Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Near McCausland's Ford

4:15 P.M.

Go, boys, go!" Ord was standing in his stirrups, saber drawn, urging his men on as they ran down the slope on the double, in column by regiments. Shells rained down into the packed ranks, men screaming; at the ford, smoke swirled up from volley after volley blazing from the other side of the Monocacy.

"A splendid fight!" Ord shouted. "A splendid fight. Now drive'em to hell!"

He turned and galloped down to the edge of the creek, violating strict orders from Grant to stay to the rear. He knew the general standing at the edge of town might see him, but he no longer cared. The fury of battle was upon him and he loved every second of it.

An Indiana regiment was in the lead, terrifyingly shredded by a volley delivered from the other bank, but they piled into the river anyhow, regardless of loss, plunging into the thigh-deep waters, pushing forward, men collapsing at every step, to be carried off by the waters.

Overhead was an inferno as Hunt's batteries, firing at long distance, plowed up the field on the other side of the creek and tried to suppress the dozen rebel batteries up next to a brick farmhouse that overlooked the ford less than a quarter mile away.

The Indiana regiment buckled as it reached midstream and started to give back, boys from Ohio pushing up behind them, gaining another twenty to thirty feet before they, too, started to collapse. Another Ohio regiment pushed in after them, plunging across, and barely gained the muddy bank on the other side. The Union was paying in blood for each foot gained for what was, as their commanding general declared, "a demonstration to fix Lee in place."

On those banks it turned to hand-to-hand fighting, men screaming, cursing, lunging with bayonets. Ohio just barely gained the opposite bank and then the artillery thundered in. The reb infantry gave back, coming out of the willows and ferns that lined the stream, running across the open field, dodging around the exploding shells of Hunt's batteries. As they fell back a terrible inferno erupted, battery after battery lining the hilltop around the McCausland farm opening up, sending down volleys of case shot that exploded over the Monocacy. Any shot that went high detonated or plowed into the ranks of the supporting brigade coming up to join in the assault. Treetops exploded in flames, solid shot slamming into the water threw up geysers thirty feet high pockmarked by the iron and lead balls of case shot slamming into the stream.

Ord, hat off, screamed with fury, urging his men to press in. A courier rode up, the side of his mount dripping blood, the horse limping badly.

"From General Grant, sir!" the courier shouted. "Call it off. Pull back!"

"We have the other bank!" Ord cried.

"You are ordered to call it off, sir!"

Ord reluctandy nodded, shouted for one of his staff to get across the stream, another to order the Second Brigade to turn about and retreat. Buglers began sounding recall throughout the attack.

The first courier into the stream went down, a shell detonating directly over him. Another dashed off, young lieutenants looking for glory were always thus, hoping a general would notice them. He barely made it to the other side, shouting to a regimental commander, and then he, too, pitched out of his saddle.

Within seconds the Ohio regiments on the other side broke and fell back across the stream. The supporting brigade, the men obviously not at all upset about the order to pull back, reversed and started to double-time back up the open slope.

As the last of the Ohio and Indiana regiments came up out of the river bottom, picking up wounded as they retreated, the rebel artillery ceased fire, a taunting cheer rising up from the other side.

"Some demonstration," Ord hissed, as he looked at the hundreds of dead and wounded piled along the riverbank or floating downstream. "I certainly hope Grant is right and this brings about an effect worthy of the lives of these young men.

"Tomorrow, you bastards," he shouted defiantly, and, turning, he retreated with his men.

Baltimore

5:30 P.M.

The last train of the artillery reserve rolled out of the Baltimore depot twenty-four hours behind schedule. Cruickshank wiped the sweat from his brow and looked over at McDougal, who had, pulled out a bottle and was taking a "wee nip," something he tended to do at least twice an hour.

"Useless now to try and move Beauregard," Cruickshank said, "but there're the supplies, hundreds of tons of it. Rations, additional ammunition, evacuation back of the wounded, replacement horses and mules."

"And not a locomotive to be seen," McDougal said with a shrug.

"They'll be back tonight." There was almost a pleading note in Cruickshank's weary voice.

