Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Frederick, MD

4:15 P.M.

Good heavens, sir, they're coming down." Lee said nothing, sitting astride Traveler at the edge of the city, looking up at the Catoctin Heights. Yes, indeed, McPherson was coming down, battle lines deployed out a quarter mile to either side of the National Road. Flags flying, regiments came down the steep slope, skirmishers to the fore. It was a grand sight. All about him stopped to look. The battle line was studded with national flags and state flags, and he found a swelling of admiration within himself. His star student from the West Point days was doing a remarkable job. Despite himself, he was proud of him as a mentor might be of a cherished younger person.

A half-mile front, late afternoon sun behind them, bayonets flashing, disciplined in their advance even on such difficult ground.

"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," Walter whispered.

Lee nodded in agreement. These were brave men indeed. Brave and foolish. They had taken the bait. McPherson has courage but he is going to give us an opportunity to defeat him in isolation before Grant can arrive.

"Walter, tell Robertson he must come up. Scales is to hold the town as we talked about. We'll fight them street by street if need be. I want their entire corps pulled into this fight."

"Yes, sir!" Walter galloped off.

Lee turned about and rode into the center of town, General Scales by his side. Regiments were still forming up after their retreat off of the ridge; men gathered around wells, filling canteens; wounded being carried into churches and homes; citizens standing silent, watching, looking up at the heights, worrying that their homes would be destroyed if Frederick became a battlefield.

"General Scales, get your provost guards out and order these civilians into their basements. There's going to be a fight here, and I wish to avoid injury to them."

"Yes, sir. So we hold the town, sir?"

"I want to pull McPherson in here. Yes, you will hold the town. Grant has done what I hoped. If he had sat up on those heights, he could have waited for days, concentrated, or perhaps even shielded us from a maneuver down into the northern Shenandoah. Now he will be forced to come on in support of McPherson. We have an opportunity to defeat his army in detail, one corps at a time."

Lee looked to the east.

"Robertson should be up in a few hours by train and will roll in from the north and smash, McPherson. If Grant is so impetuous, he'll then funnel more men in and we will smash them in turn. By this time tomorrow the rest of our army will be concentrated here, but we will have taken out a quarter, perhaps a half of his army. Then he shall dance to our tune. He will learn that the East is a more dangerous place than his Western campaigns prepared him for."

Two Miles East of Monocacy Junction

4.25P.M.

Cursing soundly at the engineer of his train General Robertson rode past the hissing engine. It had taken them six hours to come up from Baltimore, rather than the two promised to them back in the rail yard. Two locomotives had broken down, one of them obviously sabotaged with a hole punched into a cylinder and then plugged with tallow and hemp that had finally blown out. It had forced his entire convoy to shift tracks, then shift back again, to get around the stalled engine, leaving two regiments behind. The scene just east of the river was chaos. Dozens of trains were backed up, the ones that had brought up Scales waiting to begin a backward shuttle all the way to Relay Junction before being able to turn around. The pontoon bridges were parked to one side, blocking the westbound track, and straight ahead was the wreck that he had heard almost killed General Lee.

On the way up they had passed Longstreet's Corps, marching on the National Road, fifteen miles out of Baltimore but still a good day and a half away from the spreading battle at Frederick.

He turned and looked back. His men were piling off the boxcars, passenger cars, flatcars, and even coal hoppers pressed into service for this troop movement. The men were forming up into columns of march, beginning to surge forward on either side of the tracks.

"Keep 'em moving!" Robertson shouted. "Boys, General Lee needs us. Now keep moving!"

Braddock Heights

4:30 P.M.

General McPherson spared a final glance back at the South Mountain range, five miles away. The valley between him and the distant ridge was empty. No troops were coming up.

Where in heavens name was Ninth Corps? They should already be over the crest, flooding in to support him.

But orders were orders and he knew what Grant wanted-to hold Lee in place here' while he cast his net wide. If only the rebs had come on again. Holding this ridge he could have pounded away at them all day. His reserve ammunition trains were coming up the slope, along with a battery of three-inch rifles, the only battery Grant had allotted to him. But he understood his orders, the mission Grant wanted, and that he was now a pawn, or perhaps a knight, ventured out into the middle of the board.

Downslope, a mile away, skirmish fire was erupting, reb infantry and cavalry falling back into the town. He looked around at his staff.

"A moment of prayer, gentlemen," he said softly, and removed his hat.

Lowering his head he silently commended his soul to God, asking for a blessing upon his men who this day might fall. All were silent.

"Let's go," he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if they were out for an afternoon's ride down into a friendly village to visit old friends.

He raised his field glasses one last time, looking to the far horizon. It should be possible on a clear day to see the church spires of Baltimore. So close to Emily, and yet so far. Battle smoke obscured the view. He lowered his glasses and cased them.

General McPherson and his staff set off down the road to Frederick.

Frederick

4:45 P.M.

Sergeant Hazner raced up the steps to the top floor of the building and flung a door open. He stopped for a few seconds in amazement. It was a photographer's studio, the owner, a dyspeptic-looking frail gentleman gazing at him with surprise, the air thick with the odor of ether and other chemicals.

"Sir, might I suggest you go to the basement," Hazner said, stepping back from the doorway and then directing the half dozen men with him to take positions by the windows.

One of the men started to smash the window panes with the butt of his rifle and the photographer shouted a protest.

"Please just open them," Hazner said. "Let's not get carried away."

He had to laugh inside at this little point of etiquette. If what was about to happen, did happen, this place would be a shambles in fairly short order.

