Grant Comes East

Chapter Seventeen

Perryville, Maryland

Headquarters Army of the Potomac

August 17, 1863 11:00 p.m.

Gen. Dan Sickles sat alone, contemplating the goblet of brandy in his hand, swirling it, letting the thick drink coat the sides of the glass, inhaling the fragrance, then taking a sip.

The moment had come. It had arrived faster than he had anticipated; another week, two weeks would have been preferable. He could still use another ten thousand in the ranks, some more guns. The Army of the Potomac was barely fifty thousand strong, two-thirds of them the old rank-and-file veterans, the remainder new troops, many of them ninety-day men. His recruiting effort had paid off handsomely, with returning veterans bringing four thousand new men into the ranks of seasoned regiments.

The new regiments he had distributed into hardened brigades, and he hoped that something would rub off on them. He had less than twenty batteries of artillery, many of them just three or four guns, but the crews were die pick of the old Army of the Potomac, consolidated out of many of the old artillery reserve units. Of cavalry he was very short as well. Stoneman could barely put five thousand sabers into the field.

All day long courier boats had scurried in from Washington. He had tried to intercept the dispatches destined for Grant, but they had been carried by men from Grant's headquarters who couldn't be swayed to reveal the contents.

But the news was clear enough and he didn't need to read the dispatches and secrets of Grant He had so conveniently set up a telegraph station and announced it was open to whomever needed it on 'Vital business of the public interest" that reporters from the New York papers and the Associated Press were hurrying back to use it.

Thus he knew a heavy bombardment had been going on for nearly two days; the rebels were firing off artillery ammunition with abandon, shelling the Washington fortification line along a seven-mile front. A dozen shots from the heavy guns had been dropped into the edge of the city. There was a report that one shell had burst on the Capitol grounds itself, killing a horse.

Some reported an air of panic, especially among the colored of the city, who were desperate to get out, but passage on boats was forbidden except for military purposes.

One report stated Lincoln had been wounded when he had gone up to watch the bombardment of Stevens, and that had created a true panic, only to be negated when the next dispatch boat anchored, the reporters on board dismissing the claim.

All were convinced though that Lee was preparing an all-out assault, one that would strike perhaps within the day.

Next there was the news of Wade Hampton. That had been confirmed when in a delightful display of arrogance Hampton personally sent a dispatch to the Philadelphia Inquirer via telegraph from Lancaster, inviting them to come and give an interview, or, if the paper desired, he would visit their offices within the week.

Hampton had actually created a wonderful situation for the Army of the Potomac. Dispatches and orders between Harrisburg and Washington now had to be routed through New York and it was causing delays, confusion.

It was wonderful. And Sickles was determined to take advantage of it

"General Sickles, the dispatch from the War Department is here."

Dan looked up; the sentry had opened the tent flap. A young captain, one of his own staff, entered and saluted, handing a sealed dispatch from Stanton. It was a private arrangement the two had agreed to the week before, and all day he had been anxiously awaiting what he hoped would be orders.

Dan motioned for the man to wait and opened the envelope, recognizing Stanton's bold handwriting. He scanned the letter, then reread it again carefully, smiling.

"How were things when you left?" Dan asked.

"Sir, everyone's on edge. There was a report of an attack column being seen forming up along the Blandenburg road. Word is the rebels will attack this evening."

Dan nodded, studying the dispatch. It was a copy; the original was already on its way to Grant, but he would not receive it until some time tomorrow. It was an appeal to Grant from Stanton to consider releasing additional reinforcements for Washington, but far more important, it was a request to authorize the Army of the Potomac to make a reconnaissance in force on Baltimore, by land, sea, or both, to ascertain if Baltimore could be retaken, and, if possible, to do so and from there to threaten Lee's rear. In addition there was a second note, in Stanton's hand, directed to Sickles. The wording of it was important and he studied it carefully.

All indications are that the rebels will storm the capital today, or no later than tomorrow. This is based upon reliable intelligence gathered from deserters and observations of their movements. One of the primary missions of the Army of the Potomac since the start of this conflict has been the protection of this city and the Administration. Though final orders for troop movements must come from the General Commanding, nevertheless I believe it is within your authority to exercise the traditional role of the Army of the Potomac and to find some means to exert pressure upon the Army of Northern Virginia and divert them from this impending attack….

It was precisely the excuse he had been looking for, an idea that had been well placed with several congressmen and senators across the last week and Stanton, as to be expected, snapped at the bait

He dismissed the staff officer and settled back in his chair, pouring another drink, then lighting a cigar.

Yes, there was an opportunity here that could come perhaps only once in a lifetime. It was fraught with peril, but then again, what opportunity did not also pose a risk? He could steal the march and have the bulk of his forces across the river before Grant was even aware of what he was doing. He could, as well, then delay the recall, which he knew would come, doing so by the time-honored tradition of "lost" dispatches, misinterpretations, and claims that communications had been cut If cornered, he had this letter, direct from Stanton, as his defense, but by then he would already be into Baltimore, and at that point not even Grant would dare to venture a recall. Instead the general from the West would have to march to his support or appear to be the one playing politics, risking the Army of the Potomac out of a fit of pique that he had not achieved what this army of the East phoenix-like, had done on its own.

