Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monocacy Creek

August 27,1863 4:30 A.M.

"General Hunt, sir." Henry Hunt opened his eyes. A sergeant was leaning over him, holding a lantern. He didn't recognize the man and for a moment was disoriented.

"Sir, you told me to wake you an hour and a half before dawn."

Henry grunted and sat up. A low campfire glowed in front of him, several enlisted men squatting around the fire, one feeding in small sticks while another reached out with a gloved hand and pulled out a battered tin pot.

Henry stood up, stretched, mouth feeling gummy, stomach a bit weak. He had misled Grant about the typhoid; it still troubled him a bit He stepped away to discreetly relieve himself, then came back to the campfire.

The men were part of his new staff. He was never really good with names and had yet to learn theirs, but they were about the business of morning chores, one looking up with a smile and offering him a cup of coffee, another handing over a plate that actually had fried eggs on it and a slab of ham.

He nodded his thanks, the men talking quietly among themselves as he ate his breakfast glad that it stayed down and settled his stomach. Finished, he set the plate down, took his cup of coffee, and stood back up and lit a cigar.

It was still dark, a mist rising off the river, filling the valley, pale moonlight reflecting off it. In the fields about him there was a thin layer of mist and wood smoke. Many were still asleep, or pretending to sleep, lying in their blanket wrapped in thought. Around low fires small groups were gathered, some silent, some talking.

He walked the few yards down the slope to where the right flank of his grand battery was deployed. A handful of men were still digging; most, however, were asleep, some lying curled up on the ground, others resting under a caisson or field piece.

He started to walk the line. Guns were well placed, inter-valed at ten yards, lunettes thrown up around each piece, some well built to shoulder height on the flanks, a bit lower in front to offer an open field of fire. The horse teams for the ammunition caissons had been unhooked and sent to the rear, a quarter mile back. Lunettes had been thrown up around the dangerous cargo, and bombproofs for the ammunition had been dug by some of the crews and even roofed over with logs.

As he passed, an occasional officer would come to attention, salute. A few offered comments. "We'll give 'em hell today." "How you doing, General?" "Wait till you see the shootin' my boys can do."

He acknowledged each one and walked on.

Every piece was a rifle, either a three-inch ordnance gun or a ten-pound Parrott. He had always liked the look of the Parrott, with its extra band of iron wrapped around the breech, and though it was more cumbersome to move than the three-inch ordnance gun, he always felt that it was a better piece for true long-distance work.

Ammunition was well organized. Each of the forward caissons carried but two rounds of canister-for use if by some chance the rebs did get up close; every other slot was filled with case shot or solid bolts. Each battery had one limber to the rear loaded just with canister if an emergency should arise. During the night twenty additional limber wagons, each loaded with two chests of ammunition, had come up; an additional two thousand rounds and more was on-the way.

Even now trains were hauling ammunition down from Harrisburg to Hagerstown, off-loading it to be sent the final miles along the National Road. Grant had assured him he would be kept well supplied.

He turned and slowly walked back to his headquarters. More men were up. He could feel the tension in the air.

There was a faint brightening to the eastern horizon.

"Gentlemen, time we went to our posts," Henry announced quietly.

East Bank, Monocacy Creek

4:55 A.M.

Phil Duvall, now a major, sat up and tossed his blanket aside. Sergeant Lucas was by the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. Their horses were calm, lined up on their tether line; a couple of his men were already up, tending to them, one brushing his mount down and talking quietly to her, rubbing her ear, the horse nuzzling in to him.

"What time is it?" Phil asked. "About five I'd reckon, sir," Lucas replied. Phil went over to the fire, extending his hands. There was a slight chill in the air, rather a comfort after yesterday's heat.

It had been a wonderfully still night. They were no longer down by the bridge. Jeb had assigned a couple of additional companies to him and told him to probe south at dawn, down to the Potomac, that there were reports of Yankees there. An easy day, he hoped.

Lucas handed him a cup of coffee.

"Better get the boys up," Phil said. "It's time to move."

Sgt. Lee Robinson of the First Texas stood at attention as steam vented from the train and it slowly began to inch its way down the track, a locomotive pushing a single passenger car.

The men around him were silent, saluting as the car drifted by, engine bathing them in steam, bell tolling slowly. It disappeared into the dark. He relaxed, looking around at his men. "A brave lady she was," one of his comrades whispered. Robinson said nothing. He had followed the orders General Lee had given to him, helping to carry McPherson to the rear. No other orders had come after that, and he assumed that he and his boys should stand by as guards, which they had done throughout McPherson's ordeal of dying, helping to fetch small things, some of the men volunteering to help with other wounded when there was nothing to do for the general. Their final task was to carry the body, draped with a Union flag, back to the rail line, since no carriage or wagon could be found. The widow had walked with them, never saying a word, and he had been overwhelmed with guilt, at times wanting to blurt out that he was the one who had shot McPherson. That would bring her no comfort, he knew; in fact, it would forever put a name and a face to the man who had killed her husband.

He looked to the west, to the dark sky, slill filled with stars. To the east Orion was up, a faint glow of indigo and scarlet spreading beneath it.

"Let's go find our unit," Robinson said. "That's where we belong now."

Sergeant Hazner stood up cautiously. The truce had lasted through the night, men gossiping back and forth across the river, but all had become silent as the eastern sky began to brighten, a Yankee shouting across, "You boys better hunker down now. The ball is about to commence."

The fog lifting from the river floated just below him, rising up so close it seemed almost solid, as if he could leap put of the trench and walk upon it to the other side.

He hated their position, the one that fate had cast for his regiment, right smack in the middle of the line.

After their fight on the heights, and in Frederick, all had figured that Lee would put them into reserve. Instead they had filed in, just after dusk, directly in front of where Lee had established his headquarters, the Fourteenth South Carolina on the left flank of the log blockhouse overlooking the shattered bridge. No one needed to be told that one hell of a lot of fire was going to be coming their way, and the work of the unit they replaced, though they had dug in, had left something to be desired. He and his men had labored until midnight deepening their trench, dragging up lumber to pile atop it, cutting back brush and small trees to the front to improve fields of fire.

When they paused in their work, they could hear the Yankees engaged in the same work on the other side, not a very comforting sound.

Finally, Colonel Brown ordered them to stand down at midnight and get some rest.

"How are you doing, Hazner?"

"Fine, sir," and he saluted as Brown came up.

"Still quiet," Brown said.

"Not for long, sir."

West Bank of the Monocacy

5:10 A.M.

Sgt. Washington Madison Bartlett of the United States Colored Troops was already up. It had been impossible to sleep. His men had been restless during the night, many sitting around the campfires, already using the old soldier slang for what it would be like to "see the elephant," meaning their first day in battle.

Some boasted, others were silent, many prayed. More than a few who could write spent the night penning letters, first for themselves and then for their comrades. A preacher who claimed to have been a recruiter for the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts had joined them just before leaving Philadelphia, Reverend Garland White, walked from campfire to campfire, kneeling with the men, offering a prayer, a few words of encouragement, then stood up and went to the next group and knelt again.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two letters: one from his father and the other, now almost in tatters from having been passed around so much, the letter from Lincoln. It was too dark to read them, but simply holding them was like a prayer in itself.