"A few perhaps, but you seem to have forgotten something, General."

"And that is?"

"Wood and coal."

"What do you mean?"

"You have over a hundred locomotives up the line and all snarled together. Their boilers have most likely been cooking away all day. They're short of wood and coal."

"I thought the order was given to send the necessary supplies for them up the line."

"Never got out, what with you rushing about, countermanding orders, then countermandering them again."

"Damn it, you should have kept me informed."

"I did, twice today, don't you remember? But you kept saying, 'Get the guns, up, McDougal, get the guns up.'"

He glared at the man, honestly not sure whether he was telling the truth or not. After two days with barely any sleep it was hard to tell anymore what was said just ten minutes ago.

"I'd say two thousand tons should do the trick," McDougal announced, fingers out as if calculating on them. 'That'll be ten of our heavier trains, but we seem short of hopper cars."

"Where the hell are they?"

"A fair number of Robertson's boys rode up on them, General, sir. Don't you remember?"

"No, I don't, damn you," Cruickshank hissed, turning his back on McDougal.

What a simple, stupid, and yet all-too-obvious concern. When he drove supply wagons in Texas before the war, hauling along extra water and grain was a given. If the trains had simply gone up and off-loaded, then come straight back, he would not have a problem now, but many had been stranded up there for over a day, and their crews had undoubtedly kept the boilers lit and steam up.

Of course they'd be running short of fuel by now.

"What is stored along the line?" Cruickshank asked, not looking back.

"What do you mean 'stored'?" McDougal replied. "Fuel, damn it."

"Wood ricks at the stations usually have a couple of cords that local farmers bring in. Coal for some of our newer engines, a few tons at each station. But you got more than a hundred locomotives up there, General, and they're all hungry and thirsty."

McDougal's tone was flat, showing he had enough sense not to rub the general's face in the problem. He knew he could take him on in a good knockdown, and if there had been the slightest hint in his voice, there would have been a fistfight, or better yet knives or pistols, one that had been building for days.

"How many locomotives still in the yard?" 'Three, and all of them are old wheezers."

"Load one of them up with wood and get it up at least to the tunnel and the changeover to a single track."

"Won't haul more than a hundred cord or so."

"I don't care. Just get something up there."

Cruickshank turned to one of his dwindling staff. He had been sending them out on assignments all day and none had yet returned.

"Get a message up to General Lee. Write something down and I'll sign it. Tell him about our fuel problem, and also what you see along the line."

The captain, one of his old drivers, sat down on a barrel and laboriously began to write out the dispatch.

The yard was strangely quiet after the mad bustle of moving out two divisions of infantry and over two hundred artillery pieces. Men who worked for the Baltimore and Ohio were sitting about in the shade, eating their evening meals, laughing and smoking, and somehow he felt that many were looking at him and secretly grinning.

If only Garrett had been cornered into a contract or, better yet, this army had had a trained railroad detachment the way the Yankees did. There were just too many details-and then he inwardly cursed himself, knowing he was trying to justify his own failings.

McDougal was off, shouting for some of his men to warm up one of the three remaining engines, several of them laughing when McDougal called out the number.

"I could pull more with me own hands," a derisive reply came back.

"Just do it, damn ya," McDougal shouted.

The staffer finished writing out the dispatch, Cruickshank cringing a bit as he read it, with all its misspellings, but the content was correct and he signed it.

Cruickshank walked over to McDougal's side.

"Not much to do here, General, until the engines start coming back. If they come back. Why don't you go sleep."

"I think I should stay," Cruickshank replied.

"Don't trust me?"

"No, I don't."

"General, darlin', would any of my lads be so stupid as to get themselves shot now? You have guards all over this place watching their every move. Go back to the company office and get some sleep."

Cruickshank reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"One question first," Cruickshank said.

"And what might that be, General, and if you are asking me if I am sabotaging your plans, of course, the answer is no."

"No, it's about one particular train."

"Which one?"

"This morning, the one for Miss Hoffman. Even though it was pulling troops, you had an extra car on it within minutes, had a good crew on board. It left here without a hitch except for the traffic farther up the line."

