Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER TWELVE

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

East Bank of Monocacy Creek August 26

7:00 A.M.

Gen. Pete Longstreet rode up the steep slope past a wooden blockhouse, pausing for a moment to watch as a gun crew struggled to maneuver a twelve-pound Napoleon through the back doorway, then rolled it into place inside, positioning it at a gun port looking down on the river below.

The blockhouse was perfectly positioned to cover the ruins of the railroad bridge and the still-smoking wreckage of a rail depot on the other bank, less than four hundred yards away. To either flank of the blockhouse men were digging in, cutting trenches, a work crew dragging cut lumber from the mill just south of the track to pile atop the barricades.

A scattering of Yankee skirmishers were around the depot on the other side of the creek, but for the moment there seemed to be one of those informal cease-fires between them and the Confederate skirmishers. Many were up, walking about, examining the wreckage, both sides adopting the live-and-let-live attitude of soldiers who were more than willing to fight when called upon, but considered sniping to be little better than murder if there was no immediate purpose to it. Like schoolboys they prowled around the wreckage, coming to the river to examine the bridge and gape down at the two shattered locomotives in the creek. A few had started fires to fix one last pot of coffee before battle was rejoined.

Even Pete stopped for a minute to look at the ruins. It was obvious there had been one hell of a fight here yesterday. Bark had been peeled off trees by bullets, hunks of metal from the exploding train littered the riverbank, and burial details were at work on both sides of the river, as if clearing the ground for the next harvest, which would begin soon enough.

"Hey, reb, who's the general?" a Yank with a booming voice shouted from across the river.

Several of the Confederates down by the bridge looked back and saw Pete.

"Why, that's old Longstreet!" one of them shouted back. "Now that he's here, there'll be hell to pay for you boys."

Pete shook his head. A compliment in a way, but the men would be in Yankee headquarters within the hour. Curious, this war: no matter how often the men were lectured on it, skirmishers on both sides tended to gossip and give away secrets, just like old women at a quilting party.

Pete pressed up the hill to a flat plateau where Lee, Jeb Stuart, Walter Taylor, and John Hood stood, all with field glasses raised, looking toward the distant ridgeline.

Pete offered a salute as he approached, and Lee, lowering his glasses, smiled.

"General, good to see you. You must be exhausted after such a long ride."

"I'm fine, sir," he lied. He was numb after the twenty-four-hour ride, the anxiety of what was happening ahead, and the frustration he felt as he paralleled the railroad track and saw the colossal traffic jam mat stretched for miles. The hope had been that during the night, once Hood was finished moving his divisions up, the trains could start shuttling troops from his own corps forward, sparing them the rest of the march. That was clearly impossible. Only a few engines were moving, while dozens waited to back up through the single-line track between the two tunnels.

'Tell me, General, when can we begin to expect your troops?" Lee asked, as Pete dismounted. One of the staff handed him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

"I left them during the night, sir. The lead division, McLaw's, should be up by noon."

"Good. And General Beauregard's Corps?"

"Behind the rest of my column, sir, but he is also moving on parallel roads, not the National Road. He should start filing in late this afternoon."

Lee nodded approvingly.

"How are things here, sir?" Pete asked.

"Grant is living up to his reputation," Lee said and motioned to the Catoctin Ridge.

Pete uncased his field glasses and focused on the distant ridge. Though it was wreathed in early morning mist and smoke from the burning town, he was able to catch glimpses of troops moving down the road.

"Ord we think," Walter interjected.

"McPherson and Burnside are already accounted for," Lee said. "That only leaves Banks. Scouts with General Stuart reported a number of batteries coming into the town during the night."

"I heard you really chewed into McPherson yesterday," Pete said.

"Yes," Lee replied, his voice now barely a whisper. "Sir, I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect to James. He was a good man."

"He's still alive," Walter said.

"Will he pull through?"

Lee shook his head.

"Again, sir, I'm sorry."

"It is God's will," Lee said softly.

"Most-of McPherson's Corps was destroyed yesterday," Walter said. "We briefly tangled with some of Burnside's men last night. Colored troops."