Lee would not take this lying down. If already in the city of Washington, he would most likely try and hold that position, then turn with part of his force to engage. The numbers then would be almost even, forty-five to fifty thousand on each side. Lee would have to leave at least one of his three corps behind, most likely Beauregard's, to occupy the city. Then it would be an open stand-up fight.

And if ever he had confidence in his boys, it was now. They had tasted the most bitter of defeats. The cowards, the shirkers, had all deserted, and though many a valiant lad and many a good senior officer had fallen in the last campaign, the core that was left was as tough as steel, wanting nothing more than revenge, to restore their honored name.

With that victory his own place would be assured. Grant would be forced to treat him as a co-commander, and that upstart so unfamiliar with the finer nuances of politics, would soon be left in the dust and it would become clear to the public that he, Sickles, had won this war.

He savored that thought. The chance to prove his own mettle was here at last. The life of a ward heeler, of a mere congressman, of the snickers behind his back over that ridiculous Key affair, would be finished forever. Most important the 1864 campaign for president loomed ahead.

There was, as well, within his soul, a still loftier ambition. His love of his country could not be questioned by any who truly knew him, though his vision of what that country was, and should be, might differ greatly from those of the ones born to wealth and position. He had clawed his way up, and he knew that nowhere else in this world could one such as he have reached the heights he now occupied. This country had to be saved, its brawling energy, its factories and urban power, and all that derived from that power, expanded to encompass the Western world. Too many good comrades had died for that end. He wanted their deaths to be worth something.

As he contemplated his brandy, tears came to his eyes, for despite his public bluster and bravado, he was at heart a sentimentalist, so typical of his age. The sight of the flag, shot, torn, fluttering in the wind, could still move him to tears. For his army, his Army of the Potomac, he felt a love deeper than any he had ever known. They were his boys, his men. He loved them with a passion, and they knew it, returning his love. They knew him first as a brigade commander, then division, corps, and now finally army, never afraid to stand on the volley line, a fighting general who had all but begged across two years to be unleashed and bring victory.

Victory, in a week I could bring victory.

He drained the rest of his goblet and poured out the remainder of the bottle.

Faces drifted before him, so many comrades gone, men of the old Excelsior Brigade, his first command, bled out in the Peninsula, at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Union Mills. Without hesitation they had gone forward on every field, always following the colors, the flag, always the flag going forward, God bless them.

He remembered a flag bearer from the city, the scum of the gutter before the war, ennobled by it in the end. It was at Chancellorsville, that ghastly, obscene debacle that he could have so easily reversed into a Union victory of historic proportions. They were retreating, and a flag bearer staggered to his side, looked up, and gasped, "Sir, I just want you to know, the flag never touched the ground."

The man collapsed, dying, and yet still he struggled to plant the staff in the ground, to keep the colors aloft.

A dozen of the dying man's comrades gathered around him, taking the colors from his cold hands, holding them aloft, weeping, begging to be ordered back in to restore their honor.

"My God," he whispered, "with such men, how can we fail."

He looked back down at his drink. No more, and he tossed the goblet to the ground, crushing it under his heel.

I must be clear tomorrow, the boys expect it of me. If we are to win, if we are to save our country, I must be clear.

At this moment he knew there was but one man who could achieve that victory, and the thought humbled him.

I must risk all now, act swiftly, firmly, and without hesitation.

The plan for movement was already in place, carefully devised, in secret, with his staff. Before dawn the steam-powered ferries of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltic more railroad, capable of hauling an entire train across the river in ten minutes, would swing into action, joined by the small flotilla of barges, canal boats, tugs, and ferries that had been quietly gathered on the north bank of the river over the last four weeks. By mid-afternoon he'd have a full corps across, his old glorious Third, followed then by the Fifth later in the day and the Sixth during the night. Once across, the Third would undertake a forced march on Baltimore via the main road through Abington and Gunpowder Falls, the Fifth along the road through Bel Air, the Sixth to follow as reserve. In two days they should be into Baltimore and victory. And several hours before starting the crossing, he would, as well, cut all telegraph lines to the north. Let Grant and the reporters both wait in ignorance until he could announce the victory of the Army of the Potomac.

His own ambitions were overwhelmed for the moment, and in his dreams transcended his personal desires. We can end the war here and now. He knew enough of Lee to realize that perhaps he was walking onto a field of Lee's design.

Then so be it, for once engaged he would drive forward with a determination the likes of which the Army of Northern Virginia had never before witnessed.

And the men driving forward would be his chosen band of brothers, his comrades of the Army of the Potomac. In forty-eight hours it would be decided; he would be on the path to the presidency or he would be dead, of that he was convinced. With the Army of the Potomac by his side, he could not conceive of the latter. Victory was just ahead, a vision before him, just on the other side of the river.

Near Reamstown, Pennsylvania

August 18,1863 6:00 am.

Wade Hampton reined in his mount, raising his field glasses to scan the dust swirling up from the west, several riders coming fast.

A troop of cavalry, some of his North Carolina boys, many of them on fine, sleek horses freshly requisitioned from Pennsylvania farmers, trotted past, heading northeast, pushing toward Reading. This was a wonderful country for horses. The remounts taken in the last campaign had been vastly superior to what they had been riding only two months ago, but here, in this untouched land, could be found horses of true breeding, strength, and endurance. His brigade was for once overloaded with horses, some of the troopers leading a couple of remounts as they rode.