McDougal fell silent. After another sip from his bottle he handed it to Cruickshank.

"Wouldn't you have done the same?"

Cruickshank finished the bottle and threw the empty on the tracks, the glass shattering.

He looked at McDougal, nodded, and then went off to find a place to sleep.

Hauling Ferry on the Potomac River

Twenty Miles South of Frederick

6:00 PM.

The sharp crackle of carbine fire rippled along the road leading down to the ferry. Winfield Scott Hancock had worried deeply about this moment, for two reasons. First, would they arrive here ahead of any strong Confederate detachments or would they have to fight for possession of the crossing?

It looked to be no more than a company of Confederate cavalry which were already drawing back as his cavalry regiment, escorting the lead boats, had pushed ahead. They had been ordered to try to drive all the rebels off before the first barge arrived, to keep concealed what was going on, but Winfield knew that was an impossible hope.

By midday, on the other side of the Potomac, they had been steadily trailed by Confederate scouts, most likely Mosby's men, who had laid down an occasional harassing fire. For a while they had simply taken to firing on the barges, the men aboard them delighted with the challenge and giving back entire volleys, dropping several of the raiders.

Then Mosby's men had switched tactics, firing on the draft horses pulling the barges, killing or wounding several, which had really set tempers aflare among his men, who thought this was unfair and downright cruel.

Strange how war is, he thought. Killing men is part of the game, but to deliberately shoot horses, except in the heat of battle, is thought unfair and draws howls of protest.

Mosby's men had pushed ahead, crossed the river at Edwards Ferry, and just above it tried to destroy one of the locks, which would have tangled the entire operation. Fortunately, the cavalry escort on his side had second-guessed them and raced ahead, stopping them just in time.

So to think that word had not gone ahead and up to Lee regarding their move was now senseless.

What had worried him more, though, was his own reaction to fire. He had seen it with more than one officer or soldier. A man of courage, or the sublime few, were as calm under fire as they were at a church service, until finally they were hit. They lost a limb, took a bad wound, and something within died, never to return. When again under fire the calm was gone, some broken completely, to be relieved of command or sent back to the rear, old comrades watching their departure with pity and, yes, also a touch of disdain.

His own experience, he knew, would haunt him the rest of his life. It was not the pain at the moment of being wounded. Surprisingly, there had only been numbed shock and deep rage that fate had pulled him out of the fight at Union Mills just when he was needed the most. No, it was what had happened afterward.

The doctor had withdrawn the bullet from his inner thigh just below his crotch and stanched the bleeding that, at first, he thought might kill him. It was later, in Philadelphia, when the wound festered, his leg swelled to twice its normal size, and the heat, the terrible heat.

At that moment he knew he was dying, in fact, inwardly he begged for it to end the agony. The mere touch of a sheet on his leg sending shock waves through him, the morphine dulling the pain, but still it was there. Doctor after doctor would come in and stick probes into the wound to keep searching for something, anything, and the room would spin in circles, and he would break, whimpering for more morphine. He lived for the next injection and prayed for death in between.

Then one doctor struck upon a plan, and when he was told of it, he begged to just be left alone to die, not to be moved, not to endure what was proposed but then relented when his wife asked him to try for life, to stay with her and the children.

They then brought a saddle into the room, set it up on sawhorses. lifted him naked from his bed and had him sit on the saddle, feet in the stirrups. The doctor then marked where the entry wound touched against the saddle, crawled under the sawhorse, and carefully drilled a hole through the saddle. He was matching up the trajectory of the bullet with how it struck him while he was upright, astride a horse. All the other doctors had probed his wound with him flat on his back, legs spread wide. This one doctor had figured they should put him back into the position he was in at the moment he was struck and perhaps in so doing a probe could find whatever it was that was now killing him. He reasoned that the bullet which had struck him had not creased up the side of the horse, but instead had gone straight through his mount's neck, then into the saddle and finally lodged in his upper thigh.

Several assistants now braced him as he sat in the saddle, feet forced into the stirrups, the mere act of bending his swollen leg a living, burning hell. The doctor was on the floor under him and took a long hooked probe out of his medical bag.