"Damn all," Hood said coldly.

Lee turned and looked over at Hood, who lowered his gaze.

"They are to be treated like any other troops we face,"

Lee announced. "If taken prisoner, they and their officers are to be shown all due respect, as has been our tradition. I want everyone to understand that." "Yes, sir," Hood said.

"So that leaves one of Grant's corps unaccounted for," Longstreet said, feeling it best to change the topic. "Banks, supposedly his strongest unit."

"I suspect he is on the far side of that ridge even now," Lee announced.

"There's nothing to the north," Stuart said. "My screen is still holding, though there has been some heavy skirmishing with Grierson. The only cavalry unit to break through so far was Custer, and we saw what happened to him yesterday."

"But he did bum the rail bridge and covered bridge and mauled several regiments in the process," Hotchkiss interjected. "I'd consider that a fair trade."

"Yes, indeed, a fair trade. And it also fixed this place as the one where this war will be decided, once and for all," Lee announced.

Pete, sipping his coffee, looked over at Lee.

"It has to be here," Lee said. "We could have held those heights up there." He pointed to the Catoctin Ridge. "But if we had, Grant would not have taken the bait. The position is simply impregnable, and even Grant would not have attacked us if we had stayed there. He'd have stopped his advance and dug in along South Mountains."

Lee turned to face his officers.

"Remember last year. But one of our divisions held that ridge for an entire day while we regrouped at Sharpsburg. The Catoctin Ridge was an even better tactical position, with only one road crossing it versus three at South Mountains."

"Then, sir, why did you concede it?" Longstreet asked.

Lee smiled.

"Because it was too good. If Scales had stayed there, and then been reinforced by Robertson's Division, no force on the face of this earth could have pushed us off. Grant would have remained concealed behind South Mountains, and that would give him time. He could have sat us out for weeks or perhaps pushed down to Harpers Ferry, crossed into Virginia, and thus forced us to follow him. No, when I saw this ground, I wanted him here."

Lee turned and pointed to the flat open plain between the river and Frederick.

"They will deploy out there, gentlemen. Our elevation here, according to Jed Hotchkiss, is a good hundred to two hundred feet higher, with excellent fields of fire for our preponderance in artillery. We have the range of hills to our south bordering the river; they can act as a tactical shield if we should wish to maneuver that way. But I think Grant will come straight on."

"Just like Burnside at Fredericksburg," Hood interjected.

Lee nodded in agreement.

"I believe I am getting the measure of Grant. He is tenacious. He pushed McPherson's Corps forward yesterday afternoon to seize the town and perhaps the bridge regardless of the losses. We bloodied him. It is obvious by what we see over there that blood has not deterred him. He has pushed two more corps in, and they will begin to deploy down to the river and then come straight at us. And I say, let them come!"

He slapped a balled fist against the palm of his hand.

Longstreet turned to look at the ground. Lee was right. It was indeed ideal ground for a fight. The Monocacy Creek formed a natural barrier to slow any assault. There were numerous fords, and the still-intact stone bridge of the National Road, but each of those fords and the bridge faced, on the east side, excellent ground for artillery, infantry, and observation. Union attacks would have to funnel into those points, and it would be a killing ground. There were also fairly good roads on the east side, running north to south, which could provide for rapid redeployment of troops.

"Then why will he attack?" Pete asked. "We do hold the better ground here. Not suicidal, as would be the case if we were atop Catoctin Heights, just slightly better ground than those on the west side. But why attack us? Why not wait? I think, sir, if it was us over there, we would definitely not attack."

"Because he is under pressure, General Longstreet, from Washington. And because everything we know about Grant tells us that he is aggressive and persistent. I think Grant is not a fool like Burnside. When he hits, as he did at the second day of Shiloh, he will come on with everything at once. But he will come on."

"Only if he thinks he can win, or has a broader plan," Pete said. "I wish Beauregard was here to see this and offer his opinion."

At this Lee turned to look at Pete with fire in his eyes, a flash of anger even. Pete had seen that look before. So many spoke of the gentleman Lee, the courtly Lee, but when battle loomed, a cold side could come out, even one of anger. That had truly flared to the surface at Union Mills when he fired Dick Ewell from command and sent him home in disgrace.