His father, at least, was safely back in the White House, personal buder now to the president. He wondered what his father would say if he could see him now, on this morning of battle.

"Father?"

He turned. It was his son William smiling up at him nervously.

He had been forced to play the role of the sergeant with his son since they joined the army together, ignoring him, yelling at him when need be, even picking him up a few times by his collar and pushing him to his task. But they were in the dark, alone.

"Afraid, Father?"

"Yes, of course, Son."

"I'm terrified."

He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"When the shooting starts, just remember to stay at your post with the other drummer boys and help the stretcher bearers."

He wanted to say, for God's sake, stay direcdy behind me, let me be your shield this day, but of course he could not say that.

"Your granddaddy is proud of you, William."

The thought of his own father gave him pause. At least his father was safe, a servant in the White House, who, until last week, when they moved out, had sent along daily and often eloquent letters about Lincoln and the reasons for this war of liberation.

He could feel the boy trembling, and he pulled him in close to his side.

"Granddaddy is proud of you, I'm proud."

"I'm proud of you, too," William said, and then with a loving gesture reached up and buttoned the top button of his father's uniform.

"You gotta look right for the men today."

The sergeant major laughed. The darn collar was too tight, but the boy was right.

"I will and so will you."

"Sergeant?"

He looked up. It was Sergeant Miller, company sergeant of A Company, approaching. The man was tall, massive expanse of shoulders, at first look a tough roustabout, but he was always soft-spoken, almost to the point of gentleness, in a tough sort of way. He sensed that Miller had been watching the two and Washington suddenly felt embarrassed.

"Go along now, Son, make sure the drummer boys are up and ready for business."

"Yes, Father… I mean, Sergeant."

He turned and ran off.

"I just wanted to report, Sergeant, that Company A is formed and ready to go." "Thank you, Miller."

Miller hesitated, then nodded in the direction of young William..

"How old is your boy?" "Fourteen."

"Doesn't it make you nervous, him being here like this?"

"Do you mean, could I leave him behind?" Washington said and then shook his head. "No, Sergeant. When he said he had to come, too, the way he looked in my eyes, I couldn't say no. It's his future even more than mine that we're fighting for now."

Bartlett chuckled and shook his head.

"Now his mama, now there was the fight, but I told her, 'Woman, if he's old enough to say he wants to fight for freedom, I will not stop him, nor will you.'"

"Still, a son," Miller whispered.

"You have any boys?" Bartlett asked.

Miller stiffened and looked away.

"I did."

There was a moment of silence, and then Miller, voice almost breaking, told about the mob fighting in Baltimore, how his son was gunned down before him as they tried to escape the city.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to go into your personal business," Bartlett offered.

"No, Sergeant. No, it's why I'm here today."

"The name is Washington."

"John here," and the two shook hands.

"I guess if my boy had been given the chance to reach fourteen he'd want to be here, too," Miller finally said.

"That's why mine is."

He paused.

"He'll be safe back with the drummer boys. At least I hope so." 'Think today will make a difference?" Miller asked.

"If we get into this fight, it will," he said sharply.

The two said no more, standing side by side, the regiment finishing its breakfast and lining up, the eastern light brightening.

The White House

5:15 A.M.

He arose early. Dressing, he slipped out of the bedroom, walked down the hall, and quietly opened the door to Taddie's bedroom. The boy was asleep, sheet kicked off, a toy stuffed dog on the floor. Lincoln tiptoed in, pulled the sheet up over his boy, picked up the stuffed dog, and set it beside him. It used to be Taddie's favorite, in fact, still was, though he would no longer admit it, saying such things were for little boys, but when it came time for bed he still had to have "Scruffie" by his side.

He kissed Tad lightly on the forehead, slipped out of the room and down the corridor to his office. His secretary, John Hay, as was so often the case, was within, asleep on the sofa, a scattering of newspapers and dispatches on the floor by his side.

Lincoln walked over to the window and opened it slowly so as not to disturb John. Down on the White House lawn below, troops were still camped, some of the very few still left in this city. A couple of sentries walked their beat on Pennsylvania Avenue, the two stopping for a moment, leaning on their rifles to chat. Then an officer approached, and they quickly resumed their monotonous pacing, the officer turning away. The man paused, looked up, saw Lincoln in the window, and saluted. Lincoln nodded, gave a friendly wave, and the officer disappeared into the morning mist rising off of the Potomac and the marshland behind the White House.

Lincoln went over to his desk, sat down, and, striking a match, lit the lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced the glass chimney. It was an ugly, elaborate thing, with three insipid brass angels holding up the base, that Mary had picked out at Tiffany's on one of her "decorating sprees" that cost so much it was still causing him headaches with Congress.

He looked at his desk. Nothing new had come in since he had retired at midnight. But it would start coming in, and quite soon. He put his feet up on the desk, tilted his chair back, and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep.

Frederick 5:20 A.M.

Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, rubbing his brow, walked out of his tent and his staff came to attention. Ely came up, offering him a cup of coffee. Ord, Sheridan, and Banks were waiting.

"Anything new?" Grant asked.

"Quiet on the other side except for digging," Phil reported.

Grant nodded. That had been a lingering concern, that Lee just might try to pull the first move, but he was not noted for night attacks. If roles were reversed, he would have ordered his men to stand down, to rest, just as Lee had done, other than for the front line of troops, who had commenced digging once darkness fell.

Campfires were flickering up, men cooking their morning rations, something he Jiad ordered the afternoon before. He wanted these men well fed, with full canteens, before the day started.

A few drums rattled, a distant bugle called. On the slope below him Phil's reserve division, the colored troops, were already up, beginning to form ranks. Backpacks, any unnecessary baggage was left behind; each man was to carry just rifle, haversack, canteen, and eighty rounds of ammunition. A surgeon was. already preparing for the day under an awning, his staff unloading boxes of bandages from a wagon, a stack of crutches piled up behind the awning, and two men were digging a pit to receive the severed limbs.

Out in the fields beyond, regiments were forming up, the reserve units, just beyond gunnery range. The forward edge of this fight was already down on the line, hidden within the bank of fog filling the Monocacy Valley. There was a slight temptation to order them in right now, under cover of the fog, but it would take a half hour or more for the orders to be sent, and in that half hour the fog would undoubtedly burn off. No, the plan has been set, don't change it now.

"You better get back to your commands," Grant said. "I'll come along later to check. Just remember your orders, our mission this day."

The three corps commanders saluted, mounted up, and rode off, Phil with a bit of a wild dash, saber drawn while standing in his stirrups. Yes, he was something of a showman, but every army needed at least one like that, just as long as he didn't go off and do something reckless.

Grant took the cup of coffee offered by Ely and walked back to where he had sat the night before, camp chair set up, the open plateau, the sloping plain down to the creek, all wide-open ground, except for the squared-off farmers' woodlots. It was getting brighter by the minute, the stars of Orion's shoulder fading, washed out, the horizon now a brilliant gold.