"Be brave, General," the doctor said, and then he slipped the probe through the hole in the saddle and into Hancock's body. Groaning, sweat pouring from his face in the ninety-degree heat, he hung on, gripping the hands of an orderly, struggling not to scream.

"Got it!" the doctor cried, and he pulled the probe out, its hooked blade snagged onto a tenpenny nail, bits of uniform, saddle, and rotting horsehair and flesh.

The wound exploded, decaying flesh and pus cascading out onto the floor, now that the plug within had been removed.

He fainted.

When he awoke the fever was abating, the wound still draining… and he was alive.

And since that moment the fear had eaten at his heart. Can I stand battle again? Will terror of facing such an ordeal again unman me? Can I still command?

And there was the other aspect of it. He had ordered the morphine to be stopped the day after the ordeal, but the wound was not healed, perhaps never would be, leaving a suppurating hole in his leg. His doctor had raged with protest when Winfield had told him he had orders to report to Washington.

'Three months from now, maybe," was the reply, "but for God's sake, General, you did your duty. I didn't put you through that agony and save your life just to see you throw it away. Let someone else carry the burden now. You have a loving wife and family to think of."

"Doctor, thank you for my life, but you are talking about what is now my duty, my country's call." With a smile he limped out of the doctor's office.

What he had not told the doctor was the wish that he could somehow take a supply of morphine with him. Its memory haunted him, its soothing call, the strange dreams, the easing of pain.

All that was set aside at this moment. A minie ball snicked past him. He did not flinch, though several of his staff did. It was a test, and he had passed it.

He looked around at his staff and grinned with delight.

"I don't think they've made another ball to hit me just yet."

"Maybe not you, sir," one of his men replied, "but maybe there's one out there for us."

The group chuckled at the gallows humor.

Infantrymen converted from soldiers of a Maine heavy artillery regiment were jumping off the lead barges, deploying into skirmish line, double-timing up the road to fall in with the cavalry skirmishers driving back the few rebs contesting the position.

Hancock waited for a landing plank to be laid to his barge before he stepped off, leaning heavily on his cane for support.

He looked around. A typical river crossing for the Potomac. He remembered it from an earlier campaign when he had crossed here on a pontoon bridge. The ferry was a standard affair, cable strung across the river as towropes, but the boat was gone, the position abandoned after the war swept through back in June.

With even a modest pontoon bridge it'd be an excellent crossing point, a clear but narrow road straight up to Frederick to the north and Leesburg, Virginia, a dozen miles to the south.

The low river-bottom ground quickly gave way to a rising slope which even now his skirmishers were taking.

He set off at a slow walk, heading up the slope. Pausing for a breath, he looked back. A bridge on the road from the ferry crossing rose up over the canal, and the barge crews were now using it to run their horses across, and with practiced skill the first barge was already being pulled back toward Washington, narrowly passing those barges still coming up.

Just ahead was what was considered to be one of the engineering marvels of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, the viaduct over Monocacy Creek.

It was a stone arched bridge, carrying not a railroad track but the water of the canal, flat and level from one side of the Monocacy to the other, well over thirty feet above the river's flood plain. The towpaths on either side were excellent crossing points for infantry and it was essential to hold this position.

He was surprised that neither side, at some point during this war, had not decided to blow this viaduct; it would have shut the canal down for months.

Looking back down the canal, toward Washington, he could see a long procession, boats riding low in the water, the men in high spirits. They'd been garrison troops for far too long, enduring the endless gibes and often scuffles with the men of his beloved and now gone Army of the Potomac.

He had felt a bit of the same disdain for them once. While his boys were up at the front, battling it out with the Army of Northern Virginia, the Washington garrison had sat out two years of the war, in heated barracks, with cookhouses, fresh rations, and even beds to sleep in. They had, however, won their honor with the holding of the city in July. Reinforced now by tough veterans from the South Carolina campaign, they were out of the city that many themselves had come to hate, were in the field on a new adventure, and had not seen so much action that they dreaded the next shock. In a way they reminded him of how he and his men had once looked, long ago, in the early spring of 1862, when McClellan had led them forth to the Peninsula, fresh, eager, neat, and ready for a fight.