When word had first come that Grant was on the move he had seen Lee surprisingly off balance for over a day, pondering, unsure. That was now washed away. He was confident, eager for battle, perhaps too much so.

"We both want this to end," Lee snapped. "We received a report yesterday that not three days past Lincoln was with Grant up by Carlisle. Lincoln is facing a firestorm back in Washington over his removal of Stanton and the defeats. If Grant cannot win it for them in the next week or two, their government might collapse."

"Therefore, might not the seizing of Catoctin Heights have been a wise move?" Longstreet ventured. "It would have forced Grant to either make a suicidal attack or maneuver, which would have taken too much time."

Lee looked at him sharply, and Pete realized he had overstepped his bounds. It was something he could have said to Lee in private, but to second-guess a decision which could no longer be reversed, in front of others, was a major mistake.

"I apologize, sir," Longstreet said softly.

"No offense taken," Lee replied, and his features softened.

"No, General Longstreet, I want this settled now. We have.lured Grant down out of the pass. Once our guns are up and in place, we can turn that field across the stream into a slaughterhouse. We break him in his attacks, then counter-strike. He'll have only one road out as we converge in. We break him, then unleash Jeb here to finish the job. I dare say that in three days we can annihilate Grant here, push him up over the Catoctin Pass, and what is left we can annihilate in the valley beyond."

Longstreet said nothing. He could see that the Old Man's fire was up, the same as the first day at Gettysburg, and there was no arguing with him now. It was just that there was one question unanswered. If this was indeed a killing ground, why was Grant marching into it?

Braddock Heights

8:00 A.M.

"Ready to go, Ely?" Grant asked.

"Yes, sir!"

Grant looked around at his staff. Lohman would stay behind at the crest to keep an eye on the approach of Banks's Corps, which, though slow, was now cresting the South Mountain range. All of Hunt's guns had long since passed. Behind Banks would come the tangle of supply wagons, twenty-five miles of them, with orders to go into reserve behind the Catoctin Mountains, with priority given to ammunition, rations, and medical supplies.

A report had just arrived that the railroad crews had completed the repair of the Cumberland Valley Railroad down to Hagerstown, and the first trains were coming in even now, carrying extra supplies. A dozen trains a day from Harrisburg would free up a thousand or more wagons that could be used to improve his supply line from Hagerstown to here. With the double mountain barrier, other than the problem it presented with the steep slopes, he now enjoyed a very secure line of supply. With the extra wagons, the load per wagon could be lightened to speed up the passage over the mountains. By midday his telegraphy crews promised they'd have a direct line completed from Hagerstown to Frederick. With that in place he'd be linked to Harrisburg and the North.

Another crew a hundred miles away was hard at work stringing a connection due east out of Washington to the Chesapeake and another line on the east shore connecting into the line that ran up to Dover. By late in the day, messages from Washington and back, which only yesterday took days, would be cut to not more than an hour or two.

There were times in his past when he had wanted to be as far away from contact with Washington as possible. But not now, not with the confidence among himself, Lincoln, and Washburne. If his plan was to work, they had to have this intricate web of wire to hook it all together, encircling Lee with tapping signals made of electricity that Napoleon and Caesar could never have dreamed of.

He was grateful to Ely for the five hours of uninterrupted sleep. All of Hunt's Artillery had passed, and now the second division of Ord's Corps was slipping and sliding to the top of the crest and then sliding down the opposite side. Ely had told him that Ord had passed by without even wakening him, saying he and Phil would figure out where to deploy.

Both these men were new to corps command. Ord only in May, Phil just since yesterday, but he felt a sense of confidence in them. They understood every detail of the intricate plan he had worked out even before Sickles went off half-cocked. Though he had yet to actually see Phil under fire, he knew Ord had a good eye for ground and would act correctly. If he had encountered any real questions, he would have sent a message back.