The men did as ordered and Hazner walked over to the table the photographer had set up in one side of the room. A number of wet collodion plates were lying on black felt, others were hanging up, drying. Hazner studied them for a few seconds. Some were just blurs, but a few were really quite remarkable, a blurred column of men moving up the road just below, but there, in a different picture, remaining stock-still at the main intersection of the town, was General Lee on Traveler, General Scales by his side. Another photograph showed the Catoctin Heights wreathed in smoke, blurred columns moving up the National Road, and in the foreground General Lee with field glasses raised, looking up at the battle.

"So you've been busy today?" Hazner asked.

"Quite so! A dozen images, many of the battle itself. Quite extraordinary. I hope to get more," and he pointed to the camera on the far side of the room.

"Could I convince you gentlemen to pose for me right now?"

Several of Hazner's men looked at him, grinning. He was almost tempted, but then shook his head.

"Sir, I don't think you realize how dangerous it will be here in a few minutes. Please go to your basement."

"You can't force me," the photographer said loudly. "Good heavens, man, no one has ever photographed a battle before, and I plan to do so today."

Hazner shook his head.

"Just be careful, sir," he said, nodded to his men, and then ran down the stairs and out into the main street.

The last of the Confederate infantry were disappearing into buildings, men running. A block to the west a two-gun section was set up, both pieces firing at the same instant, recoiling, filing the street with roiling clouds of smoke. The guns were hooked to their caissons by trail ropes, the guns being dragged down the street even as their crews worked to reload. They stopped at the main intersection.

"Fire!"

Both guns kicked back, several windowpanes shattering from the blast, the solid shot of the twin Napoleons screaming down the street.

Still hooked to the caissons by twenty feet of rope, the team started to move again.

"Better get off the street there, Sergeant," the section commander shouted. "They're coming on fast!"

Hazner looked up the road, and sure enough, he could see them a half dozen blocks "away, Yankee infantry, running hard, dodging into buildings, rifle fire already erupting from upper-floor windows. A minie ball hummed past him, and then another; a gunner collapsed, holding his arm and cursing, his comrades quickly picking him up and helping him to get up on the caisson.

The crew moved another block. Hazner pressed himself inside the doorway as they fired again, the scream of the shot tearing down the street and slapping him with a shock wave. He peeked out and saw it slash through a file of troops on the street, knockifig them over. More shots came down the street. From the window overhead his men were opening up, leaning out, shooting, ducking back in. It was time to get inside.

He dashed back into the building and up the stairs. The photographer was in the corner of the room, head under a black hood behind the camera, asking if the men would stand still for a moment, but they ignored him. Two of the best shooters were at the windows, the others passing up loaded rifles. Glass was shattering, the room filling with smoke.

Strange, all their other fights had been out in the open. Usually towns were bypassed in a fight. Why Scales had decided to stand here, men broken up into small units, was beyond him. This was going to be one ugly fight.

Hazner settled down by a window, back pressed against the wall, and then leaned over to look out. Swarms of Yankees were coming down the street, men dropping with every step forward, the column breaking up, an officer out front shouting, waving his sword, the formation disintegrating as they broke and ran toward buildings, ducking into doorways. Within seconds the return fire became intense, bullets smacking into windowsills, tearing across brick fronting. Across the street a man tumbled out of a third-floor window, smacking into the pavement with a sickening crunch.

"Gentlemen, just please remain still for fifteen seconds, that's all I ask!"

Hazner ignored the man, raised his rifle, and joined the fight.

Braddock Heights

5:10 P.M.

Grant stood silent, field glasses trained on the town below. It was turning into one hell of a fight. McPherson had waded straight in. Buildings were ablaze, a church steeple wreathed now in smoke, fire licking up its sides. Beyond, he could see where a large column of infantry was coming over the National Road bridge across the Monocacy, the distant smoke of locomotives barely visible through the haze.

Lee's Second Division was starting to deploy, preparing to sweep into the town from the north side. McPherson had placed his men well. One division was forming to the north to meet the counterthreat, at least another division into the town, and what looked to be a brigade pushing to the south side of the town, fighting what appeared be dismounted cavalry, and steadily moving toward the river.

Now, if only I had more men up, Grant thought. A Confederate division with Lee's army carried almost as much strength as a Union light corps. Though McPherson had fifteen thousand at the start of the day, several thousand at least had fallen out in the forced march. Even now those stragglers were walking past him, small groups, a few men, a couple of dozen being shepherded along by a corporal or a sergeant, more than one stopping to ask one of his staff where the fighting was or where they should go. And always they were directed down the road into Frederick and told to get into the fight.

McPherson had, even by conservative estimates, lost two thousand men taking these heights. Hospitals were already set up on the western slope, the wounded, Union and Confederate alike, being carried in. Grant dared not even to watch that too closely. Unlike many another general, hospitals terrified him, turned his stomach.

So McPherson, at best, had carried nine or ten thousand into the fight and Lee had twenty perhaps twenty five thousand down there closing in. Yes, McPherson was the bait, but now he needed a solid line to hang on to him.

He turned and looked to the west. Only now did Grant see the head of Burnside's column coming over the South Mountains, and the sight filled him with rage. Those men should be up here now, forming up just behind the slope, and ready to sweep forward in mass to catch Lee off guard. He wondered if Lee had realized that. He had conceded the heights too easily. Even as I set the bait, was Lee urging me to cast it in?

No. Never think that. Do that and I start to become like all the others who faced Lee, worrying more about him than what my own plans are.

"I think that's General Sheridan coming up," Ely announced, pointing to the west.

Indeed he was-coming on hard, lashing his mount, Rienzi, up the final steep slope.

"Damn that man," Sheridan shouted, even as he reined in.

"Burnside?"

"Exactly. Says he can't possibly push his men any faster."

Grant looked back to the boiling cauldron of battle down below, Sheridan falling silent by his side.

"My God," Sheridan said, "what a fight."

"It is. I sent McPherson down there to hold Lee in place. If we had dug in here, Lee never would have sought battle and perhaps slipped off."