He worried some about how they would react when they were hit by the hardened combat veterans Bobbie Lee would throw at them. He knew that in an open running fight he would bet on the veterans of field combat over heavy artillerymen converted into infantry. However, dug in, with a defensive role of stopping the rebs and not maneuvering against them, he thought his Washington garrison troops might just do the job. He was certainly going to do everything he could to stiffen their resolve and get them ready before Lee got to them.

He gained the top of the slope. The view was magnificent, the Potomac River coiling behind him, the canal with its boats, the sun low over the Catoctin Mountains to the west.

The last of the skirmishing ahead was dying- down. No casualties to either side, the rebel patrol far back now on the road, a mile or more away.

His staff was coming up around him, several of them survivors of the Second Corps who had escaped the debacles at Union Mills and Gunpowder River and who he had requested to join him now.

"Right here, gentlemen," Hancock announced. "I want a good survey done right now along this rise. We dig in close to the river."

"This close?" a major asked.

It was Jeremiah Siemens, his old topographical engineer when he commanded a division at Chancellorsville. Jeremiah had missed Union Mills, having been wounded at Chancellorsville, his empty left sleeve rolled up.

"Yes, here."

"No room for withdrawal, sir, if things go against us."

He knew Jeremiah well enough to know that the question was not so much for himself, but as an answer to those gathering round.

"There will be no withdrawal, gentlemen," Hancock announced. "Our orders are to secure every potential crossing spot between here and Point of Rocks." He pointed toward the Catoctins, ten miles to the northwest.

"That's here, Nolands Ferry just on the other side of the viaduct, then Point of Rocks. We leave five thousand men back at Edwards Ferry across from Leesburg, but the rest come up here."

The group, now including several officers from his First Division, were silent.

"If Lee should come on us with everything he has," one of them finally ventured, "we have to defend four crossings, and picket in between. He can focus on one point and outnumber us there five, maybe even six or seven, to one."

"That's why we dig in," Hancock replied sharply. "Jeremiah, I want surveys completed here and at Nolands before dark. Then up to Point of Rocks by dawn, but defending that position will be easy, it's a narrow squeeze down to the crossing and three thousand men there would be like the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. Remember, we don't have to defeat Lee by ourselves. We simply have to stop him long enough for Grant to catch up and hit him from the rear. If we do our job, Grant will do his. Somewhere along here Lee is going to try to get home to Virginia. We are the cork in the bottle to stop him."

Hancock looked upriver and then downriver. He made a summary judgment of what he saw and what he remembered from the maps of the region.

"No, I doubt that it will be Point of Rocks or Edwards Ferry. If Lee should turn, it will be here."

"That's a lot of work," someone said. "Our boys are good diggers, Lord knows. They did their share around Washington, but to make it secure, while also putting out pickets, keeping back Mosby…"

No one spoke for a moment. All had fallen silent, for in the distance, like a summer storm, came a dull, rolling thunder.

"Then let's start now," Hancock replied sharply. "The sooner we are dug in, the safer we will be. Make sure the men understand that. They are digging for their lives."

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Frederick, Maryland

7:00 P.M.

A cool evening breeze wafted down from the heights behind the town and Grant sighed with relief as the temperature dropped several degrees within minutes. Not like Mississippi at all, where the muggy heat would linger through the night. No mosquitoes either, and that was a blessing.

He had moved his headquarters from the town depot out to a low rise just east of the toll gate south of town. At the edge of the rise, a quarter mile away, Hunt was busy with his guns, crews digging in, throwing up lunettes around each piece, constructing rough bombproofs to store limber chests in. Occasional harassing fire came from the rebel guns on the far side of the river, but nothing serious, just a growling back and forth like two old neighboring dogs reminding each other of their existence. It dropped off as dusk settled over the countryside.

All orders had been given; Sheridan and Ord knew their tasks. Of Banks he was not sure yet, but his men had come up in good order during the day, filing down out of the mountain pass and falling in on the north flank. Banks's men, at least, he knew were good troops that had fought through the swamps of the lower Mississippi, though ironically many of the regiments were recruited from New York and New England. It had been easier in the first year of the war to ship men from there to New Orleans while the Confederates still held Vicksburg and Port Hudson.