The men of Ord's command were indeed exhausted. Typical of Ord he had pushed them remorselessly. As Grant rode out into the road, he took one last look to the west and saw Ord's Third Division struggling forward. The side of the road for miles back across the valley was dotted with blue specks, men who had collapsed after a day and a night of marching, with only a two-hour break at midnight. Perhaps twenty percent of his strength was thus scattered, but he had learned long ago that each regiment had its core, the hardbitten lot of two or three hundred who did ninety percent of the fighting. Some of the stragglers, he knew, were good spirits in a fight but physically unable to keep up on a forced march, some were the shirkers, worse than useless in a fight, and many were just ill with the usual complaints of the "two steps," ague, or lung sickness, and to slow an army for them to keep pace was senseless. '

A collecting point had already been established for them in the village of Middletown, appropriately named, for it was midway between the two mountain ranges. Hospitals were set up there for the sick, and once the road was cleared, those capable again of marching would be pushed forward.

He started down the slope, taking in the details. At least half a dozen of Hunt's guns and even more of the double limber caissons had wrecked on the way down. Crews had lost control and jumped off, with horses, guns, and caissons going over the side of the road in a horrifying tangle. And yet Hunt had pushed on.

A scattering of dead from both sides lined the sides of the road. Boys in tattered gray and butternut mingled with the tattered blue of McPherson's boys. No one had bothered to move them, other than to drag off the road those who blocked the way.

He tried not to look; the sights were far too distressing: sixteen-year-olds clutching a Bible or daguerreotype, older men twisted up in agony, others so peaceful, as if asleep. Two boys, identical twins, lay arm in arm, their blood commingled in the mud. The bodies were all so still, but strangely, if you stared at them too long, they appeared to be breathing still. A reb sergeant and a union private lay side by side, an open canteen between them, and yet ten feet away were two more, transfixed in death, one with a knife buried in the stomach of the other, the faces of both frozen in a terrible rage.

One man, a Confederate captain, was sitting against a tree, letters scattered about him, one still clutched in his hand. Letters from a mother, a sweetheart perhaps? He looked for a second, then turned his gaze away, forcing himself to again look straight ahead. None would ever go home; they'd be buried here. Perhaps weeks or months later a letter might arrive from a company officer or comrade, "Dear Madam, I regret to inform you…"

Wellington was right, the only thing as terrible as a battlefield lost was a battlefield won. Win or lose was still not decided, but for those now carpeting the sides of the road, victory or defeat no longer mattered.

I can never dwell on that too long, he thought. Will Lee and I one day answer for this, he wondered. It was a thought he knew was not healthy for him at this moment, and he forced it aside.

The migraine still bedeviled him, and he rubbed his brow. Ely was watching him with concern. He had tried to eat breakfast, a fine feast of fresh eggs, some salt pork, and even a few links of smoked sausage, and then slipped into the woods to vomit it all up. He smiled away Ely's concerns with the simple, "I'm fine."

A cigar helped a bit, and he puffed on it continually as he rode down the slope. The random thought came to him that a drink right now would taste awfully good, would settle his stomach, perhaps push the headache back, but that was something he knew he could never do now.

Maybe years from now, when I think of this moment, he thought, perhaps then I'll get a good bottle of whiskey down and drink it dry, but not now, definitely not now. But if there was anything that could turn a man back into an alcoholic it was this nightmare road and the wreckage of battle strewn along it.

The headache intensified. He tossed aside the cigar he was smoking, half finished, and then in a couple of minutes lit another.

They rode into the western end of Frederick, dozens of buildings smoking ruins. Ord's lead division was by his side, men moving slowly in their exhaustion but looking around, exclaiming over the wreckage, the obvious signs of a hard-fought battle.

Collapsed buildings still smoldered, civilians picking through the wreckage, a dazed woman standing by the side of the road clutching a flame-scorched portrait. A detail of soldiers, several of them Confederate prisoners, was hauling buckets of water, flinging them against the side of a home which was partially burned and still flickering with flames. A brick house, windows shot out, had a hospital flag flying in front of it; dozens of homes now displayed that flag, or just white bedsheets hanging out of windows. Wounded Union and Confederates lay on the sidewalk, while from within came ghastly cries of anguish.

