing he had to warn the Sergeant. “Rothwell!” He did not want the Sergeant marooned in the trees and he wondered if he should run to fetch the man.

But then all hell broke loose on the cornfield’s far side.

General McClellan dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then brushed crumbs of toast from his lap. He was aware of the gaze of the civilian spectators and he kept a stern look on his face so that none of those onlookers would be aware of the worries that racked him.

He was risking a trap. He knew it instinctively, even if he did not know just what form the trap would take. Lee outnumbered him, he was sure, and Lee was fighting a defensive battle and that could only mean that the enemy was disguising his intentions. Somewhere in the landscape a mass of rebels was waiting to attack, and McClellan was determined not to be caught by that surprise assault. He would hold men in reserve to counter it. He would frustrate Lee. He would preserve the army.

“Sir?” An aide stooped beside McClellan’s chair. “Dan’l Webster, sir, he’s unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” McClellan asked. Daniel Webster was his horse.

“The civilians, sir, they’re plucking his tail hairs. As souvenirs, sir. We could ask them to move, sir? Up the hill, maybe?”

“There must be a stable?”

“He’s in the stable, sir.”

“Then shut it!” McClellan did not want to lose his audience. He rather enjoyed their admiration. Indeed, stretching his legs once in a while, he liked to chat with them and assure them that all was well. There was no need to worry mere civilians with his concerns, or tell them that he had telegraphed Washington with an urgent request that every Northern soldier available should be hurried west toward the army. Those soldiers could not of course reach the battlefield in time to join the fight, but they might provide a rear guard behind which his army could retire if Lee’s masterstroke brought chaos. The hotheads in his army, fools like Colonel Thorne, might wonder why he did not unleash the men poised to cross the river and attack the rebels’ flank, but those fools did not understand the army’s danger.