They had seen action before, though not on the scale of battles here in the East, but he had a sense of them, that they were grateful to be out of the Deep South and eager to prove themselves… and tomorrow would definitely be a day of proving. He hoped they would rise to the occasion.

The orders were straightforward and simple. At dawn, all three corps were to engage: Sheridan in the center, Ord on the right, Banks on the left, with what was left of Mcpherson's Corps to be in reserve in the town. The three attacking corps were to go for the fords, but also force a general action up and down the length of the river for five miles or more, to fight like hell and hold Lee in place, to not give him a breather or the room to maneuver, but to lock hold of him and hang on. And they were not to throw men away senselessly. Ord, his blood up after barely taking the ford, was ready to do so, to storm straight in against a hundred or more guns. No, first we have to wear the other side down, exhaust them, and then let the plan unfold.

Campfires by the thousands were springing to light along the river, on both sides, the scent of wood smoke, coffee, and frying salt pork filling the evening air. To him it was a comforting smell, part of his life, a better part of the army life he had always loved. The day's march done, the men settling down, songs drifting on the air, rations being cooked, the first stars of evening coming out.

If only war were like this forever, I would love it so, he thought, but only if this moment could be frozen, not what had been or what was to come. Behind him his staff was having their supper, spread out on a rough plank table, the men laughing at a joke. They were used to his going off like this, especially before a fight, to be alone, to smoke, to think, to recalculate, to think again, in silence. Besides, the migraine still tormented him and the thought of trying to eat anything beyond some hardtack made his stomach rebel.

Was everything in place? Is there anything I forgot?

He knew it was senseless to try to reason those questions out now, and yet always he did it on the eve of a confrontation. It was not a question of resolve, however.

He had resolved on this moment on the day the telegram arrived from Lincoln bearing news of Union Mills and of his own promotion to command. He knew the focus of his task, to track Lee down, bring him to battle, and then destroy him.

So many would die tomorrow. He knew that; they all did, on both sides of the river. Even as the men around the camp-fires joked and sang, many others had drawn off. Some sat alone, looking up at the heavens, in wonder, in prayer, or, for a tragic few, in terror. Others knelt or stood in prayer. Some stood in circles around a trusted minister or simply a man of the regiment who everyone acknowledged "had the ear of the Lord." Some sang hymns, others recited psalms, a group of Catholics knelt before a makeshift altar while a priest offered up mass and then absolution.

Others wrote letters home, or if they could not write, dictated a few lines that a comrade would jot down. The darkness deepened, the sky a deep indigo, and he sat in silence, smoking, and watching the far bank of the river.

Home of Dr. O'Neill Near Monocacy function

7:30 P.M.

Emily looked out the window, watching as the hills to the west darkened, the last glow of twilight fading, a cooling breeze fluttering the curtains. "Emily?" "Yes, James."

She reached out and took his hand. Her father, on the other side of the bed, wiped James's brow with a damp towel.

"Is it dark out?"

"Yes, dearest."

He smiled.

"Thought I couldn't see anymore."

Reverend Lacy sat by her side, hand on James's chest. He looked over at her and she could see in his eyes that he sensed something.

He suddenly arched his back, struggling to take a breath, the struggle continuing for long seconds.

"Dearest, dearest," she gasped, standing up and leaning over him.

"You'll always love me, Emi?"

"You are my husband now."

"I'll wait for you. Please wait…"

He took another breath and then seemed to fall back, his body beginning to relax.

"The Lord is my shepherd," McPherson whispered as he gently exhaled.

"I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," Lacy replied.

She could feel his hand relax. Leaning over, she felt his last breath drift out of his body and, instinctively, she breathed in, as if by so doing she could take his soul into hers.

"He leadeth me beside the still waters," Lacy contin-^ ued.

She whispered the psalm with him, and when finished stood up and let James's hand slip from hers.

Strange, she felt as if his presence were still there and then was, ever so gently, drifting away.

Lacy stood up. He closed James's eyes and pulled the sheet over his face.