He sipped his coffee and waited, Ely standing by his side, silent. The sun broke the horizon, a brilliant shaft of light marking the start of the day, of August 27.

6:00 A.M.

Remember!" Henry Hunt shouted. "I want measured fire. I want every shot to count. You Western boys claim you're so damn good, now prove it to me!" His booming voice carried up and down the line. Gunners looked up from their pieces, officers standing behind them, gazing in Hunt's direction, his last comment producing some grins, but also a few catcalls about the kind of "damn" shooting he was about to see.

He waited a few more minutes, the red-golden orb of the sun now clear of the horizon, the top of the fog bank catching the light, wisps of it curling up like glowing streamers. A bit of fog and wood smoke clung to the opposite bank, but the higher hills were clearly visible. Behind him the Catoctin Range stood out boldly; looking back he saw the white tops of wagons coming down out of the pass, supply trains, an endless column of them, most likely clear back to Hagerstown.

He continued to wait, feeling the tension, for all of it now rested on him, his one command.

Again it was like Union Mills, when he was ordered to open the action, Meade by his side, waiting expectantly for the rain to ease, the fog and smoke to clear enough, so that he and his gunners could see their targets. The tension was the same, but this morning the air was clear, and what he wanted was directly in front of him. It was a bit similar to Union Mills, too, rebel batteries were dug in, but due to the twisting Monocacy and the lay of the land, he would have them in a partial enfilade. At least eighty guns lined the crest of the McCausland Farm, fourteen hundred yards away. Their only advantage was they were a good hundred feet higher, but still they stood out clearly.

One other thing was different. Grant was not by his side. They had discussed the plan of action yesterday afternoon, a brief conversation again just before sunset when Grant rode down to survey the position, and now he stood alone. He liked that. Meade had clung to his side throughout the bombardment at Union Mills and had even subtly tried to force him into actually taking responsibility for the ordering of that disastrous charge.

No, Grant was leaving him to do the job, and he liked that trust.

A few more minutes passed.

Scattered rifle fire began to crackle down in the fog, which was beginning to burn off, skirmishers opening up. It was time.

"Battalions, make your shots count!" Henry roared and then raised his fist. "On my command!" He slammed his fist down.

"Fire!"

The battle of Monocacy Creek had begun.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

6:10 A.M.

There it goes!" Walter exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. Puffs of smoke, scores of them, erupted from the Union grand battery a mile away, guns fired almost in unison. Lee stood silent, watching.

Approximately seven seconds later the first shell landed, impacting in front of the batteries rimming the edge of McCausland Farm. Then dozens of geysers of earth erupted, explosions in the air from well-cut fuses, smothering his own batteries in smoke and fire. A caisson went up with a flash; a gun upended, flipping over; another collapsed, pieces of its wheel flying through air.

The concussion of the guns rumbled over them, a continual roar, followed seconds later by the softer popping of exploding shells, and the thunderclap of the exploding caisson.

"So it will be our left," Longstreet announced, coming up to join Lee.

They waited, banks of smoke covering the Yankee gun position. No fire for several minutes, the smoke slowly clearing, and then a few guns fired, followed seconds later by dozens more.

His own batteries started to reply, and Lee raised his field glasses to study the result. Shots went wide, plowing up earth several hundred yards ahead of the enemy batteries, others struck behind it, one lucky, or well-aimed, shot dismounted one of their pieces.

Several minutes passed, another gradual rumbling, several more of his own guns were destroyed.

Lee watched, saying nothing. The Yankees were firing very slowly, deliberately, waiting for the smoke to clear. Well-trained crews rolled their pieces back up. Then section commanders took the time to carefully aim their piece, removing the delicate rear sight, stepping back, then giving the command to fire.

The guns at McCausland Farm were his reserve batteries, and crews were primarily infantrymen "volunteered" into the artillery after the huge haul of equipment at Union Mills. They had trained for the last seven weeks, but seven weeks did not equal two years of battle experience. It was going to be hell for them down there.

His own trained batteries were deployed on the slope just below him, the range to the enemy guns almost a mile-very long shooting indeed.

He had noticed it yesterday, the way Grant was deploying, and it demonstrated a good judgment of ground, and of target. He was tempted to order the batteries to pull back, but decided against it for the moment. It was a grim calculation. Pull back now and it might actually trigger an effect not desired, for Grant might hesitate, wondering what he was up to. Also, regardless of the measured pace of the Yankee fire, long experience had taught him that, over time, accuracy would decrease due to smoke, fatigue, due even to such factors as the heating of gun barrels, which generated subde changes in trajectory.

He knew, as well, that even if he wound up trading guns at four to one down at McCausland Farm, it would seriously cut into Grant's small artillery corps, and still leave Grant with well over a hundred and twenty pieces to face whatever came next.

"Walter, tell our batteries below to open up, but with very limited and controlled counterbattery fire."

"Range is rather long, sir," Walter said.

"Precisely why I want it limited. We have a lot of ammunition but should not be profligates with it at the start. Tell Alexander to pick out his best crews and have them start to reply. I want the Yankees to know we will not just sit back and do nothing."

Minutes later the first of Alexander's guns opened up. It was already getting hard to see the opposing battery. In the still morning air smoke was piling up, like a vast fog bank drifting slowly, mingling with the natural fog down in the river valley, which was slowly burning off as the sun cleared the ridgeline behind him.

All up and down the length of the river rifle fire was erupting. The Yankees had dug well during the night, establishing a forward line that at places bordered on the creek. Already a particularly bothersome spot was becoming evident, the railroad cut on the other side, the curve of track behind the destroyed depot The cut could almost be enfiladed by the guns of Alexander's main battery and the blockhouse. He sent another courier down, ordering him to turn his Napoleons in that direction.

The first of the wounded started to come back, the men who could walk, cradling a bloody arm, or moving wood-enly, face and scalp bright red. And mingled in with them were the inevitable shirkers, men shamming wounds or acting as if they were helping an injured comrade, the provost guards shouting out the age-old litany "Show blood!" and, if the man could not, turning them about with the flat of their swords, driving them back into the fight.

A half hour passed, the bombardment pounding McCaus-land Farm dropping off slightly, but still hitting in with a couple of dozen rounds a minute, the fire still well aimed, a dozen pieces on his side destroyed. He watched the men through his field glasses, ghostly in the smoke, standing to their work, firing back.

All along the front now, from north of the National Road bridge, to south of McCausland Farm, there was a continual blaze of fire, occasional spent rounds humming overhead, cracking into the trees behind him.

He pulled out his watch. It was not yet past six-thirty in the morning. Still no assault, but he knew it would come.

In the Railroad Cut

7:00 AM.

Phil Sheridan ignored the scream of a solid shot plowing in, striking the edge of the cut, then bounding up with a howl, passing over head. Still mounted on Rienzi he slowly trotted down the length of track. "How you doing, boys?" he shouted. Men, faces begrimed with powder, up on the lip of the cut, looked down, grinning, surprised to see a major general right in the thick of it.