Grant turned to Sheridan. "I will not leave McPherson down there to be slaughtered. I need Ninth Corps and I need Hunt's guns. We've sucked Lee in and a good counterblow right now would hurt him."

Sheridan did not reply.

"He's got his colored division in the lead, sir. What about that?"

"I don't care which division he's got in the lead. I want them into this fight before nightfall!"

Grant looked around at his silent staff. Ely gazed at him and simply nodded, as if reading his mind.

"General Sheridan. You are to take command of Ninth Corps." Even as he spoke he motioned for Ely to write out the authorization. "Relieve Burnside of command on the spot. Tell him he can report to me tomorrow for reassignment. You will take command of the corps and push them forward with all possible speed. Any division or brigade commander who fails in doing that, relieve them on the spot and find someone who can do the job. Send word back to Hunt to push forward even if it takes all night. If we can save McPherson, Lee will surely hang on for a rematch tomorrow, and we need guns in position to meet him. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, sir!" Sheridan said with a grin.

Ely finished writing the dispatch, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Grant who scanned it, then signed the document relieving Burnside.

Sheridan snatched it, turned, and, with staff trailing, set off at a gallop.

Frederick

6:00 P.M.

General, they're hitting us from the north!" James McPherson turned to look as a courier came riding in from the north side of town. "Full division. Robertson's I'm told. Hood's old command."

"Good," McPherson said with a grin. "The more the merrier."

"Our boys are falling back. They can't hold."

"Then go back there and.tell them to get into the houses, hunker down, and, damn them, hold. We've got to hold!"

All around him was blazing wreckage. The pleasant town of Frederick had become a battlefield much like Fredericksburg the year before. The entire western end of the town was afire, flames leaping from building to building on the westerly breeze that had sprung up. There was a touch of coolness in the air and he looked up at the dark clouds gathering on the other side of the mountain, filled with the promise of an evening thunderstorm.

It was always said that a battle brought rain, and it was hard to tell at this moment whether the thunder rolled from the heavens, the incessant rifle fire in the center of town, or the burst of artillery streaking through the streets.

Monocacy Junction

6:20 P.M.

Lee stirred anxiously, sipping a cup of coffee, leaning against a fence rail, looking toward the town wreathed in smoke. It sickened his heart to see a church spire collapse in flames, and he whispered a silent prayer that if it was being used as a hospital that those within had been evacuated.

He looked back at the bridge. All the fires were out hours ago, and hundreds of men were now at work. Men were tearing up track from the spur line, bringing it down, along with the ties. A crew of men were tearing at the timbers of a barn, dismantling it piece by piece to get at the precious beams, which would then be dragged down and slung into place to provide bridge supports. A captain with Stuart, who had worked on this same line before the war, said he could get a bridge in place for at least one track by late tomorrow and was now running the job.

Robertson's boys were going in. The volume of fire on the north side of town was clear evidence of that. Now if only Johnson's division was up, he could make a clean sweep of it, envelop McPherson from the left, and close the trap. But the latest dispatches from Baltimore indicated Johnson's men were still on the rail line, twenty miles back.

Longstreet and Beauregard were reporting good marching on the roads, but were still a day away, and his artillery reserve, so dependent on the railroad, had not yet left Baltimore.

This was unlike any battle he had ever fought. He had hoped, when first he grasped Grant's maneuver, that he could catch him by surprise here, at the base of the Catoctins, tear apart one, perhaps two, of his corps, and then chase him down and finish him. He had placed too much reliance on the railroads, and now it was telling.

He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and walked over to his staff, who were hurriedly eating while standing about the smoking ruins of the depot, watching the work crews scrambling about the wreckage of the bridge.

"Gentlemen, I think we should go into the fight," Lee said.

Several looked at him with surprise. It was obvious they had assumed that after the long day he would establish his headquarters here for the night.

"General, let me go forward," Stuart said. "My boys are blocking that Yankee brigade on the south side of town. I can manage things."

"No, I want to see how Robertson is doing," Lee announced.

Everyone knew better than to argue with him. An orderly brought up Traveler. He mounted and headed into the cauldron, staff following anxiously.

The White House

6:00 P.M.

Lincoln ate alone; his servant Jim Bartlett had delivered a tray with a few slices of fried ham, some potatoes, and coffee to his office. Finishing his meal he stood up to stretch, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor amounting to a signal. Jim politely tapped x›n the door. "Come on in."

"Sir, should I clear your tray?" Jim asked. "Thank you," Lincoln replied.

Lincoln had gone to the window. Crowds had gathered in Lafayette Park, with troops ringing the White House. Lincoln suddenly turned. "Jim, a question." "Anything, sir."

"The colored of Washington. I know this might sound like a strange question. But with all the news of the last few days, what do you hear?"

"Well, sir, I've spent most of my time here in the White House, but I do hear talk with the staff."

"And that is?"

"Frustration, sir."

"Frustration? Over what?"

Jim stood holding the tray and Lincoln motioned for him to put it down.

"Jim, let's talk frankly. I need to hear what you have to say. This war is your war, too."

"Precisely why so many are frustrated. They want to be in on it."

"What about volunteering for the Colored Troops."

"Sir, both my son and grandson are already with them."

Lincoln sensed the slightest of defensive notes in Jim's voice, as if the president had implied that those who were frustrated should join the army.

"I meant no insult, Jim, and yes, I am proud of the service of your son and grandson."

"Sir, so many men here are working folk with large families to support. Day laborers, men who work the rail yards, the canal docks. They can't afford to go off for twelve dollars a month the way some can like my son. But still they feel it's their war."

Lincoln took this in and nodded.

"Perhaps a way can be found for them to volunteer for short-term service," Lincoln said offhandedly. Jim suddenly smiled.