Behind him pillars of smoke filled the morning sky. Following the tracks of the railroad that led toward Reading, the boys had been having a grand time of it, burning bridges, destroying supplies they could not bring along, knocking over water towers, and smashing switches. The evening before they had staged a grand spectacle as a parting show in Lancaster. Two trains, one hauling tank cars filled with coal oil, had been deployed a mile apart, their engines stoked up, brakes released, and throttles set to full. The amateur engineers then jumped off, and with hundreds of troopers whooping and hollering like small boys bent on devilish mischief, they watched as the trains built up speed and collided head-on, the tank cars loaded with thousands of gallons of coal oil bursting into flames. Even the civilians had watched the show with awe, children running about excitedly, laughing and clapping at this orgy of destruction.

The local farmers, many of them of the strange Amish and Mennonite sects, had proven to be a dour lot, but so far there had been no problems. His boys had acted, as always, as proper sons of the South, respectful of women, especially the young ladies and the elderly. And more than one had actually coaxed a smile with his charming drawl and courtly manners, even as they handed out vouchers left and right for horses and food. They had noticed, as well, just how many healthy young men were standing about as if there were no war being fought but fifty miles away, or now galloping past their own farms. It was troubling. He could understand these strange Amish who had taken a vow of peace, like the Quakers, but many were not of the religious dissenters. There was barely a town in South Carolina where a healthy man between sixteen and forty-five could be found. There were enough here in just this one county to raise an entire brigade.

His men had ridden out of Lancaster in high spirits. The farms of the Amish and Mennonites had proven to be a virtual bonanza of food-slabs of hickory-smoked ham, tubs of something they called scrapple, links of fat sausages, beefsteaks, chickens, geese hung from nearly every saddle. To get fresh, roasting ears of corn or apples all one had to do was turn off the road for a moment and lean over a fence to gather in all he might desire. Loaves of fresh bread stuck out of haversacks, and a ruckus ensued when a trooper just ahead of him rode past one of his comrades and slapped the man's hat, which he had been cradling in his lap. A couple of dozen eggs were ruptured and a gooey fight broke out as broken eggs were thrown back and forth, the boys laughing.

Long before dawn, just north of Lancaster, the brigade had split up, two regiments turning to the northwest to probe toward Harrisburg, one regiment east, along the track of the Philadelphia and Columbia railroad toward Downington and West Chester, the rest of his command in the middle, moving toward Reading. The regiment going east, the Jeff Davis Regiment, was at this point nothing more than a light raid and probe with the intent of spreading panic in Philadelphia and engaging in some bridge-burning and train-wrecking.

But now, as he watched the courier's approach, he felt a tightening in his stomach. Something was up. The three of them came on fast, at the gallop, and reined in, saluting.

"Sir, we got Yankee cavalry, ten miles off."

Wade forced a smile. He had hoped they'd have another day of it before the Yankees finally reacted in their typical slow and leisurely fashion.

"Well, it's about time. We've been here a day and a half without a sight of one of them."

One of the couriers shook his head.

"Sir. It's not just a patrol. Looks to be damn near a brigade. Colonel Baker says he's going to have to pull back before them."

"How far?"

"When we were told to find you, it was about ten miles to the west of here. We were moving toward Harrisburg, as ordered. The civilians were damn closed-mouthed, wouldn't give us a word of information, though one old codger just grinned and said we were gonna wind up like rabbits in a snare, that the whole area is crawling with Yankees. The main road we were on, you could see where one hell of a lot of troopers had been marching a day or two earlier, a couple of orchards just stripped of apples, one big hay field trampled down. The farmer that owned the orchard and field was boiling mad, said that ten thousand or more Yankees had marched through two days ago from Harrisburg, then turned around and marched back, cleaning him out"

He took that in. Why? That was before he crossed the river. Drilling perhaps? Keeping the men in shape?

"Just around sunup we seen them coming," the messenger continued. "The country "was open, Colonel Baker had a good vantage point, you could just make out the church spires of what we figure might be Harrisburg, and then they just came storming out on to the fields a couple miles away, filling every lane. A couple thousand at least."

Wade opened up his map case and pulled out the sketches of the region that Jed Hotchkiss had prepared for him. His forces were spread thin, and now he wondered. There had been absolutely no resistance so far. To spread out was routine at this point cast the net wide until they hit something.

If he drew an oblong box set on one point, he was in the middle. The bottom point was their river crossing twenty-five miles away, the left point Harrisburg, the north point Reading, the east point toward West Chester.

"Any identification? Who are they?"

"Sir, we picked up a couple of deserters from the Nineteenth Corps; they were hiding in a barn not five miles from here. Said they were fed up and going home. Seems like they were the ones out on that march and these two snuck off."

"Nineteenth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did they say where they came from?"

"Harrisburg."

Damn.

So he had one piece of the puzzle that Lee had sent him for, if the deserters were to be believed. "Did you take them prisoner?" "No sir, we let them go." "Why?"

"One was so damn sick, sir, he was near dead; the other was just a scared boy, the sick man's young brother. We took their parole and left them. Colonel Baker, though, felt we should believe them."

Then the Nineteenth was in Harrisburg. And that spoke volumes.

"Anything else?"