Phil knew they had a special attachment to their old Burnside. He had to dispel that here and now, and there was only one way to do it, regardless of Grant's orders to not "recklessly expose yourself."

Hell, that's what a good general had to do at times. There are moments when if you do not lead by example you can't lead at all.

Another shot screamed in, this one striking the heavy barricade that had been erected six feet high across the east side of the cut to offer some protection from enfilade. It was made of piled-up railroad ties and rails, wrenched up during the night, the solid shot sending a fifteen-foot section of rail whirligiging through the air like a deadly scythe, cutting two men in half.

The blockhouse, just on the other side of the barricade was getting absolutely pounded to shreds. He had ventured a Napoleon for that position, but word was it was already dismounted by a direct hit through the gun port, but half a dozen volunteers, all of them sharpshooters had stayed on, peppering the rebs across the creek.

The best men of the three regiments holding the cut were up on the lip, taking careful aim as ordered, firing, then passing empty muskets down to men within the cut who were busy reloading and passing the guns back. Sheridan dismounted and crawled to the edge of the cut, stuck his head up, and looked to the other side.

It was hard to see anything. All was veiled in smoke, flashes of light rippling up and down the riverbank. The air was alive with the hum of minies zipping past, a splatter of dirt kicking up nearly directly in front of his face. He deliberately remained motionless for several seconds and then slid back down.

"Hot enough up there for ya, General?" someone shouted, and the men began to laugh.

"Not as hot as you're making it for those damn rebs!" Phil replied and a cheer went up.

He mounted and rode on.

Hauling Ferry

7:30 A.M.

The growl of gunfire was a continual wave from the north. Men as they labored on the entrenchments would pause, look up, talk to each other until — a sergeant came along and shouted for them to get back to work.

Winfield walked the line. It was easier than riding. He noted with interest how the Catoctin Ridge seemed to act as an acoustical reflector, like a cliff returning an echo, the sound of the artillery up at Frederick bouncing off of it, reverberating the length of the valley.

It sounded like one hell of a fight, and, for a moment, he regretted being here. But then again, at least I'm here, near it, rather than back in Philadelphia reading about it.

"General, sir." He smiled as Jeremiah rode up, his horse lathered, saluted, and dismounted.

He reached into his oversize haversack and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, opening it up.

"Sir, I'm sorry this took so long, but what with the darkness, I finally figured it was best to wait till dawn to finish my work, rather than make a mistake."

"You decide what's best when it comes to mapmaking, Jeremiah," Hancock replied warmly. "I trust you."

"Sir, I'm afraid you aren't going to like some of what I got to tell you."

"Go on." Jeremiah looked around for something to put his map against and finally opted to press it against the flank of his horse, who, completely exhausted, was now cropping on the rich pasture grass.

"I think we have to link the defensive line from here all the way up to Nolands Ferry. That means a front of over three miles. If we try to hold these points individually, particularly Nolands, Lee could easily flank it, moving between us here and there, roll the Nolands position up, and then have a means of getting back across the river, while blocking us at this position."

"That's a long front for this command," Winfield said.

"That's why I said you might not like it, but that's the lay of the land, sir."

Winfield studied the map sketched out by Major Siemens. He saw the point of it, that the Potomac behind them curved slightly to the north, cutting off Nolands Ferry from observation here, and also a shallow ravine cut down between them. Lee could force his way between these two strong-points, isolate one, then annihilate the other. He had to keep the two positions linked if they were to hold.

"It's one tall order for digging," Jeremiah said. "I've sketched out what I would like, though. Strong bastions here, then one every six hundred yards, right up to Nolands, thus providing interlocking fields of fire. One of those hundred-pounders in each of the bastions, backed up by several thirty-pounders, would make it a grand killing ground. We also have to drop a lot of timber to open up the fields of fire, however."

Winfield nodded in agreement.

"I've calculated the amount of digging it will take," Siemens announced. "Three to four days at least with the men available."

Winfield said nothing, continuing to smile, which caught Jeremiah off guard.

"Sir, I figured you'd be kind of upset about this news, but that's the way I see it. I've also drawn up some fallback plans, bastioning each of the ferries, but I'm not comfortable with it."

Winfield held up his hand for Jeremiah to stop talking, and then, with his usual dramatic flair, he pointed down to the canal to a line of barges unloading and to the towpath beyond.

Thousands of black men were moving along the banks of the canal, getting off the boats, slowly walking up the tow-path, pushing wheelbarrows, nearly every man armed with a tool-an axe, a shovel, a saw, a pick.

Winfield motioned for Jeremiah to follow him. Together they slowly walked down to the canal, the men from Washington, under a bedsheet banner, gathering around them.

"Mr. Bartlett, is it?" Winfield asked, approaching an elderly black man dressed in, of all things, formal attire of black jacket, vest, clean white shirt, and cravat.

"Yes, sir," Jim replied.

"May I introduce Maj. Jeremiah Siemens, my topographical engineer."

"You mean a mapmaker, sir?" Jim asked.

Almost involuntarily, Jeremiah masked a smile behind his fist. "Something like that, Uncle, but I'm also an engineer who lays out fortifications."

"Yes, I am an uncle, and a grandfather as well," Jim said, bracing his shoulders slightly. "I have a son and a grandson with Burnside's Corps; they're fighting even now up there. And I worked in the White House as the head butler before volunteering."

As he spoke, he motioned to the north and the distant gunfire.

Slightly humbled, Jeremiah dropped his condescending tone and extended his hand.

"Maj. Jeremiah Siemens." He paused. "Mr. Bartlett."

Jim took his hand formally. "How may we be of service to you this morning, Major."

Jim looked over at Winfield.

"Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said, "we need miles of trenches and fortifications in place no later than tomorrow. Major Siemens here has laid out the plan, but we are short of men, short by tens of thousands of the men needed to build them."

"That is why we volunteered," Jim replied.

Even as they spoke, another barge came up, several dozen black men getting off, then turning around to lend a hand with off-loading the barrels of salt pork and heavy small crates marked MUSKET ROUNDS,58 CALIBER, ONE THOUSAND.

Behind them, farther up the towpath, more men came forward slowly, having walked the entire distance from Washington.

"Well, Jeremiah?" Winfield asked.

"Ah, let's see."

Confused, he looked down at his map and then at Winfield.

"I'm waiting, Jeremiah," Winfield said calmly.

"Mr. Bartlett, I am hereby appointing you as my assistant and commander of the Washington Colored Volunteers," he blurted out.

There was a chorus of chuckles from those gathered round, a few cheers, and offers of congratulations to Jim.

"I want you to start organizing your men into groups of a hundred. Appoint a…" he hesitated, "a captain to command each group of a hundred, and that captain to appoint sergeants who will command ten men. I'll have my men down here within thirty minutes. One of my men will then lead each group of a hundred and will be assigned a section that we'll start to stake out, and your men are to, well, start digging in and cutting out trees to create fields of fire."

"What we came here for, boss," someone in the crowd shouted, and there was another chorus of cheers.

Jeremiah, still a bit flustered, looked over at Winfield, who simply nodded.

