Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER NINE

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

Near Greencastle, Pennsylvania August 25

7:10 A.M.

"Excuse me, sir, I thought you should know. It's started."

Grant looked up at an excited Phil Sheridan standing at the entryway of his tent.

"Frederick?"

"Yes, sir. It was actually a reb dispatch, sent to Baltimore, but the line was open, and it was also transmitted up the B and O telegraph line to Harpers Ferry and also to Hager-stown. We had a Union man at the station there. He just dispatched it up to us here."

"What did it say?"

"It was a rebel outpost reporting from Frederick. Said they were abandoning their post and would attempt to hold the railroad bridge at Monocacy. Brigade-strength Union cavalry, believed to be Custer, in pursuit."

Grant sat back in his chair, rubbing his brow. The beginnings of a migraine were upon him, the tingling in the fingertips, a slight ringing in his ears. Why now?

He looked down at the map spread upon his desk.

"McPherson?"

"This morning's report, he's into Hagerstown, head of his column about five miles beyond." "Burnside?"

"Lagging a bit. McPherson pushed his men until midnight, Burnside had them fall out after dark. He's between here and Greencastle."

"I'm going up."

"Sir?"

"You have a problem with that, Sheridan?" "Well, sir. I'm sort of a fifth wheel here. I could go forward for you."

Grant studied him and yet again was glad of the decision to bring this man east. Sheridan wanted to go forward because he smelled a fight coming and wanted to be in the thick of it.

"No, Phil, you stay here for now. Dispatches and such are being routed to this position. Send a message back up the line for Ord and Banks and Hunt with the artillery to pick up the pace. I'm going forward. By the end of the day I should be into Frederick. I'm taking Ely Parker and my staff with me."

He sat back for a moment, studying the map. It was beginning to look like a meeting engagement. He had hoped to be able to secure the Catoctin Pass, perhaps even move all four of his corps down into the plains in front of Frederick, before Lee caught wind of his maneuver. If now, after the triggering of this fight by Custer, Lee came up quickly, he could block the pass and in so doing secure a defensive barrier that would allow him to maneuver as he pleased, either to retreat across the Potomac or shift the bulk of his force back on Washington. That thought was chilling, especially given the agreement he and Lincoln had arrived at only yesterday.

Send a countermand to Lincoln, suggesting a change? It'd take at least a day for that to catch up. It would show, as well, a loss of nerve.

No, we have to take the pass first and hold it.

"Keep them moving, Phil, and then report to me in Frederick by the end of the day."

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

Baltimore, Maryland

7:10 A.M.

General Lee, there's action at Frederick." Walter had allowed him to sleep hours past his usual time of rising. For that Lee was grateful, having been up half the night with Longstreet and Judah Benjamin analyzing the reports that increasingly confirmed that the so-called army coming down from the north was a sham, and that Grant was pulling a wide flanking march, either to cross the Potomac into Virginia or come out of the mountains at Frederick or Point of Rocks down on the Potomac.

Lee was already half-dressed, a servant helping him with his boots, when Taylor knocked on the door. He reached up, taking the dispatch Taylor was holding.

He scanned the message from the outpost at Frederick and put it down on his bed.

"Has General Stuart arrived there yet? What about the pontoon train?"

"Sir, a report came in about four this morning that the trains carrying the pontoon bridge were sabotaged. Wheels on the cars were not greased prior to leaving the depot and several caught on fire twenty miles east of Frederick. General Stuart got off the train and went on by horseback." 'This is disturbing," Lee said softly. "I thought we would have that position secured by now."

"Stuart's last report, sent by telegraph from about ten miles east of Frederick, a place called New Market, said he was riding up fast, the brigades of Jenkins and Jones were moving to secure the junction and hoped to secure the railroad bridge and the National Road bridge upon his arrival. He has two brigades of cavalry, compared to Custer's one light brigade."

"What trains are readily available down at the depot?"