He was silent as Emily walked to the window, the evening breeze drifting in. In the west the evening star was shining. She knew then that if she should live another fifty years, every time she saw it, she would think of him, of this moment.

There would never be another in her life. There would be no children, no years of growing old together, of watching a family grow even as they faded away. This war had taken all that away.

In the fields below her, hundreds of campfires glowed. It was a beautiful sight, and at that moment she could see why her husband had loved it so. This world of men-of such violence-was a world also of comradeship. Behind her she heard muffled sobs, of her father, her mother, and of young Captain Cain, weeping for a fallen enemy who had become a comrade.

The campfires flickered and glowed. How many of those gathered about them tonight will be with my husband tomorrow? she wondered. How many wives at home prayed tonight, mothers and fathers, children and friends, and tomorrow their worlds will end as mine just has.

Would anyone realize that? she wondered. Yes, those who suffered what we have. But later, long afterward, would anyone care? Would anyone remember?

And long years from now, when others spoke of this time and dwelt upon its supposed glories, who would think then of those left behind? Who would think of a childless, aging widow, dying alone, hoping that her young love did indeed wait for her in heaven?

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 8:00 P.M.

General Lee smiled and nodded as Pete Longstreet came to his side carrying a folding camp chair. "Mind if I join you, General?" "Glad for the company." Pete unfolded the chair and sat down by Lee.

"Beautiful evening," Lee said.

Pete nodded in agreement, lighting a cigar and puffing it to life.

The valley below them was aglow with campfires, the evening air cooling, darkness cloaking the mountains, the woods, and fields. From both sides of Monocacy Creek came singing, some boys shouting out "Bonnie Blue Flag" and seconds later the other side of the creek echoing to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

"A regular song fest by the bridge tonight," Pete said quietly. "I dare say, those must be Irish boys over there; they have some good tenors.

"Strange isn't it? Serenading each other on the eve of battle."

"Happened before, week before Chancellorsville," Lee said. "They finished with both sides singing 'Home Sweet Home.'"

Lee fell silent for a moment, voice near to choking at the memory of it, the way it had started out with patriotic airs, then to songs from before the war, and then finished with the haunting refrain, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 'Tomorrow should decide it," Lee said, regaining his composure. "I hope so, sir."

"You don't sound the way you did that night before Union Mills," Lee said, looking over at his old comrade.

"That seems a long time ago," Pete replied meditatively. "Why?"

"It's just that they don't stop. They just keep coming at us. Before Union Mills, I saw it clearly. Lure them into that one great fight, which we did, and they would see our resolve and bring an end to it. And now, two months later, here we are again, another army before us."

He gestured to the campfires on the far side of the creek.

"Just about a year ago we crossed through this same ground. Just on the other side of those mountains we fought Sharpsburg, and I remember those campfires and the evening rain. Then the cold night before Fredericksburg and the thousands of fires."

The chorus from the other side echoed. "I have seen him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps."

Pete fell silent.

"It will end here," Lee whispered. "I hope so." "I know so."

Lee reached out and patted Pete on the knee.

"It will end here. That army across from us is the last they have. They will venture it tomorrow. We saw their first lunge late this afternoon, and they drew back and spent hundreds to our few score. That was just a probe, a test. Tomorrow Grant will come at us with everything he has. They will come again tomorrow, and it will be like Fredericksburg, like Union Mills."

Lee smiled.

"And you, my old warhorse, will hold the center."

"Yes, sir."

"Generals."

Walter Taylor approached and Lee could tell by his demeanor that the news was not good. "Go on, Walter."

"Sir, a message just came up from Doctor O'Neill's house. General McPherson is dead. Sir, my condolences, I know how close you were to him."

It was inevitable. Reverend Lacy had told him earlier in the day that it was only a matter of hours.

"And Miss Hamilton?" Lee asked. "Did she arrive safely?"

"She is now Mrs. McPherson. The reverend married them when she arrived."

"I see," Lee said softly and lowered his head.

Though Pete was present, he did not hesitate to go down on his knees. With bowed head he recited the Twenty-third Psalm, Pete and Walter joining in.