"I'll be back in thirty minutes, so I think you better get busy, Mr. Bartlett."

"Some of the boys are mighty hungry," Jim said. "They've walked all night."

Winfield stepped up and motioned to the men off-loading the barrels of salt pork.

"Our infantry came up with five days of rations. I think we can use the reserves for your men," Winfield said. "Mr. Bartlett, have someone who was a cook pick out fifty men to stay behind from the digging. They can set up kitchen areas down here."

He pointed to the ground between the canal and the river.

"Also, appoint another hundred men to work on setting up encampments, digging latrines, and making shelters for your volunteers."

"A lot of orders," Jim said.

"Welcome to command, Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said with a smile. "I'll countermand only one of the major's orders. You don't answer to him. From now on you will report di-recdy to me."

"Yes, sir," Jim said.

Winfield nodded and limped off, Jeremiah following him.

"What a blessing," Winfield said. "A message caught up to me from Elihu Washburne during the night, said that the colored men of Washington are pouring out by the thousands, maybe ten thousand or more, to volunteer their help up here."

"Lord knows, we can use them," Jeremiah replied, "but, sir, getting them organized, setting them to organized work. Building entrenchments, bastions, and clearing fields of fire isn't just simply digging a ditch."

"Who do you think built most of the fortifications around Washington? No one ever gives them the credit. I'm willing to bet, sir, you will find some damn good engineers, not formally educated but practical and experienced, back in that crowd."

"And what if the rebs come?"

"They will come."

"I mean, sir, what if they come and break through? Those men-" and he motioned to the volunteers who were now milling around Jim, shouting, asking for orders, asking for command positions, arguing with him that they didn't hike fifty miles just to be cooks.

"What about them?" Jeremiah asked.

"If it comes to a breakthrough, I'll tell them to fight, and they will fight. They walked here to help win their own freedom and their relatives' freedom. They are prepared to risk their lives as well as their sweat."

Two Miles North of Hauling Ferry 9:30 A.M.

Phil Duvall slipped up cautiously to the edge of the tree line. Yankee troopers and infantry occupied the ground just ahead, spread out in a thick skirmish line, hunkered down behind a low split-rail fence bordering an open pasture. It had cost him seven men to get up this far, and he knew he'd only have a few minutes before the Yankees began to push back.

He scanned the sloping ground ahead, this low crest dropping down into an open pasture, then undulating back up to a low rise a half mile away. An open ravine with a creek weaving through it dropped down to his right, leaving an open vista to the Potomac. He could barely see the canal. If he had had the nerve, he might have tried to climb a tree for a better view, but the Yankees on the other side of the pasture were proving to be damn good shots. He wouldn't last long in a tree.

One of his troopers, providing covering fire for him, knelt, took aim, and fired, and a split second later crumpled over, shot in the head.

Phil raised his field glasses and scanned the opposite slope and his heart dropped. All along the opposite low-lying ridge men were at work. He could see dirt flying into the air, the diggers invisible below their thighs in places. Curiously, many wore blue trousers, their uniform jackets discarded, white shirts standing out clear, but mingled in, in far greater numbers, were colored men. An entire woodlot of several acres was rapidly being cut down, trees crashing, teams of a dozen men harnessed to ropes, laboriously dragging trimmed logs up the slope. Others were taking the branches and weaving them into large oversize baskets, as thick around as a barrel and nearly as tall as a man, setting them in place atop the earthworks while others then shoveled dirt into them.

One crew, of well over a hundred men, working with a team of a half dozen mules, was slowly dragging what appeared to be a long black tube along the crest. He tried to focus in on it. It looked to be the biggest gun he had ever seen, one of the legendary hundred-pound Parrotts.

It was. Behind them, coming into view, was another crew of a hundred colored men, dragging a heavy iron gun carriage, the mount for the piece.

A spray of bark and splinters and tree sap smacked against the side of his face. He ducked back behind the tree. Two more minie" balls whizzed in, kicking up dirt to either side of him.

"Major, sir, I didn't ride with you for two years just to see you killed now," Sergeant Lucas hissed, lying flat on his stomach behind the tree next to him.

Phil looked up.

Damn, mounted troops, a hundred or more, were coming down from the crest, riding hard.

"Major, sir, really I think it's time we got the hell out of here."

Phil forced a tight smile and nodded. He had seen what he had been sent to see, and now it was time, as Lucas said, to get "the hell out of here."

"Come on!"

He stood up and sprinted to the rear.

Headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia

Monocacy Creek

10:00 A.M.

Why don't they come on?" Lee asked impatiently, pacing back and forth, looking over at Pete, who paced alongside of him. The firing had been going on since dawn. Of the hundred guns down at McCausland Farm, barely half were still firing. Ten thousand shells or more had turned the ground around the farm into a plowed-up wasteland, the brick farmhouse pounded into wreckage.

All along the riverfront the firing was continuing, both sides taking losses, but nothing that would even begin to indicate a clear decision.

A thunderclap rolled up from the south, another caisson going up, and that decided it for him.

"Walter, my compliments to General Alexander. Tell him to pass the word down to the battery commanders at McCausland to mount up and withdraw out of range."

Walter almost seemed to breathe a sigh of relief with that order. The men all along the ridge had been watching the duel since dawn, cheering when an enemy gun was wiped out, groaning when two, three, and four of those at McCausland fell victim.

Walter mounted and rode off.

It was impossible to see anything now. The entire riverfront for miles was enveloped in a dank, yellow-gray smoke.

"Perhaps that will draw him in," Lee said. Longstreet did not reply.

This fight was proving to be different. Grant was showing a cagey side, the hours of bombardment, as if to indicate he had ammunition to burn. And I do, too, and more will be on its way from Baltimore once the tangle of trains is unsnarled.

Burnside would have just come in blindly, Hooker would have at least made a lunge, then perhaps frozen, and McClellan… well, if it was McClellan over there I would have already crossed the river myself and gone after him.

For a moment he was tempted to order just that. To send Beauregard's men, who made up most of his reserve, into an attack, but the Yankees had dug in well on the opposite bank, and though they would not advance, he knew they would not give back easily.

So far we've most likely lost a thousand, perhaps two thousand, to an equal number. Something has to break soon, Lee thought. He has to come on.

Hunt's Battery

10:45 AM.

Damn good work, boys!" Hunt shouted. "Damn good work!"

Now mounted, he trotted down the line, shouting his congratulations, the men cheering as he passed.

"What do you think of Western gunners now, sir?" one of them yelled out.

The question actually gave him painful pause for a second, remembering the bloody defense at Gettysburg, the sacrifice of Stevens's Battery, the final stand in the cemetery. And all of them gone now.

He slowed, then remembered to stay in this moment, not to dwell on the bitter past.

"You're damn good lads and I'm proud of you!"

His response drew a cheer and he rode on.

The men were exhausted; many had stripped off their jackets, sweat streaming down their bodies. The August sun beat down on them; gun barrels were so hot that to touch them would fry a man's flesh.