"No sir, nothing we saw. Like I said, a few farmers said that Yankees have been marching up and down the roads the last few weeks. Carrying all equipment, the men said they were drilling. We found a farm boy wearing a Yankee cap with the corps insignia for the Thirteenth, said he found it after some troops marched by, heading back toward Harrisburg. One woman we met just before seeing the Yankees said she was born in South Carolina and she did sound like it Married a Yankee, God save her. She said that no civilians are allowed anywhere near Harrisburg, all the roads are closed off with military guards, and you need a pass to get in or out."

That was to be expected. The Northern newspapers had openly reported that bit of information and complained bitterly about it and about the imposition of martial law on not just the city but the entire surrounding county.

"Sir, Colonel Baker says he's pulling back and he'd like some support."

Wade nodded. The Second South Carolina was less than a half hour up the road, heading toward Reading behind the First North Carolina. He'd turn the Second around now. But the First? If they could at least get to Sinking Springs and destroy some track and telegraph lines there on the main route between Harrisburg and Reading, it would be a major accomplishment. He had hoped that Baker could actually close on the outskirts of Harrisburg while he held the center here and moved on Reading. Now that was in doubt.

He hesitated. Concentrate? Suppose Baker was overreacting? Perhaps this cavalry force was nothing more than second-rate militia that would scatter when faced with a real charge?

But if not, if I let them swing behind me, cut me off from the river, and they are seasoned troopers, it could be a problem.

And yet Stuart had faced far worse numbers. He had ridden clean around the entire Army of the Potomac, raised havoc, gathered intelligence, and lost only a few score men.

No. Don't hesitate now.

"Let Baker fall back here. I'll keep Cobb's legion here and I'll stay as well. Tell Baker to fall back and lead them on. We'll give them a good drubbing here."

The couriers saluted, turned, and started back west.

Wade watched them leave and turned to look at the sun, now warm and golden in the morning sky. It would most likely be a hot day, but the weather was fair, the roads were good, the farmland was rich. He was farther north than any Confederate cavalryman had ever dreamed possible only six months ago, and he would make the most of it. Beat these men before mid-afternoon, then on to Reading. A fire in that rail yard would most likely be a sight to behold, outshining anything Jeb could ever hope to boast about.

In Front of Washington

August 18,1863 7:00 a.m.

"It had come.

General Lee found it hard to contain his excitement. For more than a year he had laid out dozens of such plans. Some had come to fruition, many had disappeared and been forgotten. For once communications were on the Confederate side. The telegraph line from the south bank of the Susquehanna clear down to his headquarters before Fort Stevens had been fully restored. Extra wire had been found in Baltimore along with some telegraphers who had volunteered to help string a line straight to his headquarters. It was a luxury he had never operated with before, to have instant communications with scouts stationed almost seventy miles away. He marveled at the new potentials he saw before him.

The first report had come in at three in the morning, Walter interrupting his sleep with the message that significant activity was going on along the north bank of the river. Steam engines were firing up their boilers. An hour before dawn the gunboats on the river had come up close to shore, and minutes later a tug pushed in a barge loaded with a regiment of troops to secure the bank. As ordered, his light screen of cavalry had traded a few shots at long range, then appeared to flee. Just before dawn the first heavy ferry had crossed, carrying nearly a thousand men.

The forward station had just closed down, the last message … Dozens of ships moving on river, infantry, artillery, cavalry. Third Corps. Flags of Fifth Corps identified on heights of north bank. Must abandon station.

As he had anticipated, the Third Corps was in the lead. That was a vanity he expected of Sickles. The man had played true to form.

There had been no movements or sightings of troops attempting to come down the Chesapeake, to reinforce either Washington or the garrison at Fort McHenry. That had been his one great concern, that Lincoln would play the card of caution and reinforce the garrison of Washington. If the Army of the Potomac had transferred here, en masse, secure behind the fortifications, it might have presented him with a strategic dilemma, a field force of maybe fifty thousand, positioned closer to Richmond than his own army, with Grant threatening from the rear. No, Sickles had played the card he wanted. He imagined Grant would be beside himself with anger. "Walter."

As always his adjutant was waiting and was under the awning within seconds. Lee looked up at him, smiled.

Walter scanned the latest, confirming that the Army of the Potomac was beginning to ship over artillery. This was no raid or feint; it was the real thing at last.

"It's not a reconnaissance," Walter said excitedly. "They're moving. He'll have the entire army over by tomorrow morning and will be on the march."

Lee nodded.

"Send for Generals Longstreet, Hood, and Beauregard. I want this army on the march, as planned."

Walter, grinning, ran from the tent.

General Lee sat back in his chair. He felt utterly confident, a confidence that had been shaken at Fort Stevens and even by the troubling conversation with Benjamin and Rabbi Rothenberg. The game was afoot again, he was back in his element, and all doubts were put aside. The trap had been sprung as he had planned. By midday, his entire army would be on the march, streaming north through the night. By late tomorrow he would hit Sickles with everything he had, unless the man showed caution, dug in on the banks of the Gunpowder River, and held back.

But he knew this opponent, as he had known all the others. Sickles would not hesitate. He would see his chance for glory, to upstage Grant, to take Baltimore back. He would come on fast.

It would now be a footrace. Now it was a matter of weather and luck, both of which had rarely failed the Army of Northern Virginia in any of its campaigns.