"We have a convoy of fifteen trains forming up now, sir. Scales's Division is loading up even now. General Longstreet rousted his corps out three hours ago, and they are already marching west."

"But that will take two days for them to arrive."

"Yes, sir. But we are forming a second convoy of twenty trains to move by midmorning with Johnson's boys loading up."

"Good, Stonewall Division, excellent," Lee whispered.

He stood up, leaning over the map. It was becoming clear now. Grant meant to move over the mountains into the central Maryland plains at Frederick.

Lee smiled slightly as he contemplated that. Grant will only have one road to do his maneuver, while I'll have the railroad, the main pike of the National Road, and numerous secondary roads.

We get into position ahead of him, it will be the classic position for destroying an opponent, with him feeding troops in piecemeal while we are already in place… if we can get there first.

"Walter, get down to the rail yard. I want a train ready to take me up as soon as possible. Pass word to Generals Longstreet and Beauregard to keep their men moving west. The railroad will move up Hood's Corps and our artillery, then once that is done will start shuttling back to pick up the infantry."

"Sir, I'm concerned about this sabotage problem. It stopped our pontoon trains cold this morning. A few more acts like that could paralyze our movements."

"Tell that man Longstreet appointed…"

"Cruickshank," Walter prompted.

"Tell him to make sure every car, every engine, is inspected before departure. If there is a Yankee spy or agents working in that rail yard, men not in uniform, they are to be dealt with swiftly and harshly as spies and saboteurs."

He hated to say that, it went against his nature, but at this moment half a dozen provocateurs could wreck the entire movement of his army.

Walter saluted and left the room.

Putting on his jacket, Lee gazed once more at the map. So it was beginning. He'd have liked to have had two or three more days to rest and refit his men, but the Lord had willed differently. So perhaps this was now the moment after all. One more swift victory, to drive Grant back, and surely Lincoln would be forced to negotiate or collapse.

Monocacy Junction

7:30 A.M.

George Armstrong Custer crawled up on to the roof of the depot, standing up, using one of the two chimneys as a brace. Balanced precariously, he took out his field glasses and scanned the opposite bank.

A column of rebel troopers were coming up along the track that clung to the side of a hill on the other side. Men were dismounting, pulling out carbines, horses then being led back. He saw guidons of at least two regiments, hard to tell which.

He braced himself, leaning field glasses on top of the chimney. A bullet zipped by, another smacked the chimney in front of him.

There! He caught a glimpse of him and smiled. It was Jeb, Jeb Stuart over there, plumed hat, gold braid, a group of men standing about his horse as he pointed, the men saluting and running off.

So I've got Jeb on me. How many men? A brigade? No, not Jeb. He'd come on with everything he had, two brigades, maybe three, but it will take time for tliat column to come up the rail tract He turned to look north. He couldn't see the stone bridge of the National Road, but the morning was still, the last wisps of fog burning off the stream, and it was impossible to miss the plumes of dust to the north. More rebels coming that way?

Infantry? No, he doubted that. They had obviously caught the rebs by surprise here. It would be cavalry first.

Another bullet slapped a shingle by his foot, bits of wood flying up.

He looked back to the rail bridge. Reb skirmishers were on the other side, puffs of smoke. His study of the bridge confirmed his first impression. It was a temporary affair, made of wood that had been soaked with pitch and tar, smeared with grease and oil from passing trains. If not for the rebs on the other side, he'd have it aflame within an hour, but old Jeb, of course, made that all but impossible.

Another puff of smoke, another bullet zipping dangerously close.

The rebs on the far side of the bridge were hunkered down behind support beams, a few sprawled on their stomachs on the tracks, others down in brush along the stream embankment. The volume of fire was beginning to pick up as the first of their reinforcements sprinted along the track, spreading out, finding cover. For an instant he thought he could catch a glimpse of Phil, waving his arm, standing up, pointing out a position, then quickly ducking down as a volley rang out from his own side.

He looked to his left, at the covered bridge for the toll road. On the far side reb skirmishers were already deploying. The bridge was double-wide. A column would take casualties but could indeed storm it if he didn't act quickly.