As his batteries ceased fire, men were already swabbing and reswabbing the bores, the sponges hissing and steaming as they were slammed in.

Limber wagons were coming up, circling around, ignoring the incoming fire that still rained down from the center of the rebel line, crews rushing up to off-load ammunition and carry it into the bombproofs.

He passed an entire team of gunners who had been wiped out, all of them killed when a well-placed case shot detonated directly above them. Stretcher bearers ignored them, going down the line to pick up the wounded. Even in victory there would be the casualties.

Eleven of his guns had been disabled in the fight, wheels taken off, barrels hit and dismounted, or bursting case shot killing everyone gathered around a piece.

As always, the wounds to artillerymen were the most horrific. A solid shot had torn off the wheel of a Parrott gun, then slashed clean through the solid oak of the trail piece, killing or wounding the entire crew; one man was impaled against the side of the lunette, a spoke from the wheel driven through his stomach, pinning him to the wall. To Henry's absolute horror, the man was still alive, groaning softly, several comrades gathered round him, debating whether to try to move him or not. A surgeon came up and Henry prayed that the man had the courage to inject him with so much morphine that he would slip away.

He turned his head away and rode on.

Another shot winged in from the distant rebel position, this one either damn well aimed or pure luck. It hit a caisson moving up. The caisson, loaded with fifty shells and over a hundred pounds of powder, exploded with a roar, the entire team of six horses blown down, debris soaring heavenward. Seconds later a distant roar went up. It was a defiant rebel yell.

His own gunners turned, facing the rebs, waving clenched fists, vowing revenge.

Henry continued to ride on, inspecting his pieces. He knew the next stage was about to begin. The question now was simply when.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 11:00 A.M.

Grant lit what was now the tenth cigar of the day, coughing slightly as he puffed it to life, remaining motionless in his camp chair, just sitting silently, watching the fight. Actually, it was now impossible to see much of anything. No wind had stirred, the day was getting hot, typical of late August, with only a few puffy clouds overhead to indicate a storm later in the day.

The entire river valley was hidden in smoke, the rattle of musketry and the booming of the artillery incessant. And yet it had settled into a dull steady pattern, punctuated only by loud huzzahs from Hunt's batteries about twenty minutes ago when it became evident that the rebels they had been pounding all morning were pulling back.

A telegraph line had been run out from the town during the night. The men within the signals tent were bent over their strange machines and cases of batteries that emitted a strange acid smell.

The key started to clatter again, and he stood up, unable to contain himself. This had to be it. It had to be.

He realized he was making a display of anxiety and forced himself to turn back, acting as if he was continuing to survey the smoke-filled valley and the battle that thundered there, which, so far, had not changed ownership of even one inch of ground.

Ely was over at the tent. From the corner of his eye Grant saw his adjutant running toward him, grinning. "Sir, it's from Port Deposit." "Go on."

"Fleet left at dawn. Should be coming into position by now. Second report from observation post opposite Baltimore confirms the report." Grant smiled.

In one sense, it was a miracle. Here he was on this battlefield, and yet news from a hundred miles away had just been handed to him.

He took a deep breath.

He had held Lee's attention since dawn. Now would have to come the bloody part to keep that attention fixed. He looked over at Ely. 'Tell General Ord to go in," he said calmly.

Baltimore

11:00 A.M.

Mr. Secretary, I think you'd better come out and see this." Judah looked up at the Confederate officer, one of Pickett's men standing in the doorway of his hotel suite. "What is it?"

"Sir, General Pickett requests you come out and have a look. Something is up with the Yankees."

Judah headed for the door, leaving his jacket behind. It was another typical Baltimore summer day. The day had turned hot and sultry. Leaving the hotel, he followed the officer up the street to Battery Park. Scores of civilians were heading in the same direction, talking excitedly, and already he had a good guess as to what to expect as he crossed through the picket line at the entry to the fort and then up to where George Pickett stood, looking out over the harbor.

Directly below, within easy gunnery range, was Fort McHenry, its large garrison flag coiling and drifting above the fort. But that was not what was drawing interest. In the outer harbor a flotilla of several dozen ships was just visible in the late-moming haze on the water, dark coils of smoke rising from ships a half dozen miles away.

Pickett turned and bowed formally as Judah approached.

"Mr. Secretary, I think the Yankees are up to something."

"How long have they been out there?"

"Lookouts first reported the smoke an hour ago coming down from the north." Pickett motioned for Judah to take a look through a telescope.

He bent over, the telescope focused on a side-wheel steamship with three masts. It was a heavy oceangoing vessel. Its side wheels were churning the water, bow almost straight on. He studied it carefully. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if the deck was packed with blue… Union infantry.

At the head of the flotilla came a half dozen gunboats and four heavy monitor ironclads, guns pointing menacingly toward the city.

He stood back and looked over at Pickett.

"What do you think, General?"

"Don't rightly know, sir. But if they do move into the inner harbor, should I fire on them?"

"What did General Lee order you to do."

"Hold this city until he finished off Grant."

Judah could detect a bitterness in Pickett's voice. He made no comment about it. It had been reported to him that Pickett was heard complaining that Lee was blaming him for the devastation of his division at Gunpowder River, and that he had only been "following the old man's orders."

He wanted in on the fight now taking place out at Frederick and chaffed at being left behind.

Shortly after dawn everyone in Baltimore knew that something was happening in Frederick. In the early-morning silence all could hear the distant thunder. Window-panes were rattling and excited boys, climbing to the tops of church steeples, shouted down that they could see smoke on the horizon.

But there was no news, other than the fact that a bombardment had started at dawn… and nothing else.

An officer came riding up, arm in a sling, and dismounted, coming up to join the two. It was Lo Armistead.

"So what is it?" Lo asked.

"We're not sure," Pickett replied.

Lo looked through the telescope for a moment "It's an assault force," he announced.

Judah had to nod in agreement, even as Pickett returned to the telescope, bent down, and scanned the approaching ships.

"Who is it?" Judah asked. "Where did they come from?"

"First observations were that they were coming down from farther up the Chesapeake," Pickett said, eye still glued to the telescope.

"Then it's got to be that damned Army of the Potomac," Lo replied. "They just won't die, they just won't die."

"I thought we destroyed them last week," Judah said.

Lo looked over at him and shook his head.

"Yes and no, sir. Maybe ten thousand or more eventually got out. A few, a tough few. Last report was that old Sykes was in charge of them. A slow and deliberate man, but tough in a fight. We faced him at Taneytown.

"The Yankees also have marines that were stationed in Washington, some naval troops, even a few infantry and heavy artillery units stationed down at Fortress Monroe. Combine those with the garrison down there and we have a major problem on our hands."

As he spoke he pointed toward Fort McHenry.

"If we had that fort, they wouldn't dare to come into this inner harbor. Now they can land with impunity by early this afternoon. I wish now we'd taken that fort."

Judah looked over at Lo, suddenly filled with curiosity.

"Is it true, sir, that your uncle commanded the defense of this city against the British?" Judah asked.

"Yes, sir. He commanded the garrison in that fort right down there." Lo pointed to McHenry. "In fact the original flag from that night, the Star-Spangled Banner, is still in my family's possession."