"Can I take that as a request, sir?" Jim asked. "To talk with folks and see if there'd be some interest in that."

"By all means," Lincoln said absently, and then, lost in thought, he returned to looking out the window.

Frederick

6:45 P.M.

Sergeant Hazner ducked down as a spray of shot slammed through the window. It had been fired from across the street. He leaned back up, drew a quick bead on the half dozen Yankees leaning out of the windows on the opposite side of the street, fired, and saw one drop.

He ducked down, motioning for one of his men to hand over a loaded musket. The photographer, long since giving up his quest for a photograph, was on the floor moaning with fear.

The stench in the room was dizzying, the air thick with ether. Bottles of chemicals had been shattered, and to the photographer's horror, several of the glass plates, including the precious one of Lee astride Traveler, watching the fight, had been blown apart, bits of glass sprayed across the room.

"Want a picture now?" Hazner shouted.

The photographer simply shook his head.

Hazner peeked up, caught a glimpse of several Yankees running across the street toward his building, fired, but wasn't sure if he'd hit one.

Below, he heard the door slam open, shouts.

"Come on, boys," Hazner shouted, standing up and running for the doorway. Of the six he had led in, only three were still standing. They followed him out. He hit the staircase, ducking as the two men below aimed and fired, plaster flying.

Hazner leapt down the stairs, bayonet poised. One man parried the strike, another edging around to swing a clubbed musket at him.

He countered the parry, bayoneting the man before him, ducking under the blow. One of his own men behind him shot the man with the clubbed musket, shattering his skull. The two others fell back, running out the doorway.

Panting, Hazner looked down at the man he had just killed. Damn, just a boy. Rawboned, uniform of dark blue, weather-stained, threadbare, patches on his knees, shoes in tatters.

Damn near look like us, he thought sadly.

He grabbed one of his men.

"Sit at the top of the stairs, shoot anyone who comes through that door."

The man nodded and Hazner went upstairs, ducking low, crawling to the window.

Frederick

7:00 P.M.

"Sir, I think we must pull back!" McPherson ignored his staff officer. The entire west end of the town was ablaze. In places Union and Confederate wounded were helping each other to get out of buildings. Hundreds of his men were streaming to the rear, limping, cradling broken arms, slowly carrying makeshift litters with wounded comrades curled up on them. A hysterical officer staggered past him, crying about losing his flag.

From the north side of town a steady shower of shot was raining down. Looking up a side street he saw men of his Second Division giving back, running down the street, shouting that the rebs were right behind them.

He had never fought a battle like this. Always it had been in open fields or a tangle of woods and bayous. Here it was impossible to tell anymore who was winning or losing. If he had been sent down here by Grant to be the bait, he had most certainly succeeded in his task. He was being hammered from three directions by two full Confederate divisions and at least a brigade or more of cavalry.

Down the street, several hundred yards away, a fireball went up, brilliant in the early evening sky. Across the street a pillared building was burning, dozens of men coming out of it, carrying wounded, and he shouted for his staff officers to find some additional men to help evacuate the wounded.

For a moment he was tempted to somehow try to arrange a cease-fire, to ask Lee to stop fighting for one hour. The town was burning; thousands of wounded were trapped in buildings, and they needed to be taken out.

But how? A fight in a town like this was utter confusion. Rebs might hold a block, a building, while across the street his boys were holding on. In several places, columns of troops advancing had turned a comer, only to collide with their foes, with the fight degenerating into a vicious street brawl until one side or the other pulled back.

"Sir, for Cod's sake, let's pull back."

He turned on the man, shouting the advance.

"No, sir. We go forward. Grant will bring up Burnside and we are going to hold this town!"

Frederick

7:15 P.M.

General Robertson!" Lee rode to Robertson's side, his division commander saluting. "How goes it, sir?"

Robertson shook his head and looked up at the darkening sky, now streaked with lightning.

"Sir, it's chaos in that town. Can't keep any control or command of troops. Its street by street, and those Yankees just won't give up. Frankly, sir, I can't tell you what is going on."

"Are we driving them?"

"Yes, sir," Robertson said, "but it isn't like any fight we've been in before. Hard to tell in a town like that. The men we're facing aren't like the Army of the Potomac. Never seen anyone try to hold a town like this before."

He pointed toward Frederick, the city ablaze, driving back the approaching darkness. It looked to Lee like something out of the Bible, apocalyptic, the air reverberating with thunder, explosions, the crackle of rifle fire.

"Drive them! Keep driving them," Lee shouted. "I want those Federals in there taken. Tonight."

"We'll try, sir."

Lee spurred his mount, going forward into the fight.

Frederick

7:20 PM.

Sgt. Maj. Lee Robinson, First Texas, Hood's old Texan brigade, was at the head of the column, not carrying the colors for the moment, instead directing his men to keep moving, to drive to the center of the town regardless of loss.

Yankee snipers were at a score of windows, shooting down. He urged his own on as ordered. If they got tangled up in a building by building fight all semblance of order would vanish. The orders were to seize the center of town, and that was only one block ahead.

"Keep moving, keep moving!"

Frederick

7.21P.M.

"This way!" McPherson shouted.

Leading part of an Illinois regiment, McPherson pointed the way straight into the center of town. Two of his staff had dropped in the last block and a dozen men of the Illinois regiment. The center of the town, he thought. Hold that intersection and we can hang on awhile longer.

"Come on boys, come on!" He spurred his mount ahead.

Sergeant Hazner leaned up on the windowsill. If not for the spreading fires it would have been impossible to see a target. He saw the column, an officer on horseback, rose up to shoot, and a volley from across the street drove him back down.

Sergeant Robinson stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as a Yankee officer, alone, came around the corner on horseback. His own men staggered to a halt, the column around him confused for a brief instant, then raising their weapons up.