Near Hinkleton, Pennsylvania

East Bank of the Conestoga River

August 18,1863 3:00 p.m.

Wade Hampton ducked as the shell detonated only a dozen feet away, showering him with dirt. Standing back up, he saw one of his staff not moving, a glance showing that the boy was dead, a shell fragment having sliced into his temple. He looked away. There was no time for that now.

Raising his held glasses, he scanned the road they had just retreated down only minutes before. These damn Pennsylvania farmers had made the bridge spanning the river of stone, impossible to destroy. On the far side of the stream, a quarter mile away, hundreds of Yankee troopers were swarming out to either flank, riding hard, while in the center a regiment or more were dismounted, coming in on foot Already the snap whine of their carbine Are was whisking past him, the angry, beelike buzz of.52-caliber rounds cutting the air.

Along the banks of the creek his men were spreading out as well, horse holders moving to the rear, dismounted troopers, most armed with muzzle-loading rifles, a few with the precious Sharps carbines their opponents carried. His own battery of horse artillery was up, pounding away, struggling to keep at bay the two batteries of Yankee artillery shelling the line.

The battle had been a running engagement for the last fifteen miles, opening with skirmishing just before noon, and then a full-blown run of ten miles back to this river. He had led half a dozen counter-charges. In the past one such charge would have sent them reeling, half the Yankees falling off their horses in the rout

This was different, damn different. The Yankees fell back in order as each charge advanced, and then his boys would hit a wall of fire from dismounted troopers behind a fence row, an embankment, a tree lot that would empty a dozen saddles, and he would be forced to fall back. All the time, flanking forces, at least a regiment in strength to north or south, would range out, trying to pincer in, forcing him to fall back yet again.

Focusing his field glasses on the road, he saw what appeared to be a general and his staff, directly in the middle of the road, arrogant, unmoving as a shell detonated nearby. No one he recognized. It must be that Grierson, the raider from Mississippi and Louisiana that the papers had made such a fuss over.

Behind him the last of the Jeff Davis Regiment was up, recalled from its ride toward Downington, but the horses were blown even as they arrived to join their comrades from Cobb's legion and the First and Second South Carolina. In fact, all his horses were blown after this running four-hour battle.

They had taken a few prisoners in the last skirmish before pulling back to the river. The Yankee troopers were arrogant, lean, as weather-beaten as his own. Men from an Illinois regiment boasted that Grierson had sworn an oath to entertain Hampton for dinner before shipping him to the prison camp at Elmira.

The prisoners, still under escort, were sitting nearby, now watching the battle with detached amusement, the way prisoners did when they knew they were safe. He could hear them calmly discussing the spreading fight like professionals, pointing out with glee their own regiment, advancing on foot in the center, the flanking forces even now ranging far outward, a couple of miles away, to the north and south, dust the only indicator of their movements.

He walked over toward them and they looked up. Their leader, a lieutenant, got to his feet and with just the slightest look of mocking disdain offered a salute, which Wade did not return.

"Getting hot for ya, General?" a sergeant nursing a wounded hand asked, looking up at him, shifting a chaw of tobacco in his mouth.

"Were you part of the raid with Grierson out west?" Wade asked.

The lieutenant grinned.

"Sure as hell was. Rode from one end of Mississippi to the other in three weeks. Never seen so many rebels running in my entire life. Almost as many as we seen running today."

"You damn Yankee." One of Wade's staff started to step forward, and the lieutenant eyed him coldly. Wade extended his hand, motioning for his man to stop.

The wounded sergeant chuckled and grinned.

"You ain't facing the Army of the Potomac today, General. You're getting a taste of Ulysses S. Grant and his men from the western armies," the sergeant said.

Wade nodded thoughtfully. These men were different, very different, more like his own even, the way they looked in threadbare uniforms, the sergeant with a patch on his knee, the lieutenant's hat faded, sweat soaked, his uniform jacket just a private's sack coat with shoulder bars. There was no Army of the Potomac spit and polish here. They seemed to take an easy pride in themselves.

"How does it feel to be prisoners?" one of Wade's staff snapped.

"Oh, not for long we reckon. The ball's just started, General," the lieutenant replied, and the three men sitting behind him nodded. "It's a long way back across the river for you, isn't it? Kinda figure we'll be hosting you in a day or two."

"If crossing the river is even our intent."

The lieutenant just smiled and did not reply.

"You'll be well treated. I'll have a surgeon check your sergeant. If at the end of the day there's prisoners to be exchanged, I'll see you're passed back through the lines."

"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied and this time the man's arrogance dropped a bit

Wade started to turn away. He caught the eye of the sergeant, who continued to grin while staring at him, as if the man held a deep secret. The look was momentarily unnerving. These men were not beaten, not by a long stretch.

Another shell shrieked overhead, the wind of its passage buffeting Wade. Those gunners were good, damn good, ignoring the counter-battery fire for the moment, concentrating on his own knot of staff and observers, the other guns pounding the approach to the bridge.

He surveyed his line. The battle front was more than half a mile across. Troops had been detached to the flanks to cover fords, burn any bridges, and keep an eye on the flanking force. Already he could sense that their main effort was shifting southward, an obvious move to try and cut him off from running back toward the Susquehanna.