Taking a deep breath, he slid down the roof, leapt to the awning, and ducked through a window, bullets pocking the wall around him.

"Sir, I think that was rather bold of you," a sergeant quipped, looking up at Custer as he landed in the room, "and frankly, sir, damn stupid."

Custer gazed at him for a second then broke into a grin.

A bullet slammed through the room, passing clean through the plank siding and plaster interior.

Cursing, the sergeant knelt, aimed through the window where Custer had just entered, and fired back.

Custer looked around the room. A dead reb lay in the comer, two more of them, wounded, sitting by the body. The face of one of the rebs was a smear of blood, eyes swollen shut.

He ran down the stairs and out behind the depot. Men of the Fifth Michigan were swarming across the spur line, dropping behind stacks of railroad ties, woodpiles, anything that could offer protection.

Colonel Town was already waiting for him, as was Alger of the Fifth and Colonel Gray of the Sixth. He had already sent orders back to Colonel Mann to take his entire command to block the National Road bridge.

"It's going to get hot," Custer announced. "I saw Jeb Stuart over there. A brigade is coming up. I suspect he'll have another one or two up shortly."

"Let 'em come," Town growled. "We got this side now and we'll hold it."

Custer grinned, then shook his head.

"If I knew we had infantry coming up, I wouldn't worry, but we don't know. Colonel Town, get a couple of your troopers, ones with the best mounts. Send them west on the National Road toward Hagerstown. Have them report to whoever is at the head of the infantry column they should find. Tell them we're holding the west bank of the Monocacy and will attempt to burn the bridge, but we need support."

"That thing? We can burn that in no time," Town said, leaning around the side of the depot for a few seconds to point at the bridge. A bullet whacked into the clapboard siding beside his face.

Custer laughed softly when he pulled back.

"See what I mean? We have to do it under fire, and it's going to get worse. We just can't send men out there with kindling and coal oil, they'll get mowed down."

The three colonels around him nodded in agreement.

"Mann is to hold the north flank. Alger, you hold the center here with your Fifth. I doubt if they'll try and rush the bridge, but they might get desperate and try it. Gray, for the moment you'll be in reserve. Move your boys back to that woodlot behind us, keep them mounted, though, and ready to move quick to where I need them. Town, your boys get the right flank. And I want that covered bridge burned as well before they try and get a column across. It should be easier than burning the rail bridge.

"I sent some men up to Frederick. There's a couple of locomotives there. Check with your own men, anybody who has railroading experience, detail them off to go back to town and help out. We're going to take those two trains, get them on the bridge, and blow them. That should take things down."

"Should be fun," Town said.

"Unless you're on the train," Gray replied.

Monocacy Creek

7:45 A.M.

"Jenkins, Jones, we cannot let the Yankees burn that bridge!" Jeb Stuart, with his two brigade commanders, stood pointing out the window of the top floor of the mill just south of the railroad track and north of the toll road on the east bank of the Monocacy.

The volume of carbine fire was rapidly increasing as the first of Jenkins's men, of the Fourteenth Virginia, dismounted and pushed down to the river's edge. Behind them the men of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth were dismounting as well, forming up to go in.

"We keep it under fire," Jenkins offered, "and there is no way in hell they can get out on to it and set it ablaze."

"From what I've heard so far about this Custer, he's impetuous," Jeb said. "Remember, he did fight his way out after Union Mills. He might try anything."

Jeb walked to the other side of the top floor of the mill and looked over at the covered bridge just south of the railroad. With his field glasses he could see Yankees deployed across the front of that bridge and along the riverbank. He studied them intently and saw that some of them were bringing up armloads of wood, kindling. So they were going to burn that first. Good move, he'd have done the same.

"Jenkins, think you can storm that bridge?" Jeb asked.

Jenkins looked out the window, studying the double-spanned bridge for a long moment.

"It's over a hundred yards long, sir. We try to charge that, we'll have four men across inside the bridge, but one volley and our boys will get tangled up."