"A curious war we have here," Judah said quietly.

Neither of the officers replied.

He could see that the fleet was drawing closer by the minute, and then, to his utter amazement, a flash ignited from the fort, and seconds later a shell burst directly over where they stood.

Judah ducked down, Lo by his side.

"I guess the truce between us here is over," Judah said, trying to act game, even though the explosion had terrified him.

Pickett slid down beside the two, the men within the battery scattering. Though they still had a half dozen guns in the position, none were currently manned, the other pieces having been pulled out during the feint on Washington at the start of the Gunpowder River campaign.

A half dozen more shells screamed in, exploding, kicking up showers of dirt, scattering panic-stricken civilians out in the street.,

"Mr. Secretary," Lo said, "I think you better get back to your quarters, pack up, and, frankly, sir, get out of this town."

"What?"

"Just that, sir."

"Damn them," Pickett gasped. "We've been hoodwinked. At least they could have shown the common courtesy to send up a flag of truce and announce they were about to fire."

Another shell screamed in, missed the fort, and blew up against a house across the square.

"I don't think it's time for courtesies," Judah replied. "General Pickett, sir, can you hold against that?"

Judah half-leaned up and pointed out to the ships steaming into the harbor.

Pickett looked at him coldly and shook his head.

"Against that, sir?"

Pickett was angry.

"My boys did their duty at Gunpowder River. I get blamed for it, I'm left with little more than two brigades, and given the number of ships out there, there could be fifteen thousand or more Yankees."

"Your orders were to hold," Judah said coldly.

Pickett hesitated, then reluctantly nodded his head.

"I'll try, sir, but I can tell you, before evening we'll be on the run. I suggest you, sir, get out of Baltimore now. Go up and join General Lee."

"There are some home-guard units," Judah argued, trying to remain calm.

"Maryland, my Maryland?" Pickett replied sarcastically. "A rabble. A few thousand. If that's Sykes out there, they'll mow them down. We're finished here."

"I shall tell General Lee your exact words," Judah snapped.

Judah stood up, tried to act dignified by brushing himself off, then ran out of the fort and down the street to his hotel. The crowd of curious civilians of but minutes ago was now a terrified mob, running in every direction. He saw one man leaning out of a window, tearing down the Confederate flag that hung from it, letting it flutter to the street, and then slamming the window shut.

A crowd came pouring out of a tavern down the street, some cheering, and with their cheering a fight broke out.

Madness, all of it madness, Judah thought.

He ran up to his room, grabbed a carpetbag, and quickly stuffed into it every document tie thought might be of value and two small heavy bags of gold coins, the official funds for his venture here. His black servant, showing good common sense, had just finished packing his suitcases.

Judah looked around the room that had been his unofficial office for the last five weeks. He had come into it with so many hopes and dreams, that from here he could engineer an alliance with France, perhaps England, perhaps end this carnage. Maybe Lee could still retrieve that, but his job here was finished.

He picked up his carpetbag and headed down the stairs. To his amazement the owner of the hotel confronted him.

"Sir, regarding your bill," the man said with an unctuous tone. "You have run up quite a few charges."

"You said you were honored for me to be here when I first checked in," Judah snapped.

"Sir, we are talking about nearly five thousand dollars. The bill for the champagne and oysters alone is rather significant." The man held up a long charge sheet. "And should I add, this is calculated in standard currency, not Union greenbacks," he paused, "or Confederate paper."

"Send the bill to me in Richmond when the war is over," Judah snapped.

He shouldered past the man and out on to the street.

To his amazement he saw a single-horse carriage come up, top down. It was his old friend Rabbi Gunther Rothenberg.

"Figured you'd need a ride," the rabbi said.

"In the name of the Eternal," Judah gasped. "You are indeed a friend. The rail yard of the B and O, my friend."

"What I assumed, Mr. Secretary."

Half a dozen trains had finally returned from the front and Cruickshank was back at work, ordering the loading of the stockpiles of ammunition, when he heard the first shell detonate, the explosion echoing against the brick buildings. All had stopped work, looking toward the center of town. Less than a minute later a civilian had ridden through, whipping his horse, crying that a Yankee invasion fleet was coming.

All work had stopped, the single explosion now followed by a continual thumping roar, half a dozen explosions a minute. The report of the panicky civilian was confirmed minutes later when a staff officer from Pickett rode in and took Cruickshank aside.

"We're abandoning the town," the officer said. "General Pickett orders you to load up what you can of the supplies, then set the rest afire."

The man had then ridden off without waiting for a reply. Cruickshank watched him leave, McDougal coming to his side.

"Well, General, looks like that's it for you." Cruickshank stared at him.

"Quite a few tons of explosives in those warehouses," McDougal said quietly. "Light them off and you'll burn down half the city. Now, frankly, I don't care about them rich folks, but it'll ruin us being able to work here for a long time to come."

"Orders are orders," Cruickshank said coldly. McDougal did not reply. He simply stuck his hands in his pockets.

Two more trains backed into the station, one carrying wounded, the second, a single passenger car. The second came to a halt at the main depot, and after several minutes an escort of Confederate soldiers came out, struggling to maneuver a stretcher out the door, the body on it draped with a Union flag.

"That must be him," McDougal said.

Cruickshank did not reply. He watched as the small entourage stepped down from the train and then walked off, a Confederate officer helping to hold up a young woman, all of them oblivious to the spreading confusion, the rumble of explosions.

"Cruickshank!"

He looked up and saw a small carriage coming across the yard, jostling and shaking as it crossed the tracks. He recognized the man as Judah Benjamin.

The driver of the carriage, wearing what to Cruickshank appeared to be a strange small round cap, reined in, and Judah stepped down.

"You've heard?"

"Ah, yes, sir. At least that there's fighting."

"There's a flotilla of Yankee ships coming up the harbor loaded with troops. Fort McHenry is bombarding our positions, and General Pickett will undoubtedly pull back without putting up much of a fight."

Cruickshank did not reply.

"Where's the telegraph station?"

"This way, your honor," McDougal said with a smile and led Judah off.

Cruickshank, unsure what to do next, finally turned to one of his lieutenants and told him to round up all the men of their command at once. They were to leave their packs, just grab their rifles, and come on the double.

He looked at the man with the strange hat in the carriage.

The man smiled, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

"Do me a favor, General," Gunther asked.. "Yes, sir?"

"Keep an eye on my friend. He has a hard road ahead, as do you. I shall keep you both in my prayers."

McDougal came out of the telegraph office, motioning to the train that had brought in McPherson, and began to shout orders.

With amazing speed the yard crew set to work, the locomotive and the lone passenger car shifted over to a sidetrack with a water tank, crew swinging over the pipe to refill the tender, other men scrambling to toss up wood, others with large oilcans checking the drive wheels, while yet others opened the journal boxes of the passenger car and, from buckets, slathered in hunks of grease.

"All but five of the men are reported in, sir."

Cruickshank turned to see his rough-looking detachment lining up, nearly a hundred men in all.