Robinson, rifle poised, aimed straight at the officer. He was less than ten feet away.

"For God's sake," Robinson shouted, "surrender!" The officer looked straight at him, grinned, offered a salute, and then started to turn as if to ride away.

Robinson shot him, feeling as if it was murder. The man jerked upright, swayed, and then tumbled from his mount.

A few seconds later Yankee infantry appeared, and at the sight of the downed officer a wild shout of rage rose up from them and they lunged forward.

Robinson's Texans deployed, delivered a volley at point-blank range, and charged in with bayonet. A frightful melee ensued.

"McPherson! McPherson!" the cry went up among the Yankees, even as the Texans waded in, clubbing and lunging.

Within seconds the Union troops broke and fell back, driven around the corner by the advancing Texans.

Robinson, however, stopped, and knelt down by the Union officer, who was still alive.

"Sir, why didn't you just surrender?" he asked.

"Not in my nature," McPherson gasped. "Could you do me a favor, soldier. Can't breathe. Help me sit up."

Robinson set his rifle down and propped McPherson up against the side of the building. McPherson coughed, clearing his lungs, blood foaming from his lips. "Thank you."

"Sergeant?"

Robinson looked up and was stunned to see General Lee approaching, oblivious to the battle raging around him, staff nervously drawn in close in a protective ring.

More troops of Hood's old Texas brigade were running past, going into the fight.

"Who is that, Sergeant?" Lee asked.

Robinson looked at the man's shoulders.

"A major general, sir."

Walter took the reins of Traveler as Lee dismounted and stepped up to the two. Robinson, not sure whether he should come to attention, decided to continue to help the wounded officer and kept him braced against the wall.

"Oh, God," Lee sighed, "James."

McPherson opened his eyes.

"General, sir. Sorry we had to meet again like this."

Lee knelt by his side and took his hand.

"James. Dear God, James, I'm so sorry."

"Fortunes of war, General. Remember old Alfred T. Mahan always talked about that, the chances of war."

Robinson did not know what to do. Should he draw back, stay to help the Union general, or rejoin his command?

The sergeant looked over at Lee.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, voice near to breaking. "I asked him to surrender, but he wouldn't. I'm sorry, sir." His voice trailed off.

"Not your fault, Sergeant," McPherson whispered. "Did your duty. Foolish of me, actually. Don't blame yourself."

Robinson found himself looking up into Lee's eyes, and was filled with anguish.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Lee shook his head.

"No, Sergeant. War, contemptible war, did it." Lee looked back at McPherson. "Are you sorely hurt, James?"

McPherson nodded. "Can't seem to breathe." Blood was spilling out from just under his armpit, trickling down from his lips and nostrils. "General?"

Lee looked up. It was Walter.

"Sir, it isn't safe for you here. Word is more Yankees are coming into the town. Sir, you must move!"

Lee nodded, then looked from his old student to Robinson.

"Sergeant, get a detail together. Carry General McPherson back to the depot down by the river. Stay with him, I'm ordering you to stay with him. Find my surgeon down there, and see that the general is tended to immediately."

"Of course, sir," Robinson replied.

He wondered for a second whether Lee remembered the incident at Taneytown, where he had defied Lee, grabbing hold of Traveler's reins and blocking his advance. But the general seemed lost in misery.

"I'll see he is taken care of, sir," Robinson whispered.

"General Lee, a favor," McPherson whispered.

"Anything, James."

"My fiancee is in Baltimore. We were planning to many but then this campaign started. Interfered with our plans." He paused, struggling for breath, coughing up more blood. "Could you send for her?" "Of course, James. Anything."

"Her name is Emily Hoffman." He paused again as if already drifting away, Lee leaning closer.

McPherson chuckled and then grimaced with pain.

"Can't remember her address, it seems. But it's on her letters in my breast pocket."

"She'll be on a train and up to you by tomorrow, James."

"Would like to see her again."

"You will, my friend. God forgive me. I am so sorry."

"Duty divided us," McPherson whispered, "but you are still my friend, sir."

Lee, head lowered, could not suppress a sob, squeezing McPherson's hand "General, sir!"

It was Walter, dismounted, placing a hand on Lee's shoulder.

"Sir, it is too dangerous here. They have reinforcements coming in from the pass. We must move!"

Lee stood up woodenly, his gaze turning again to Robinson.

"Sergeant, this man is your duty now. Please see to him, and I shall be grateful." "Yes, sir."

Lee mounted and rode off.

A number of soldiers who had gathered round to watch had already made up a litter out of blankets and muskets strapped together. Robinson gently helped to pick up the general and place him in the litter.

"Help me sit up, Sergeant," McPherson gasped. "Can't breathe lying down."

"Certainly, sir," Robinson said softly, as if to a sick child. "I'll keep you up. You'll be all right, sir."

McPherson looked at him and smiled weakly.

"Don't think so. You're a damn good shooter, Sergeant."

Sgt. Lee Robinson found he could not reply.

As the group setoff he caught a glimpse of Hazner standing outside a building, remembering him from the charge at Fort Stevens. As they passed, Hazner saluted.

Braddock Heights

7:30 P.M.

Come on boys, that's it, that's it!" Grant shouted.

The lead division of Ninth Corps was storming over the heights, running at the double, Sheridan in the lead.

Whatever had been said before about colored troops, he now laid to rest as he watched them pass. These men were tough, unbelievably tough, rifles at the shoulder, moving at the double, still keeping columns. A few collapsed as they passed, but then struggled to get to their feet and press forward.

Sheridan barely paused to salute, obviously in his glory. He had driven these men forward without pity, and they had answered to his call.

"How did Burnside take it?" Grant asked, as Sheridan rode up to his side.