"I want that bridge," Jeb said. "We take it, we flank Custer, then drive him back from the depot."

"Sir, do it on horseback, I don't know. Two or three wounded horses inside a covered bridge…" His voice trailed off. They were all experienced enough to know that inside a covered bridge a few downed horses could stop an entire charge.

"Your boys of the Thirty-fourth, are they still mounted?" "Coming up now, sir."

Jeb hesitated, then looked over reassuringly at Jenkins.

"We've got to try. Send them in. The Yankees will have that bridge afire in a few more minutes. Send in the Thirty-fourth. First company mounted, the rest on foot behind them. With luck your first company can rush it, then the dismounted men secure it."

Jenkins nodded, but his features were grim, as if Jeb had just given a death order.

"There must be fords along this river. It's not that deep."

"Send out patrols to look for them, but I want that bridge now. We fail in that, well, then try to find the fords. Get the boys of the Thirty-fourth ready. Have the rest of your men sweep the rail bridge with carbine fire. How long before some artillery comes up?"

"Jackson with the Charlottesville Battery is still an hour or more off, sir," Jenkins said.

"Send a courier back and tell them to move it, to move it! The next hour could be the decisive hour."

He turned on Jones.

"You have the north flank. If you think you can rush the National Road bridge, do it now! Probe for fords. Secure your left flank to Jenkins's right."

"What kind of reinforcements can we expect?" Jones asked.

"Fitz Lee's boys are back at Sykesville. I've pulled them off shadowing the north and I'm bringing them here, but it will be midday or later before they come up. Scales's infantry division was supposedly loading up in Baltimore after midnight. They should be up any time now."

"Artillery with them?" Jenkins asked. "A battalion of artillery could smother those damn Yankees, and push them back."

"A couple more batteries. Combined with the Charlottesville boys and your light battery, we can pound the hell out of them, but that is still hours away. I want that covered bridge before then, and once we take it, we flank Custer and secure the rail bridge."

He pointed toward the distant crest of the Catoctin Range, four miles away, standing out dark blue in the morning light.

"I'm not sure when, but today most likely, Grant and his infantry will come pouring out of that pass up there. He's only got one road to traverse those mountains. We take the ridge and block the road, we got the bastard bottled, no mistake. General Lee wants us to secure that pass and then the Yankees will bleed themselves white trying to get over it. I want that ridge today, and not just the railroad. Now move it!"

Baltimore and Ohio Bail Yard

8:00 A.M.

"God damn it, McDougal, now what!" Cruickshank roared. A billowing vent of steam was blowing out from the lead locomotive of the convoy. The engineer was out of his cab, stamping his feet, cursing, looking around, bewildered.

McDougal, cursing, left Cruickshank's side and ran up to the engine, stopping at the edge of the plume of scalding steam.

"Stephens, you stupid son of a bitch!" McDougal roared. "What happened?"

The engineer looked back at him and then simply shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes were focused nervously on Cruickshank, who was up by McDougal's side.

"I don't know, sir. I started to feed in steam to get moving and a line just blew wide open."

"Well, shut the damn thing down," McDougal screamed, trying to be heard above the high-pitched whistling roar of the venting steam.

Stephens climbed back into the cabin, worked a valve, and the roar drifted down to a whisper. McDougal cautiously approached the locomotive, shaking his head, and then pointed toward the steam line that fed into the left-side cylinder of the locomotive.

"Busted, sir," McDougal sighed. "Just blown wide open. It'll have to be replaced."

"How long?"

"Four hours at least." 'Too many things have broken, McDougal."

"You accusing me of somethin', sir?"

Cruickshank raised his arms, then slapped his sides in exasperation. He looked back down the line. Fifteen trains were fully loaded with an entire division of infantry, men piled so thick on the cars that many were riding on the cowcatchers of the locomotives, the wood tenders, and atop the boxcars.

The locomotive that had just broken down was the lead one in line.