Like hell. It was time Grierson and this upstart army from the West were taught a lesson on how Confederate cavalry in the East could fight and knock some of the overbearing confidence out of them. He would dig in here, along the river, and let them come. By evening, the first North Carolina heading toward Reading should be back, hitting them in the flank. He would hold right here and let them try and take this position, then, when the timing was right, mount up and counter-charge, driving them back toward Harrisburg.

Lee had sent him across the river to gather intelligence and sow panic. That mission had yet to be accomplished. By tomorrow he'd have Grierson bloodied and on the run. If this was to be the opening fight between the Army of Northern Virginia and this Grant and his so-called Army of the Susquehanna, it damn well better be a Confederate victory, no matter what the cost.

Havre de Grace, Maryland

August 18,1863 3:30 p.m.

The army, his army, was on the march. He had picked a spot atop the river bluff, sitting astride his charger, the road from the ferry dock weaving up from the river's edge. The river itself was swarming with activity, dozens of ships moving back and forth, the huge ferries of the railroad, each one capable of moving a thousand men, an entire battery of guns, or a hundred troopers and their mounts. Dozens of smaller boats, some of them side-wheel or stem-wheel steamers, others barges pushed by steam tugs, were pushing across as well, again loaded with troops. One of the two big railroad ferries was bringing over twenty or more supply wagons with their teams of mules.

So far it was all going without a hitch. A few horses had panicked and gone into the river, one man was reported dead drunk and falling off a boat loaded down with pack and rifle.

Engineering troops from New York were already hard at work, throwing down split logs to corduroy the road up from the docks, and a thousand contraband laborers were working beside them, many of them having worked on the riverboats and ferries repairing docks damaged by rebel raiders the month before after the mad retreat from Baltimore.

A serpentine column of men were coming up the slope, boys of his old Second Division, Humphrey's men, Brewster's brigade, New Yorkers!

He nodded to the bandmaster standing by his side. The officer was well decked out in full dress uniform, huge bearskin cap, the afternoon sun glinting off all his gold braid. The bandmaster saluted with his staff, turned, and held it aloft, announcing the song.

After the initial wave of a brigade had swept across and secured the heights, he had made certain that a band was ferried across, in fact every band from his old Third Corps, a couple of hundred men in total, along with dozens of drummers.

Morale was a precious thing and music was part of it. Commissary wagons had come over as well, loaded down with thousands of loaves of fresh-baked bread and hundreds of smoked hams, and were parked just beyond the rise.

Just before the head of the brigade reached the top of the crest, the bandmaster, timing things perfectly, held his silver staff aloft and brought it down emphatically. A ruffle from fifty massed drums sounded, a long roll that set corkscrews down the back of any soldier who heard it. The long roll continued, the beat of the charge, and it rolled on and on, joined by the steady beat of bass drums.

The head of the advancing column looked up. Massed to the fore were the flags of the brigade commander and all the regiments, officers at the fore. Brewster, arm still in a sling from Union Mills, grinned, clumsily drew his sword, and saluted Dan, who returned the salute.

Again the staff went up, drum major twirling it over his head and bringing it back down. An eerie moment of silence, and then he raised the staff yet again.

The drums sounded as one, the thrump, thrump, thrump of a marching beat, a flourish at the end. The massed brass sounded a flourish and then opened with the resounding chords one of the favorite marching songs of the Army of the Potomac, a song that they had once sung with fervor advancing up the Peninsula. Now, after such a long and bitter year, they were hearing it again, on this bright, sunlit afternoon that promised them a dream of glory.

Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, Rally once again,

Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom!

The effect he wished, which he knew it would create, worked its magic. The men of that column looked up, a thrill going through them. At least for this moment all was forgotten, all fear of what was to come was washed away, and in an instant, thousands of voices picked up the song, shouting it to the heavens, unmindful of all the cynicism of the past, all shattered hopes, all the sad graves and missing faces in their ranks

The Union forever!

Hurrah boys hurrah!

Down with the traitor, up with the star!

Some could not even sing the words, they shouted them out, more than one with tears in their eyes, as if the dream of a long-lost love had suddenly appeared before them, that a land of promise was still before them, and in the end, this time, yes this time, it would indeed be their day.

As the column marched past, he stood in his stirrups, caught in the moment, fully mindful of the sketch artist from Harper's Weekly, Winslow Homer, who stood behind him, working furiously with charcoal to capture the moment, the photographer from Brady's by his side, hidden beneath his black curtain, as he struggled to focus his camera.

The wagons laded with fresh bread were by the side of the road, quartermaster soldiers pulling out the loaves and cut slabs of smoked ham, handing them out to the passing ranks, one to each line of four, and even the most hardened cynic, who might not be roused by the song, could at least respond to this largesse of a grateful republic.

And we '11 fill the vacant ranks

Of our brothers gone before,

Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom!

Cheer echoed onto cheer, caps were off, rifles held aloft, battle-scarred flags fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

The column pressed on, heading south, heading back into the war.

Dan Sickles turned to his staff. "My God," he gasped, "this time we will win!"

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

August 18,1863 5:00 p.m.

He's done what?"

Grant came to his feet, his camp chair falling over behind him. Ely Parker held the telegram and Grant snatched it, scanning the few lines, a relay of a message from a reporter with the New York Tribune, that Sickles's army was across the Susquehanna and moving south.