"Like a soldier actually," Phil replied. "I think he expected it. I don't like the man leading these colored men, Ferroro, but for the moment he'll do. He, at least, is at the front. Tough men, double-timed them the last two miles."

"Hunt?"

"Courier came back, saying if Burnside's boys will get the hell off the road he'll have the first guns up by midnight."

"Good, very good," Grant replied enthusiastically.

"Sir, I've got a battle to fight," Phil announced excitedly, and turning, he fell in with the column, heading down the ridge into Frederick, and as he rode the heavens opened and the rain began.

Frederick

8:00 P.M.

General Lee stood at the edge of the town watching it burn even as the storm swept down from the hills. By the flashes of lightning he could see a column of Union troops coming down off the ridge.

It had to be another corps. Reports were they were colored, men of Ninth Corps.

The battle for today had served its purpose. The Union Seventeenth Corps had been shredded in the town. There was no sense any longer in trying to hold it It was afire, all semblance of control lost. Throughout the night Grant would keep pouring more men in while Johnston would not arrive much before midnight and it'd still take several hours to bring him up.

No. The day had started off poorly with the bridge, but he felt confident now. They had smashed a corps, and Grant would not let that pass lightly. He'll bring in the rest of his men. Now is the time for us to take the good ground.

He turned to Walter.

"Order Scales and Robertson to evacuate the town, to pull back to the other side of the river."

"The other side, sir? What about the bridge?"

"The other side has higher ground, Walter. You saw the survey Jed Hotchkiss did for us today. It's a good defensive position, and I will not venture a fight on this side. Grant's blood is up, and he'll hit us, come tomorrow. Let him think we're retreating and that will bring him on. I want everyone back across the river and then let us see what Grant will do. Once we defeat him, we can repair the bridge and move our pontoons."

"Yes, sir."

Walter rode off.

Lee sat silent, watching the town burn, the wounded coming out, and he lowered his head.

"Merciful God," he whispered, "forgive us what we did to each other this day. Please let this be the last fight. Let it end here so that no longer friend is turned against friend."

Braddock Heights

1:00 A.M.

In spite of the rain, Frederick continued to burn. The moon was out, its light reflecting off the thick haze of smoke that cloaked the valley below. Word had just come back to Grant that McPherson was wounded, perhaps already dead, and now a prisoner. His corps was a shambles, according to Sheridan, at best six thousand troops still effective.

A bloody first day, upward of nine thousand men killed, wounded, or captured between McPherson and Custer. The damage to Lee, Grant wasn't sure about, though hundreds of rebel wounded were now in the hospitals behind the heights or being tended to in the town, what was left of it.

Ely came up to him with a dispatch to sign, a request to be carried through the Confederate lines to Lee, asking for information on McPherson. Lee's nephew, Fitz Lee, had been taken prisoner, his horse shot out from under him. His leg was badly broken in the fall and might need to be amputated and he wished to inform his uncle, as well, that his kin was being well taken care of and would receive the best treatment possible.

Grant signed the note, and Ely went off to find a courier willing to brave approaching the Confederate side, under flag of truce, at night.

The clattering echo in the valley behind him was building. Coming up the road he saw a band of officers, one of them carrying a sputtering torch. It was Henry Hunt.

Hunt spotted Grant and came over.

"Damn, sir, wish I could have gotten here sooner," Hunt gasped. "Just the road was clogged with infantry, that damn Ninth Corps."

"That damn Ninth Corps, as you put it," Grant replied, "has come through now, under Sheridan. They're down in the town."

Grant pointed to the smoldering nightmare below, and Hunt nodded, whistling softly.

"Looks like it was one helluva fight."

"It was, and it will be. Where are your guns, sir?"

Hunt proudly pointed down the road. Already visible by the light of the torches and lanterns around the hospital area, the first team was pulling hard, coming up the slope. As they rounded the final curve the dismounted gunners were leaning into the wheels of the lead piece, horses panting and slipping on the macadamized road, which had turned soft and greasy after the heavy thunderstorms. The driver was shouting, cursing, trace riders spurring their mounts, and the piece lunged forward, gaining the crest. Behind it was a double caisson pulled by six more horses, behind that another gun, and then another double caisson, all of them struggling and lunging forward to gain the final slope.

"We've been on the road eighteen hours, sir. Getting down the road over South Mountains was tough going since the rain had just passed. I lost several pieces upended, teams killed, and several men when the guns went out of control. I'll send horses back in the morning to get them. My men are beat, but where do you want us?"

"That's the spirit, Hunt," Grant said approvingly. "That's the drive I want. Take them down the slope. You'll find General Sheridan has set up headquarters, I'm told, in what's left of the railroad depot in the center of town. Report to him."

"Sheridan, sir?"

"McPherson's down," Grant said quietly. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know."

"Sheridan's in command down on the field at the moment. I'm waiting up. here. Don't worry, Hunt, you'll get your chance at your grand battery; I'm not splitting you up. Phil has the lay of the land down there and will tell you where you should set up for the moment. Report to me down in the town at dawn."

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Ord? Have you heard from him?"

"He's right behind my column, sir. Cursing at me all the way, says I'm slowing his march."

"That's Ord," Grant said with a smile.

"He should be along once the last of my guns has passed. I'd say he's about three miles back."

"You've done good today, Hunt. Now get to work."

Henry looked at him and then grinned, saluted, and rode off, yelling at his men to move faster regardless of the downslope ahead.

"Sir?"

It was Ely.

'The dispatch is going off now. May I suggest you grab a little sleep. It's been a long day."

At the mere mention of sleep, tiredness overcome him. He'd ridden nearly thirty miles, been in the thick of it, and for the first time directly matched wits with Lee. He had also sent a good friend to his death or captivity.

Ely pointed to a house, a small clapboard affair on the other side of the road.