"Get this wreck pushed out of the way," Cruickshank said. "How?"

"You idiot, the locomotive behind it." 'Too much weight sir."

"Then damn you, disconnect it from its own train, push this wreck to a side track, and clear the line. I need this convoy moving now. General Lee will be here any minute; I need an express for him as well.

"Just move 'em," Cruickshank shouted.

"What about the broken-down train with the pontoon bridge on the single-track section?" McDougal asked.

Cruickshank stepped closer to McDougal. They were of the same height and build and anyone watching would have expected a brawl to break out.

"I'm raising your pay to fifty dollars a day in silver," Cruickshank said coldly. 'Telegraph up the line, make sure those pontoon trains are clear of the single track. This division needs to move up now. But so help me, McDougal, I'll string you up myself if I think you're playing double with me."

"Me, sir, at fifty dollars a day?" McDougal laughed. "Like hell, sir. I'll take care of you."

The Toll Road on Monocacy Creek

8:15 A.M.

Colonel Witcher of the Thirty-fourth Virginia nervously turned and looked back at his men. First company was mounted, guidon at the front. Behind them, the rest of his command was dismounted, carbines and pistols out, the men in a column stretching up the road for fifty yards.

He lowered his head, whispering a silent prayer, then drew his saber and pointed toward the bridge, its roof just visible through the trees. "Bugler, sound the charge!"

Custer was just riding down to the covered bridge when he heard the high clarion notes of the charge. The west end of the bridge was beginning to smoke.

Someone had found a can of coal oil in a nearby farmhouse, cut it open with a knife, and was hurling the contents on to the shingled siding. Troopers were sprinting up, tossing loads of kindling against the side of the bridge, then dodging for cover. Three men were already down, one of them dead by the side of the bridge.

George urged his mount to a gallop, riding down the length of track, reining in where the toll road crossed the track and looked straight down the tunnel-like length of the bridge, the interior already coiling with smoke, the sides licked by flames.

He saw the head of the charging column appear at the far end.

"Someone get back to Gray," he shouted. "He's in reserve back in the woodlot a few hundred yards north of here. I need him here now!"

The entry to the bridge was directly ahead, and Witcher caught a glimpse of a sign WALK YOUR HORSES WHEN CROSSING.

He leaned into the neck of his mount. Once into the dark tunnel of the bridge the noise was stunning, pounding hooves, echoes doubling and redoubling off the roof, the walls, the floor of the bridge, men shouting. A Yankee trooper, hunched down by a support beam at midpoint, was out from concealment, running, the far end obscured by smoke, licks of flame. No gunfire yet.

Thirty seconds, dear God, thirty seconds and we're across and back into the open.

The charge thundered forward, men shouting, a few shots, men caught in the madness of the charge, firing pistols blindly.

Saber out, he pointed the way, leaning forward, caught in the madness of a charge across a bridge, yelling insanely.

Half way across, fifty yards, ten seconds, five seconds, and we're out.

The smoke was blinding, he couldn't see, his mount nervous, slowing at the sight of the flames licking the walls on the far side. He spurred her viciously; the horse lunged forward.

Almost out of the smoke.

And then he saw it. A double file of Yankee troopers, standing, carbines lowered. A suddenly flash, and then just a quiet stillness and a slipping away.

The lead horses of the charge collapsed not ten yards away, riders thrown, men and horses screaming, tangling up. The third and fourth ranks of the column colliding with the horses that were already down, more men falling, a lone horse jumping the tangle, the rider superbly keeping his saddle, crashing into the double file of the volley line, slashing left and right with saber, two men staggering back, screaming, one just collapsing, a headless corpse. "Reload! Reload and fire!" Custer roared. Men were levering open their carbines, slamming in rounds, cocking pieces, firing blindly into the smoke. Another horse came out, riderless, then two more, men still holding their saddles, one with pistol out, firing, emptying his cylinder, then pitching backward off his horse.

The bridge echoed with a roaring shout. Through an eddy in the smoke George saw a packed column of dismounted troopers racing forward.