"Who is missing?"

"Oh, Vem Watson and several of his friends." The others chuckled.

"Where the hell are they?"

The lieutenant looked up at Gunther.

"Are you a man of the cloth, sir?" the lieutenant asked, features a bit red.

"A rabbi."

"What?"

"He's Jewish," one of the men shouted. "Go on," Cruickshank snapped.

"Well, Vern and his friends went down to a house of ill repute, said they'd be back by noon, and you wouldn't notice them missing."

Cruickshank sighed.

"Well, let the Yankees roust them out of bed. Now get aboard that train."

The men broke ranks and ran to the passenger car, piling in to overflowing, some scrambling up onto the roof, others atop the wood tender, a few even perching on the cowcatcher.

Judah came out of the telegraphy office, followed by several Confederate soldiers who had been manning the post. He walked up to Cruickshank.

"We're leaving now. That Mr. McDougal said he'd have a train ready for us."

"Over there, sir."

Judah nodded, walked over to the carriage, and extended his hand to Gunther.

"God be with you, my friend," Gunther said.

"Someday, when this is all over, come to Richmond as my guest," Judah said.

"We'll see," Gunther said sadly.

Judah. looked straight into his eyes, smiled, then, taking his carpetbag, he headed for the train. Gunther turned his carriage about and rode off.

Cruickshank found himself alone looking over at the row of warehouses stockpiled with munitions, boots, tents, heavy machinery that was to be transported back to Richmond to aid in artillery production, crates of tools, armored plating for ironclads, rail for track, machinery to make breechloading carbines, tens of thousands of horseshoes.

It'll take ten minutes to set it ablaze, he thought, and what a fire that will be.

He noticed as well that McDougal's workmen stood about, gazing at him. A few had picked up shovels, heavy wrenches, pry bars, axes, and picks.

He could order his men out of the car, one volley would scatter the workmen, and they could then level this damn place. In the distance he could hear more explosions and the distant crying of a mob, rioting yet again.

McDougal came up to his side.

"Your train is ready. General. You have a clear road up to Relay Station, then a thirty-minute delay until a convoy of a dozen trains passes on both tracks, though I dare say that plan will change now, what with you having all them locomotives up there and not wanting them back here."

A dozen locomotives, all they could have carried, Cruickshank thought. Enough' to equal two thousand wagons of supplies.

"Just one question, McDougal, and be honest for once, damn it," Cruickshank asked, gaze still fixed on the warehouse.

"Anything at all, General, sir."

"You were playing me double the whole time, weren't you?"

McDougal laughed softly.

"Honesdy? An Irishman to an Englishman turned rebel?"

Cruickshank looked him the eyes.

"Honesdy."

"Of course I was, sir."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't you if we was reversed? You know, Cruickshank, though you're a bloody Englishman by birth, why you ever sided with them is beyond me. Slavery, all that. It's no different than the way we was treated in Ireland or you in the slums of Liverpool.

"So if you be wishing to shoot me, go ahead. But my boys over there, they might not have guns, but you should see the way they can swing a pick or pry bar into a man's head when they got to. And if you try to burn the warehouses, that's what you'll face."

Cruickshank was silent.

"Don't do it," McDougal said quietly. "I wouldn't want our friendship here to end in a bloody brawl. Besides, you'll bum half the city down and things here are hard enough as it is. My men have families, as do I."

Their gazes held for several seconds.

"A deal then," Cruickshank said, "the last of our deals."

"Go on."

"Help me to load two or three trains with ammunition, and I'll spare everything else."

"How do I know you won't burn it anyhow, once loaded up?"

"You have my word on it." McDougal hesitated then nodded.

"Deal."

McDougal turned to his men and started to shout orders, Cruickshank doing the same to his own command, having them stack arms.

Within minutes hundreds were at work at a pitch Cruickshank had not seen once across the last several days. Cases of small-round ammunition were lugged out and hauled into boxcars or carted over to the train where Judah still waited and piled into the passenger compartment. Boxes of artillery shells, two men to a box, were trotted out and put on flatcars.

Locomotives were uncoupled while the crews worked, moved up to the engine houses, where fuel and water were taken on, grease and oil checked, then returned to the cars and hooked up.

It took little more than an hour to have three entire trains loaded up.

All the time the sound of gunfire was increasing, now counterpointed by the shriek of heavy shells, most likely from the monitors.

Finally, McDougal approached Cruickshank.

"I've given you three trains, as promised. They'll run fine."

The three engines were already maneuvering out of their sidings, pulling the precious supplies that could sustain the army through an entire long day of battle.* Again a moment's hesitation. Cruickshank looked back to the warehouses crammed with enough for a dozen more trains but already, across the far side of the railyard he could see a column of infantry pulling back, heading northwest, out of town.

"A deal is a deal," Cruickshank replied and stepped past McDougal, walked to the passenger car, and mounted the back steps. Leaning out, he waved to one of his men who was in the locomotive cab. The engine lurched, beginning to inch forward with a blast of steam.

"General, darlin'."

He looked down, McDougal walking alongside him. "What now?"

"You know you forgot my day's wages for today. Since I only worked half the day, that'll be thirty dollars in silver." "Go to hell!"

"Where I expect to meet you, too, sir."

McDougal reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it up to Cruickshank.

"We'll drink another when we meet in the lower regions," McDougal shouted.

Cruickshank almost allowed himself to smile. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long drink and climbed to the back platform of the train.

McDougal stood in the middle of the track, waving, growing smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed… the last train out of Baltimore, smoke boiling up from the city beyond.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

12:45 P.M.

"They're going in!" one of his staff cried.

He did not need to be told. Though the smoke all but masked the movement, he could see the dark columns coming down the slope toward his left flank, heading toward the same ford they had attempted to breach the day before. This would be the obvious point of attack now that his guns had drawn back.

Alexander was already redirecting his fire, shifting from long-distance counterbattery to direct support, pounding the heavy columns, which looked to be of corps strength, perhaps fifteen thousand men. At last Grant was committing himself.

He felt it was time to move, to go down behind the McCausland Farm, to see directly to the repositioning of the guns and to ensure the movement of one of Beauregard's divisions into a support position if the pressure on Hood's men down at the ford became too heavy.

"Sir?"

It was one of his staff, holding a note, his hand shaking. Lee took it and scanned its contents and felt as if he had just taken a visceral blow. It was from Judah Benjamin. He looked back to the west.

Was this coincidence or part of your plan? he wondered, looking toward what had been identified as Grant's headquarters area.

If planned, it was masterful. Seek battle here, block the river, for that report had just come in a half hour ago, and now strike my base of supply.

He looked down at the assaulting column, his own troops having opened up on it with a thunderous volley, Union troops by the scores dropping, and still it pushed forward.

He crushed the telegram in his fist.

Fine, then, he thought. Let it be here. It will take two, perhaps three days for whatever is hitting us in Baltimore to take effect. So come on and attack, and let us see how we match each other. In that time I will crush you, and then all your maneuverings will be meaningless.

He went over to Traveler, mounted, and rode down to face the approaching charge.