Grant walked over, dodging around a gun team pushing by him, the trace-horse driver swearing at him to "get the hell out of our way," the driver not realizing whom he was yelling at.

Lights glowed within the house.

"Hospital inside, sir," Ely said, "but a couple of the boys arranged a spot for you on the porch."

A bed was made up, an actual mattress under a couple of blankets.

Wearily he sat down, not turning aside the offer when Ely knelt to help pull off his boots. The migraine which had bedeviled him all day still held on, and he suddenly felt nauseous, as if the awareness of his affliction intensified it.

He lay back with a sigh. Migraine or not, within a few minutes he was fast asleep. Guards quietly circled the porch with orders from Ely to maintain a silent vigil. Ely sat down on the porch, leaning against the railing, struggling to stay awake to intercept any dispatches that might come in, but even he succumbed, falling asleep with his head resting on his drawn-up knees.

Out on the road the guns continued to pass, Napoleons, Parrotts, three-inch ordnance rifles, caissons, forge wagons, teams panting and struggling, crews cursing, moving woodenly in their exhaustion. They responded to Grant's orders for speed as he slipped into a dream wracked by nightmares of McPherson, of so many dead, all looking at him as if to ask whether it was indeed worth it, whether he was worthy of them.

Baltimore

2:15 A.M.

"Emily. Wake up, dear. Wake up." Starded, Emily Hoffman sat up in her bed, her mother by her side, holding a lit candle. "What is it?" she asked.

"Dear, there's a soldier downstairs. A captain, he insists on seeing you."

"A Confederate?" she asked, still half asleep and confused.

"Yes, dear," Her mother stifled a sob.

"James!"

She was out of her bed, snatching up her dressing gown, slipping into it, and half-lacing the top as she raced barefoot down the stairs. A light was glowing in the parlor, and as she stepped into the room, the soldier, who had been talking with her father, turned and stiffened.

"What is it?" she gasped.

"Miss Emily Hoffman?" the captain asked nervously. "Yes."

"Ma'am. I bear a telegram from General Lee, addressed to you, ma'am."

He held out the envelope, and she stood frozen, fearing to accept it.

The captain just stood there, red-faced, unable to speak, hand still extended with the envelope.

Her mother stepped forward, and the captain bowed slightly as she took the envelope and tore it open, her father holding a lantern up so she could read it.

Her mother began to shake, lowering her head.

"It's James," her mother gasped.

"Papa?" Emily looked at her father imploringly.

Her father took the telegram.

"It's addressed to you, sweetheart, from General Lee." He began to read:

"It is with a heavy heart I must-inform you that your fiance" has been severely wounded. I regret to tell you he is not expected to live. He was a beloved student of mine, and this tragedy touches me deeply. If you wish, you may take the next train out of Baltimore to come to his side at Frederick, where even now my physician attends him. The officer bearing this letter will escort you and your family."

Her father stepped forward, as if to hand her the letter, but she backed up, collapsing on to the sofa, sobbing.

"It's not safe," her mother said. "I think she should stay here. There's fighting up there."

"I'm going," she gasped.

"Madam," the officer said, "General Lee will provide for your safety and protection." He paused.

"If it was me," he whispered, "I'd want my Eleanor to be at my side."

Emily looked up at the officer. She felt at this moment that she should hate him with all her soul. It was someone in that uniform who had shot her James. But the look in his eyes, which were brimming with tears, stilled her anger.

"Thank you, Captain…"

"Cain. Bill Cain, ma'am. Headquarters staff for General Lee, stationed here in Baltimore. It's where I grew up."

He forced a smile through his tears.

"You might not remember me, Miss Hoffman, but I once danced with you at a social before the war. I met your fiance that night, an honorable gendeman."

"Mama, pack my things," Emily whispered.

Washington

August 26

6:00 A.M.

He almost wished that he was back on the train racing across Pennsylvania. At least for those wonderful twelve hours he was able to stretch out and sleep. No one disturbed him, the passenger car sealed and guarded. No news, no decisions, just peaceful rest.

He and his escort rode down the narrow streets of Georgetown, which in spite of the early hour was awake, filled with traffic. Troops by the thousands lined the roads, fully laden with backpacks, haversacks stuffed to overflowing, the men in long lines shuffling forward a few dozen feet, stopping, then moving again.

As he rode past them, the soldiers looked up, saluting. A few called his name, but they were tired, having been up nearly the entire night, filing down from the fortress lines. They kept the city awake with the constant tramp of their marching, the rumble of field pieces, the cracking whips of drivers urging on supply wagons. Men leaned wearily against muskets, swaying, some actually falling asleep standing up, then comrades nudging them awake when the column moved forward again a few dozen feet.

He caught sight of Winfield down by the docks. Amazingly, the man was actually on horseback, his features pale in the morning light, Elihu by his side. At his approach Winfield smiled and saluted.

"How goes it?" Lincoln asked.

"Oh, sir, the usual chaos." Winfield pointed to the docks and wharfs of the old Chesapeake and Ohio canal. Dozens of barges were lined up, troops filing aboard. A hoist was swinging the barrel of a thirty-pounder Parrott gun out over a barge and slowly lowering it down. The men were nervously standing back as the barrel came to rest in the hull, the boat sinking deeper into the water as it took on the burden.

It did indeed look like chaos, hundreds of workers hauling boxes of rations, ammunition, barrels of salt pork, and stacking them up inside the bulk-hauling boats, many of them coated with layers of coal dust from their years of service bringing coal down from the mountains of western Virginia. Troops were filing aboard passenger boats, a hundred men or more to each, and he could see a procession' of barges was already heading up the canal. Once aboard and settled in, the men relaxed, lying down to sleep, some sitting up, digging into their haversacks. One man had a small concertina out and was playing a lively jig.