More of his men from the First were up on their feet, running up, forming a volley line three ranks deep, a lieutenant shouting for volley fire.

The men reloaded, waiting the extra few seconds. Several pitched over even as they waited. "Present! Fire!"

The interior of the covered bridge was now all smoke and confusion. Men screaming, cursing, a horse with a broken leg staggering out in blind panic, knocking its way through the volley line, a trooper coming up to its side and putting a bullet in its head, the animal collapsing and the same trooper then dropping down behind it, reloading his carbine.

George had his revolver out, drawn, cocked, waiting… and then the charge hit with full fury, two hundred dismounted cavalry of Virginians swarming forward, pistols, carbines, sabers out His thin volley line began to step back, men dropping carbines, drawing revolvers, blazing away.

George felt something slap his left arm, numbing it. He pivoted on his mount, saw a rebel trooper with pistol raised, cocking his revolver, and George dropped him with two shots. The rebels were out of the bridge, beginning to swarm outward, pushing the men of the First back, but as they emerged from the bridge they stepped into a firestorm. Troopers hunkered down in the ravine that Duvall's men had held but two hours ago now turned and poured in a withering fire. Few rebs made it more than a dozen feet before collapsing.

George caught a glimpse of men still inside the bridge, tearing off their jackets, using them to beat out the flames that were licking up the sides of the bridge. The one side, soaked with the can of coal oil, was now burning hotly, but it could still be stopped.

"Come on, boys!" Custer shouted. 'Take it back!"

Men from the ravine flanking the bridge stormed forward, and a mad bloody melee ensued at close range. Troopers firing into each other's faces from not five feet away, men down on the ground grabbing, kicking, punching.

He heard a bugle call from behind him, looked back, and saw Gray riding down hard, a ragged line of mounted troopers behind him. George stood in his stirrups and waved, cheering them on.

The mounted column slammed into the melee. His boys on horseback firing left and right, pushing their way through the confused struggle… and the rebs began to fall back, one or two at first, and then within seconds the entire command, turning and running.

Gray, caught in the madness of the moment, pushed into the flaming bridge, saber drawn, slashing to either side, his mount jumping the tangle of dead and dying horses. The column thundered down the bridge, pursuing the retreating rebs across its entire length.

Custer fell in with the column, his mount screaming with fear as they pushed through the flames licking up the side of the bridge and over the blood-soaked bodies. Dozens of Union troopers were inside the bridge, yelling, cursing, firing blindly. Far ahead he could see that Gray had reached the far side in pursuit, and then was blocked seconds later by a volley that dropped half a dozen men around him.

"Sound recall!" Custer roared.

But he did not need to give the order. Already Gray had turned — about, the turn difficult in the tight confusion of the bridge, more men dropping.

The survivors of Gray's countercharge emerged, Gray leading the way, hat gone, blood streaming down the side of his face. The men were panting, some cursing, others filled with the wide-eyed look of troopers who had known the moment, the thrill of a charge, the driving of their enemies.

"Good work, Gray. Now get your boys back in reserve!"

Gray gasping for air, nodded, saluted, and shouted for the men of the regiment to follow him back.

All around Custer was chaos. Half a hundred or more men were down, dead, wounded, screaming, their screams mingled with the pitiful screams of the horses and those of the wounded trapped on the burning bridge.

The bridge was now ablaze. Flames licking along the eaves, gradually spreading toward the center of the span. In short order it would spread to the underpinnings, the support beams, the dry wooden floor. For the moment his right flank was secure.

He caught the eye of a sergeant and motioned him over.

"Sergeant, get a flag of truce. Tell Jeb Stuart my compliments, but I'm asking for a fifteen-minute truce on this bridge to get the wounded and dead off before they burn."

The screams of the horses and men caught in the flames were horrific.

"And for God's sake, shoot those poor animals. They deserve better than to die like that."