An upended limber wagon blocked a sidestreet, several of the horses still alive, whimpering in pain, and Grant turned to one of his men, asking him to put the poor beasts out of their misery. He loathed the sight of an animal in pain.

In another section of town, nearly an entire block had been leveled by fire, smoke billowing up from the ruins. A church, its steeple tilting at a drunken angle after being hit by an exploding shell, had its doors flung open. On its doorstep he saw Union and Confederate doctors, working together, doing the grisly task of admitting some within and quietly telling many stretcher bearers to cany their burden "around the back," which meant they were too far gone for help.

The windows of nearly every shop were smashed in, and from a tree two bodies dangled on ropes, one a rebel, another a Union soldier, signs hanging from their stiffening bodies: LOOTERS AND COWARDS.

He edged his way toward the center of town. Here the battle had been at its fiercest Dead carpeted the sidewalks, dangled from windows, were sprawled into shop windows, and laid curled up in alleyways. A cavalry detachment, a few weary men from Custer's command, were mounted and at the center of town, directing Ord's column to keep moving eastward, to not stop till the far side of town.

"General Sheridan's headquarters?" Ely asked, and a trooper pointed down the road.

"At the Frederick railroad depot, about four blocks ahead, sir," and the men saluted as Grant rode by.

"General Grant!"

He looked over at his inquirer, a civilian carrying a cumbersome box with tripod over his shoulder. "Sir, a favor!" "What is it?" Grant asked.

"Sir, General McPherson was shot right over there." The photographer pointed toward a corner building at the center of town, several bodies lying in the gutter, bloodstains still in the street.

Grant stared at him.

"May I have your portrait there, sir? Surely the Illustrated Weekly will want this one. General Grant mourns at the place McPherson fell."

Though obscenities were rare for him, one spilled forth now, and turning, he rode on, staff glaring coldly at the photographer who stood there, mystified by the response. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he moved on, setting up his camera for another shot of the troops when they paused for a break.

He pushed on, past a house where a tattered Confederate regimental flag dangled from a third-floor window. He saw a column of exhausted rebel prisoners, fifty or more, being escorted by several equally exhausted guards, a minister saying a prayer over a dozen blanketed bodies, a Catholic priest giving communion to several men who had stopped for his blessing, and then to his amazement, an embalmer who was selling policies.

Men like him always trailed the armies. They'd sell an "embalming policy" for fifty dollars to any soldier and issue him a receipt. If a comrade brought the body in with the receipt, the deliverer received five dollars, the body was supposedly embalmed, usually poorly done, and then shipped to the family.

Some of Mcpherson's men were negotiating with him, dead bodies lying around his wagon.

"Drive that scoundrel off," Grant snapped, and several of the men of Grant's headquarters detail were more than happy to comply, one of them deliberately smashing the embalmer's bottles of fluids with his sword, then drawing a pistol on him and telling him, "Get the hell out of this town, you son of a bitch."

Grant did not look back, but rode on. At last he saw it, the rail depot. It was a wreck, a small roundhouse burned to the ground, several cars still flickering with flames, a warehouse all but flattened by fire except for the skeleton-like eyes of its windows.

He spotted Sheridan out front, Ord by his side, and Hunt leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar. At his approach the three came to attention.

"Quite a mess here in town," Sheridan announced, as Grant rode up.

"I can see that."

"No fighting to report, sir. The rebels gave back during the night and retreated across the Monocacy."

Grant nodded. No news there. At dawn he had seen it clearly enough. Frankly, he did not expect Lee to try to fight him on this side of the creek. There was no good tactical ground for him to hold, other than to try to maintain his grip on the town and block the one road.

Grant dismounted, tossed his cigar aside, and walked over to a table where Phil had a map spread out, pencil marks indicating troop movements. The other officers fell in around him.

Grant puffed on his cigar as he leaned over the map and studied it intently, examining where Sheridan had sketched in the rebel positions.

"We fight hira here," Grant said.

"But he has chosen this ground," Hunt replied. "Sir, I know you said we should stop trying to worry about what Lee wants, but still, from experience, sir, when that man chooses ground, it means a tough fight."