"I've already sent a query back," Ely replied. "The telegraph lines started buzzing with it just minutes ago. I'll see what more I can find."

Grant turned and slammed his fist on the table. General Ord, who had been sitting quietly with him, waiting for dispatches as to the running fight unfolding with Hampton forty miles to the southeast shook his head.

"Always said that son of a bitch would go off half-cocked the moment he had the chance."

Grant said nothing, struggling to rein in his temper. It had been a tense day. The raid by Hampton had severed communications down along the Susquehanna. That was to be expected; he was surprised Lee had not tried something like this before now, but the sudden dropping of the lines out of Perryville just after midnight had baffled him. He had assumed that some rebel sympathizers, working in concert with Hampton, had been the culprits, and it had been a bit unnerving. Though he assumed Lee would not try an all-out assault on Washington, nothing in war was ever assured and he had silently fretted ever since Ely had awakened him with the news just before dawn.

Now he knew. Damn it, he knew.

"I bet he cut the lines himself," Ord said, as if reading Grant's mind. "Get across and halfway to Baltimore before you can even hope to call him back. Then what are you going to do?"

General Logan came into the tent and Grant was aware that out in the headquarters compound there was a real stir, men running back and forth, shouting comments about Sickles.

Ord took the coffeepot off the small stove and poured himself a drink, looking over at Grant "Well, is it true, sir?"

"I'm not sure yet. Only a newspaper report. But yes, I think it's true. He knows I can't reach him, not with Hampton cutting up and the lines down."

Ely came back into the tent, holding several more telegrams, and handed them to Grant.

All were the same. Reports from the Associated Press, one from the Philadelphia Inquirer, complete to a brief description of bands playing and flags flying as the Third Corps set off just after dawn, the rest of the army set to follow.

It was true. Damn it!

He tossed the telegrams on the table for Ord and McPherson to read and stepped out of the tent. At the sight of him the dozens of officers milling about froze. The look on his face stopped all of them in their tracks.

"I think we have better things to do than run about like a bunch of old housewives chasing a headless chicken."

No one spoke, but within seconds the area around his tent was a ghost town. He struck a match on the tent post and puffed a cigar to life.

Grant had studied the maps till they were burned into his memory; he knew what would unfold. First it was dependent on Lee far more than anything Sickles did. If, as Grant assumed, the attack on Washington was nothing more than a feint to try and draw one or both of them out before they were fully ready, Lee had indeed succeeded. If Washington was still his main goal, which Grant had doubted all along, Lee would still have two days to do his worst. He would trade Baltimore for Washington; the taking and securing of that town would be too much for Sickles to resist, and that would delay his advance even longer.

But no, Lee wanted to destroy the Union armies, not to cut his own army's guts out trying to take a city. It was exactly how he would do it. It was the mistake that McClellan and all the others had never fully grasped. It was always Lee; Richmond was secondary and would fall once Lee was removed. If McClellan had gone into the Peninsula with that in mind and acted aggressively, all of this would be moot now.

Lee wanted the Army of the Potomac, and now Sickles was heading straight at him.

There was now, as well, a darker thought. Had Sickles acted alone, or had someone goaded him? Surely it wasn't Lincoln. Grant found that impossible to accept. They had given each other their word and lived to it.

Stanton?

But why?

Why risk all now, when in another three weeks everything would be in place, and with a united front he could have advanced, combined with the garrison in Washington outnumbering Lee at more than two, perhaps even three to one with rifles in the held.

There was no sense in wasting thought on it now. All of that was now out the window. He would have to start afresh as of this moment.

Regardless of its leadership, Grant had no doubt that the Army of the Potomac was a hard-fighting lot All the rivalry between East and West aside, they were men that could sustain ten, fifteen thousand casualties in a day, something that he had seen only at Shiloh, and then turn around and do it again. Approximately forty-five thousand men. If given good ground and an open fight, one that Sickles did not bungle, they just might make a damn good accounting of themselves. But only if Sickles did not bungle.

Of course he'd send the order out to recall. There was a chance he could reach Sickles before nightfall, and under pain of relieving him from command pull him back from this folly. But he knew in his heart that that would be an exercise in futility. The man was too crafty. Grant knew that no general was entirely above playing the game at times, making sure a dispatch was lost or a telegraph line cut yet again.

No, he would have to recast all on the assumption that Lee and Sickles would meet, maybe as early as tomorrow afternoon, definitely within two days.

He stepped back into the tent.

"Ely, write up a telegram of recall."

"Send it on the open wire?"

Grant hesitated.

No, he couldn't do that. It'd be in every paper in the country within two hours, revealing dissension in the ranks, confusion, and could even trigger a panic. If Stanton had directly ordered Sickles to advance, especially based upon information of which Grant was not aware, perhaps if Lee had indeed attacked and Grant sent a recall, it would bring into the open a confrontation that Lincoln would have to address on the spot If Washington was on the verge of falling and he ordered Sickles back, it could be a disaster, even though he knew the chance was remote.

He shook his head.

"No, Ely. No telegram. A sealed dispatch. You are to take it personally. I will draw it up."

"Are you going to fire him?" Ord asked.

Grant looked over at his old friend, who should have known better than to ask. Ord said nothing and just shook his head.