Jeb Stuart lowered his field glasses, shaking his head. He had spotted the Yankee trooper waving a white flag on the far side of the bridge and sent word down to honor it. The bridge was rapidly disappearing in flames, smoke billowing hundreds of feet into the air, and it was obvious they were trying to rescue as many of the wounded as possible.

Damn all. For a brief instant he thought Witcher had actually carried the bridge. Now it was going to take time, scouting, finding a ford that could be taken without too much loss.

Nothing yet at the railroad bridge, just heavy skirmishing fire back and forth. Word had just come that the light battery of the Charlottesville Artillery was even now arriving, and he had sent a courier back to guide it into place next to the blockhouse that looked down on the bridge. The Yankees had no artillery yet to counter with, a carbine was next to useless much beyond three hundred yards, and with the guns he could dominate the position. For starters, they could flatten the depot.

Frederick

9:10 A.M.

Lieutenant Schultz, what the hell is holding you up?" Schultz looked up in surprise. It was Custer, left arm hanging limp, blood dripping from his fingertips. "General, you're hurt."

"Don't bother me with that now. I want to know what the hell is going on with these locomotives!"

"Sir. The boilers were dead cold. We had to get them fired up. It's taking time to build up a good head of steam."

"How long?"

"Another hour at least."

Even as they spoke Custer turned in his saddle to look back toward the river where a different sound had just mingled in with the cacophony of battle-artillery fire.

A couple of dozen men were gathered around the locomotives, cavalry troopers, one of them a corporal, obviously having taken charge, shouting orders. Custer rode up to him, and the corporal saluted.

"Who are you?"

"Tyler, sir. Rick Tyler, First Michigan." "Why are you here?"

"Was an engineer for three years before the war. Heard the word you needed railroad men up here, sir, so came up to help out."

"You're in charge then, Tyler, and I'm promoting you to sergeant. Will make you a lieutenant if you pull this off. Now why is it taking so damn long?"

"It's a cold start, sir. Got to get into the firebox, build a fire from scratch, start shoveling wood in. Then heat the water to a boil, build up steam pressure. It ain't healthy, but I'm throwing some coal oil in to get it going faster."

"Coal oil?"

"We're in luck, sir. Found five hundred gallons or more of it, sir, in that warehouse over there. We're going to put it all in the passenger cars pulled by the trains. Also found some turpentine, barrels of grease as well. That will really let go."

"Any blasting powder?"

"None to be found, sir. We've been asking around, but folks here say it was all cleaned out by the armies passing through. Also, sir, found a third locomotive in that engine shed over there. It's an old teakettle, twenty years old at least, but we're firing that one up as well."

"At least an hour, then?" Custer asked, and even as he spoke he fought down the light-headedness overtaking him.

"Sir, to be honest, two hours, but I'll push it. We need a damn good head of steam if you want to do it right."

"Why's that?"

"Well, sir. Figure once we get the train on the bridge I can smash down the safety valves. The fire in the passenger cars, they'll burn, but it will burn up, sir, not down. It might damage the bridge but they can still fix it. I seen that happen once with a string of boxcars just outside of Detroit that caught fire on a bridge. The bridge was back in service the next day. We get the boiler to explode, though, and, well, sir, that'll be a helluva show."

"Good work," Custer said softly.

"General?"

He looked over to Schultz, a regimental surgeon from the Fifth who was by his side. "Let me look at that arm." "Not now."

"Sir, looks like you are about to keel over,"- the surgeon replied. "Just give me five minutes, sir."

Custer nodded reluctantly, and with a grimace dismounted, sitting down on a bench under the awning of the station. Schultz helped Custer take his uniform jacket off, Custer cursing softly. The doctor bent over, examining the entry wound a couple of inches below his left elbow, an assistant by his side handing him scissors, which he used to cut the shirt back.

"This is gonna hurt, General," the doctor whispered, and then there was a flood of pain as the doctor slipped his finger into the wound.

He thought he was about to faint. The doctor drew his finger out.

"Got some bad news for you, sir. The bone's broken. Sir, I think you're going to lose that arm." "Like hell I am," Custer hissed.