"And that is precisely why I will fight him here," Grant replied sharply. "He wants this fight, and so do I. Let him choose this ground, this particular place. It will fix him in place the way I want it."

He leaned back, rubbing his brow again.

Ord grinned and said nothing.

Grant leaned over the map again.

"We just had a report come up from the depot," Sheridan said, "that General Longstreet was spotted."

"Is Beauregard up yet?"

"No indication of that, sir," Sheridan replied. "We've accounted for two divisions of Hood's. About a hundred guns are deploying along the heights above the depot and also over on our right flank here."

He pointed to where the creek took a turn to the southwest for a mile or so before bending back to the south.

"It's called the McCausland Farm. A good open hill. Guns there can enfilade the depot area."

"Sir," Ord interjected, "we have two intact corps up. Hunt has his batteries up. Why don't we go for them here?"

He pointed toward the McCausland Farm.

"There's a ford below the farm. My boys could force it."

Grant nodded, looking at the map, remembering the lay of the terrain he had spent hours studying yesterday.

"Your boys have marched for nearly twenty-four hours," Grant said.

"My command, then," Sheridan offered. 'They've had several hours' rest."

"I want you to hold the center of the line and the left flank," Grant said. "You're already in position for that."

He contemplated the move and then finally nodded.

"I want to keep the pressure on Lee, but Banks is not yet up. General Ord, a limited attack, later in the day. Do not bring on a general engagement, though."

"Sir?"

"The last thing I want now is to push Lee out of this position, but I do not want him to think we are suffering from temerity. Commit as if we are about to try a serious lunge, but conserve your boys."

"If I gain the ford?" Ord asked.

"Hold it, of course. That will force him to want to take it back, but do not bring on a general engagement." "I understand, sir."

Grant sat down on, of all things, a church pew that had been carried out of the church across the street and his staff gathered round as Sheridan held a map up, Grant behind him, tracing out the move.

He hated giving orders like this for a limited attack. A "demonstration" they use to call it at the Point. Still, such a demonstration might cost a thousand lives before it was done.

One Mile Southeast ofMonocacy Junction

2:00 P.M.

The train drifted to a halt. Emily Hoffman gazed out the window, the spectacle around her not registering, for at such a moment the world collapses into itself, and the struggle, the anguish, the drama of a hundred thousand others become meaningless.

For the last six miles they had passed train after train stalled on the other track, locomotives puffing, backing up slowly, foot by foot. Troops lined the tracks, marching westward, battle flags at the fore of each regiment. "Miss Hoffman?".

She looked up. It was the kindly Captain Cain, and she forced a smile. "Miss Hoffman?" "Yes, Bill?" "We're here, ma'am." "Thank you."

She stood up. Her parents, sitting across from her, stood as well, her mother reaching out to take her hand, which she refused. She took a deep breath and followed Cain to the back of the single car, empty except for the four of them.Troops piled off the other cars in the train and she realized this was one more part of the war she hated. As she stepped out onto the rear platform, she found a detachment was waiting for her, Confederate cavalry and a small carriage, a battered country type of carriage, barely able to hold four, its top gone, a single aging horse in the traces.

"Sorry about the carriage, ma'am," a major said as she stepped down, taking.Cain's hand. "It's all General Lee could find for you."

She forced a smile as she stepped into the carriage, Cain taking the reins, her mother and father squeezing in on the seat behind her.

The major rode out front, escorts flanking the carriage, and they set off. The road they were on, heading south, was packed with troops, the major riding ahead, shouting for them to clear the way.

The men, grumbling, stepped aside but, at the sight of her, many removed their hats. "That's her," she heard one of them announce as they passed.

The road turned off to the west, and after another turn to the south, they pulled into the drive of a modest two-story frame house.

She recoiled at the sight confronting her. Several hundred men lay in the yard, under the trees of a small orchard, some out in the glaring sun, others under quickly erected awnings of shelter halves and tarps. A tent was set lip outside the building, and to her horror a pile of bloody limbs rested outside the tent.