"Ready to go!" The barge carrying three of the Parrott guns cast off, the four mules hauling it braying, digging in, their driver cursing at them, snapping a whip. The barge inched away from the wharf.

Resting in a sling by the side of a wharf was the massive barrel of a hundred-pound Parrott gun, twenty tons of metal, its iron carriage in another sling, dozens of men swarming around the monster, hooking cables to the thick woven mat the barrel was resting on. A work crew was busy carrying individual shells aboard, a hundred pounds each, and massive bags of grape and canister shot. Farther down the wharf, another boat, surrounded by sentries with bayoneted rifles, was loading barrels of powder, with hand-lettered EXPLOSIVES signs marking the entrance to the wharf.

"I should be leaving soon," Winfield said. "I think they've got the system down. I'll leave staff here to keep moving it along. I want to get up to the front. We have a brigade of mounted troops moving up the canal ahead of all this. Word will get out, and Mosby and his boys might try some mischief. I want to be up there if he does."

Lincoln nodded and extended his hand.

"Be careful, Winfield. You're a good man. Take care of yourself."

"Oh, I will, sir."

He started to dismount and a couple of young staff officers moved quickly by his side. It was not so much a dismounting as it was a lifting-down. He grimaced with the pain, but then, remembering Lincoln, he smiled.

"See, sir, no problem at all." He accepted his cane and leaned heavily on it. Then he limped off.

"Think he can handle it?" Lincoln asked, looking over at Elihu.

"If anyone can, it's him. He spent an hour with me yesterday morning, went over the details, and then was down here at the docks all day and clean through the night He knows his job."

"Fine, then. We made the right choice."

"Something curious going on you should know about," Elihu said, and motioned to a sidestreet, leading Lincoln as they wove through the columns of troops queuing up to get aboard the canal boats.

As they turned the corner Lincoln was startled to see hundreds of black men standing about in a crowd, many with shovels, picks, and axes on their shoulders. Others had wheelbarrows loaded down with baggage. Two men had between them a large two-man whipsaw. A scattering of them were armed with old muskets or pistols.

At their approach the milling crowd fell silent, many of the men taking their hats off, stepping back at Lincoln's approach. To his amazement Lincoln saw Jim Bartlett standing in the crowd-rather, standing out, since he was dressed in a fine suit while most of the men wore the ordinary clothes of laborers.

"Jim?" Lincoln asked. "May I ask what is going on here?"

Jim braced his shoulders back, staring Lincoln straight in the eye.

"Mr. President, remember last night when you asked me to see if men would be interested in volunteering short-term for some work?

"Well, we know where them boats are going." He nodded toward the canal barges loading up.

"How do you know that, Jim?"

With that a number of the men started to chuckle.

"Ain't no secrets from us colored folk, Mr. Lincoln," a burly worker replied, and that brought on more laughter.

"Too many of you white folks think we're invisible. We're cleaning the dishes and the missus starts gossiping with other ladies about what her husband just told her, we're sweeping the floor at Willard's and the officers are boasting, or we're emptying trash in the War Office and pieces of paper just come falling into our laps. Oh, we know."

That brought renewed laughter, and Lincoln could not suppress a grin. He instantly saw the wisdom of it, thinking himself of so many conversations in the White House with servants walking in and out of the room. By heavens, of course they'd know.

"What are you and your friends proposing, Jim?" Lincoln asked.

"Our hands, our backs. There are tens of thousands of colored in this city who want to do something, anything. Let us go with the soldiers. We can dig for them, and, sir, we know that's a worry of yours."

The burly man nudged the man next to him, a thin, frail gentleman with graying hair who stepped forward nervously.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Washburne, I hope you ain't mad, but I brought coffee into the room while you and a general were talking. I heard you say something about moving the men, but maybe not having time to dig in proper, building forts and such."

Washburne looked at the speaker in amazement.

"You know I oughta fire you," he blustered. "What you overheard is a military secret."

"Oh, I heard Mr. Stanton talking all the time, a lot of things, sir, maybe you should know about, considering all the fuss he's kicking up in the newspapers."

Lincoln threw back his head and laughed, a laugh unlike any he had experienced in weeks.

"He's got you, Elihu. We need this man."

Elihu shook his head, then leaned out of his saddle and extended his hand.

"All right then. We'll talk after this is over, but by heavens I'll never speak a word again when you are around."

The man grinned and took Elihu's hand.

"We're on the same side, sir. Maybe for different reasons, but the same side."

"For the same reasons now," Lincoln said quietly, and he looked back at Jim. 'Troops have to have priority on the boats, but wherever there's additional room, you men get aboard."

A cheer went up.

Lincoln extended his hand.

"I should warn you, though. It will be dangerous. I cannot guarantee that you will be treated well if things turn against us and you are captured."

"Then we fight," Jim said quietly. "A pick or an ax is as good as a bayonet."

"Not against disciplined troops," Elihu said softly.

"It'll be hours, most likely, before there will be room on any of the boats," Lincoln said.

"We already figured that," the burly man said. "We'll just start walking if you don't mind. Follow the canal path."

Lincoln suddenly was overcome by emotion, his face limp with sadness.

One of the men held up a banner made out of a bedsheeL Emblazoned in red letters: WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS.

The crowd cheered again and then spontaneously poured down the street, turning on to the canal path to head toward the front. As they surged by him, Lincoln remained motionless.

Looking back toward the boats, he saw Colonel Shaw leading the men of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts aboard several barges. Shaw caught his eye and snapped to attention, saluting, his men cheering as they saw their brothers pouring down the street and then turning to follow the canal path.

"How" the world is changing," Lincoln whispered. He reached over and took Jim's hand.

"God be with you, my friend."

"And with you too, Mr. President," he paused, "and thank you."