"General Ord, let's get this fracas with Hampton wrapped up. I want you to see to it; I don't have time now." Ord nodded, saluted, and left, McPherson following. He sat down and began to draft the dispatch, knowing it was already a useless exercise. And in his mind, he began to contemplate how he, and the army gathered around him, would respond as well.

Near Claysville, Maryland

August 18,1863 7:00 p.m.

General Lee looked to the west, to where the sky beginning to shift to gold and scarlet Already the days were turning shorter and, he realized, in another month the first touch of autumn would be in the air.

The afternoon heat was beginning to abate, the first cool breeze of twilight wafting along the road, which was packed solid with troops as far as the eye could see.

The men marched now with grim purpose. Orders had been given. They finally knew what they were doing, and he could sense that many of them were relieved. They had come down this same road only days before, for some the fourth time now that they had passed up and down it over the last month. In the march south, many had dreaded the thought that they were marching to a frontal assault on some of the heaviest fortifications in the world. He had not been able to share with them his thoughts and plans, that the march had been nothing more than a maneuver, a feint, to bring out the Army of the Potomac. Their efforts, their exhaustion, their marching under the hot sun of August had achieved for him that goal.

The wiser of them had undoubtedly figured it out long ago, and those not so wise would now boast that they had known from the start And now they were marching again, forewarned that this pace would continue through the night. Fifty minutes of march and ten minutes of break, hour after hour, with two hours' rest just before dawn, then back on the road yet again.

He thought for a moment of Jackson. This was the type of maneuver that Jackson relished and that a year ago was a forte that only he could claim. But in the last seven weeks that spirit had moved into the rest of the ranks, even to Old Pete, who at this moment was at the fore of the column a dozen miles up the road. His corps had been farthest back from Washington, placed there in anticipation of this moment. They were to spring forward, prevent Sickles from gaining Baltimore and the potential fallback position of the harbor, where the Union navy could support him. Then they were to pin him in place, then hold him till Hood came up on his right flank and Beauregard was properly deployed to spring the trap.

He knew Longstreet would see it through, a march to add another laurel like the one gained in the march from Gettysburg to Union Mills.

The road ahead drifted down into a darkly shaded hollow cut by a shallow, meandering stream. He drifted from the side of the road, the troops pressing on, passing over a rough bridge that had been built during the agonizing mud march of the month before. The stream was again a meandering trickle, thick, high grass and weeds bordering its banks.

The air in the hollow was damp, cool. Fireflies weaved and danced above the meadow grass. He let Traveler edge into the stream, loosening his reins, his old companion drinking deeply.

Alongside him, in the shadows, the bridge rumbled with the passage of troops, the closely packed column moving at a relentless pace, few of the men recognizing him.

This river of strength flowed by him, tens of thousands of his boys, his men, this flower of the South, these victors of so many hard-fought battles. And tomorrow they would go in again; none needed to be told of that

He watched them in silence, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. The tears came unbidden, surprising, as if waiting in the damp coolness of the stream to embrace and overwhelm him.

How many will I lose tomorrow? How many more must die? He caught a glimpse of a young drummer boy, silhouetted, exhausted, slumped over, riding on the pommel of an officer's horse, the officer with his arms around the boy to keep him from falling off. A man with rifle slung over his shoulder, banjo in his hands, was trying to pick out a tune. He passed on. Several men were momentarily illuminated by the flash of a match, someone lighting a pipe, then shadows again. Boys, young men, old men, rifles on shoulders, slung inverted, held by barrels in clenched hands. All were leaning forward slightly, blanket rolls and backpacks chafing shoulders. As always, the steady clanging rhythm of tin cups banging on canteens; a muffled curse as one soldier suddenly hopped about while trying to keep pace, his friends laughing when they realized he had picked up a splinter from the wooden bridge while marching barefoot.

Voices, hundreds of voices, filled the night, mingling together, overlapping, rising and falling, snatches of conversation as they approached the bridge, then disappearing as they marched over it and beyond…

"Gonna be a real fight tomorrow and you'll see 'em run … tell you I'm worried; her last letter said the baby was

due and I ain't heard a word in eight weeksDid you see

his face when Jimmie threw down them three aces?… It's been four months since I even kissed a girl and it's driving me just crazy…. Ma said they buried Pa next to my little sister…. Next war, I'm joining the navy I tell you…."

And thus it continued as they passed.

He took off his hat.

"Oh, merciful God," he whispered. "Guide me with Thy infinite love and mercy. Help me to do what is right. Help me to lead these men yet again. If battle comes tomorrow, I beg Thee to let it be swift and to bring this war to an end. Please, dear God, guide all those who fall into Thy infinite and eternal love. Comfort those who shall lose their loved ones. Guide me as well as Your humble servant to fulfill Your judgment and let the scourge of war soon pass from this land.

"Amen."

Traveler was done drinking; his head was raised, looking back at him, and Lee felt a flood of warmth for his old friend. It seemed as if the horse knew that his companion was praying, and waiting patiently for him to finish. He patted the horse lightly on the neck, whispering a few words of affection. He heard someone cough, and, a bit self-conscious, Lee looked over his shoulder and saw by the edge of the river his staff, all of them with hats off, many with heads still lowered.

He put his hat back on and crossed the stream, falling back in with the Army of Northern Virginia as it marched on through the night