The major barked a sharp command, and one of his troopers dismounted, grabbed a blanket from behind his saddle, ran up, and threw the blanket over the grisly sight, but it was too late; she had already seen it.

She felt as if she would faint but then whispered a silent prayer for strength. James must not see me weak, not now. Behind her, her mother began to cry.

Cain got down from the carriage and offered his hand.

"This way, Miss Hoffman."

She stepped down from the carriage. All in the yard fell strangely quiet at the sight of her. men whispering to each other. Some of the wounded were boys in blue, and one of them, leg missing below the knee, propped himself on his elbow.

"Let's hear it for old McPherson!" he cried, and a ragged three cheers echoed weakly.

She looked at her escort of Confederate troopers and officers. They were silent, but she could see in their eyes there was no rancor, instead she saw looks of compassion, and she nodded to them, one of the men offering a handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes.

She mounted the steps. A minister was standing there, and for a horrified second she feared she was too late.

"I'm Reverend Lacy," he said. "I used to serve with General Jackson. Now I'm on General Lee's staff. He asked that I attend you, miss. Your fiance is still with us."

"Thank you, Reverend," she whispered.

He extended his hand and she took it.

"He's upstairs, resting at the moment."

"His condition?" her father asked.

The reverend looked straight at her.

"You must be strong, my dear, and place your faith in Our Lord."

"He won't live, will he?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"How long?"

"A few hours perhaps."

"Is he in pain?"

"No. The doctor gave him morphine, though he tried to refuse it. Miss, he is shot through both lungs. It is only a matter of time now."

She said nothing but felt a frightful urgency to see him and stepped into the house. Again she wanted to recoil. It appeared to be the home of a country physician, his office to her right, but the sight within that room filled her with horror, for the doctor was operating on a man, blood dripping to the floor, the doctor bent over, cutting into the man's open thigh. In the parlor to the left, a dozen men were on the floor, a woman, most likely the doctor's wife, bandaging a boy's face, slashed wide open from scalp to jaw. She looked up at Emily, but said nothing.

'This way," Reverend Beverly Lacy said and led her upstairs to the second floor. In what was obviously the doctor's bedroom she saw him as she reached the last step, doorway open.

She took a deep breath, prayed yet again for strength, and slowly walked in. He was under the covers, which were pulled down to his waist. -Chest bandaged, the left side soaked red. A trickle of blood frothed his lips. He was breathing raggedly, gasping, each breath another froth of blood.

She knelt down by his side and took his hand. It was cool to the touch, graying, so unlike the warm strong grasp she once knew, the way he held her when they danced, when they walked together beneath the moonlight, the way his hands had so lovingly cupped her face when they kissed for the first time.

"James."

She leaned "forward and whispered. He moaned sofdy, eyes fluttering.

"The morphine," Lacy whispered behind her. "He knows I'm here now," she replied. "James, it's Emily."

His eyes opened. He turned his head slightly, looked at her, and smiled.

She took the handkerchief given to her by the Confederate officer and wiped his lips.

"Emily." It was barely a whisper.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

She had to be strong, she knew that, and though she wanted to collapse, to cry, to just curl up and die with him, she knew she could not.

She stood up and looked at Lacy.

"A favor, Reverend."

"Anything."

"James and I were to be married. In fact, if not for what is happening now, General Grant had promised him a furlough once Vicksburg was taken for him to come to Baltimore so we could be joined."

She looked back down at James.

"We want to be married," she whispered.

"My dear?" It was her mother standing in the doorway.

A look from Emily silenced her mother. She looked at her father, who nodded in agreement.

Lacy hesitated.

"My dear, at this moment? He is drugged and his time approaches."

"You attended General Jackson at his deathbed, did you not?" she asked.

"Yes, miss," Lacy whispered. "And his wife was present?" "Yes."

"Then let General McPherson's wife attend to him." Lacy did not respond. "Marry us."

It was McPherson, eyes open, a smile on his lips. Lacy nodded in response.

"No years together," McPherson whispered, "no wedding night, but still we have a little time, and then we will be together for all eternity."

Forcing back her tears she took James's hand and turned to face the minister.