He was silent for a moment, reflecting on James, just how young he was at the Point, how enthusiastic and cheerful, always eager to help underclassmen, even protective of plebes, admonishing others one day in chapel that the usual hazing endured by first-year cadets was unchristian and unprofessional. It was an unpopular view with the cadets and even many of the instructors, who saw hazing as a way of toughening boys into men, but Lee had wholeheartedly agreed with him and admired his courage for standing up and speaking out.

"Miss, I mean, Mrs. McPherson. Walter, please convey my deepest sympathies to her. Inform her that when this crisis is over and time permits I wish to personally convey those sympathies but cannot do so at this moment."

"Yes, sir. I've already written out a brief note for you to sign."

"Thank you, Walter, but I'll do that myself later." "Yes, sir."

"Please be certain that Reverend Lacy stays with her. If she wishes to join a train back to Baltimore and to take her husband with her, we are at her disposal."

"Yes, sir."

He stood up and saw that there was something else. "What is it, Walter?"

"We've just had a scout come in. Says he is with Mosby and he carries a dispatch from him." "Concerning?"

"Sir, a large convoy of canal barges carrying Union troops moved this day up the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. They have traveled as far as Hauling Ferry, where they started to unload."

"How many barges? How many men?" 'The note doesn't say, other than 'dozens of barges.'"

"What about the courier?"

"He says it looked like thousands of Yankees. He got across the river just ahead of their patrols and rode straight here."

"Looks like they are trying to close the back door," Pete said, slapping his hands together. Lee nodded in agreement.

He was silent, looking again at the flickering campfires on the far bank. The Union boys had long ago finished their "Battle Hymn" and both sides were now singing 'Tenting Tonight."

"It won't affect us tomorrow," Lee said.

"I don't like it, though," Pete replied. "We've always had a way out of Maryland if need be. They're trying to block it now."

"It won't affect us tomorrow." Lee repeated himself, this time more forcefully. "So what if they block the fords and ferry crossings at this point? Once we destroy Grant, we can destroy each of those positions piecemeal. Scattering troops like that just makes it more certain that we can mass and destroy them. It will just take a little time. First we must win here."

"I'd feel better, though, sir, if we had managed to get our pontoon bridge across that creek and down to the Potomac. We've always operated in the past with a secure line of retreat if need be." 'Those days are finished." Lee replied. "And Grant-did he have a secure line of retreat in May when he crossed the Mississippi and hit Johnston's army and then moved north to invest Vicksburg?"

Pete shook his head.

"No, sir, he didn't. He took the gamble."

"And won. We are all gamblers in this game, General Longstreet. Grant wants to make us nervous. Let him. But if I was one who actually gambled with money, I'd bet a hundred to one that, come dawn tomorrow, Grant will attack. If. he attacks, we defeat him, then it is moot whether the crossings are blocked or not. It will be Grant who will have to try to escape us as we push him back on to that one road over the mountains."

"Grant will attack," Pete agreed.

Lee sat back down in his camp chair.

"The troops blocking the fords. They must be the garrison from Washington. If so, then so much the better. I will order Mosby to let them pass, then once up here he can do a night raid, get across the Potomac, and smash a few of the canal locks. Canals are even more vulnerable than railroads. Destroy a single lock and the entire section above floods out, leaving the boats stranded, while down below the canal gets washed to overflowing. They will be stranded, and we can either turn on Washington or finish them at our leisure."

Pete found he had to nod in agreement.

"I think you should get some rest, General," Lee said. "It will be a hard day's work tomorrow and we must be up early."

"Yes, sir."

Pete stood up and then, strangely, came to attention and formally saluted.

"Good night, sir. And please get some rest as well." "Thank you, General."

Pete walked off, trailing a cloud of cigar smoke, and Lee watched him leave.

Sighing, he turned around and gazed out over the valley, the thousands of fires flickering low, the song from the valley below becoming softer. This time it was "Lorena."

"The years creep slowly by, Lorena…"

James is dead, and so many out in those fields will be dead this time tomorrow… Please God, let it end here. Bring us victory if it is Your wish… and let it end here.