"Sir, I can have you under in five minutes; it'll be over in ten. From the way you're bleeding I think an artery is severed in there. You'll bleed out if I don't take it off now."

"I've got a battle to run, damn you."

"Not today, sir. You'll be back in action in a month, sir, but today is finished for you," the doctor said gently.

"Tie it off."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Just that," Custer snapped. "Get a tourniquet on it. That will stop the bleeding, won't it?" "For a while, but why?"

"Because I've got to get back to my command."

"Sir, I put a tourniquet on that arm, it'll be above the elbow, and you'll lose that, too, if it stays on too long."

"Just do it, goddamn you. Get a tourniquet on it. You can hack at me once this is over."

The doctor stared at him intently for a moment, then reluctantly nodded, actually patting him lightly on the shoulder. He motioned to his assistant, who set to work, taking a tourniquet out of the doctor's medical bag, wrapping it around the general's arm just above the elbow, then clamping it down so tight that Custer struggled not to cry out.

The flow of blood slowed and then nearly stopped.

The assistant rigged up an arm sling, helped put it on the general, who sat back, pallid.

"Promise, once this is over, you'll come straight back to me," the doctor said.

"Sure," Custer said, forcing a weak smile, looking up at him.

"I can give you a little morphine for the pain."

"Addle my mind. Just a good shot of whiskey will do."

Several of the troopers who had gathered round to watch reached into pockets and haversacks, pulling out bottles. Custer grinned, took one of the bottles, knocked down a good long drink, and then rose shakily to his feet.

He had not commanded these men long, and he knew some resented him and his meteoric rise to command. But by God this was his day now. It was almost worth losing an arm for. A week from now the illustrated papers would be plastered with images of him, arm in sling, leading a charge, bridge blowing up in the background. It could very well mean a second star.

"Help me up."

Again more eager hands reached out, helping him slip his jacket on, then up into the saddle.

"Get a report down to me, Tyler, once you're ready to roll. Until then I am going to keep Stuart and his rebs off the bridges."

"Yes, sir."

He turned and galloped off.

"You know I used to hate that son of a bitch," one of the troopers said, "too much glory seeking, but, damn me, he sure has the stomach for a good fight."

One Mile North of Boonsborough, Maryland

9:45 A.M.

Riding as he always did at the head of his column Gen. James McPherson, commander of Seventeenth Corps, Army of the Susquehanna, saw the swirl of dust ahead, two troopers riding hard as they came out of the village. They had slowed for an instant as they approached his advance line of mounted skirmishers, several of the skirmishers then falling in by their side to lead them in.

McPherson urged his own mount to a quick trot and forged ahead to meet them at the edge of town. The troopers, their mounts snorting, lathered with sweat, reined in, saluting, the men gasping for breath. "General McPherson?" "You have him."

"Thank God, sir," one of the troopers gasped. "Afraid we'd kill our mounts if we pushed them much farther." "What's your report?"

"Sir, we're with General Custer's Brigade. He's in one hell of a fight just east of Frederick, facing two or more brigades of rebel cavalry." — "What is Custer doing there?" McPherson asked. Though he had no details of what was supposed to be happening east of the Catoctins, his information was that the cavalry was to slowly push south, acting as a deceptive screen to keep Lee's attention focused north until his corps gained the pass and were into Frederick.

"Sir, yesterday," a trooper gasped, "the general got word the rebs were moving a pontoon train through Frederick. He decided to get there first and block the bridge over Monoc-acy Creek. We got there just minutes ahead of a whole swarm of rebs. Sir, he's asking for infantry support."

"The railroad bridge there-what is it made of?"

"Wood, sir. But the creek's only a hundred yards wide or so. Doubt if we can get a fire burning on it; anybody steps out on it is bound to get shot."

"Artillery?"

"None, sir, we left it behind in the dash down to Frederick." "Which rebel brigades?"

"Don't know, sir, but I can tell you, as I was riding up over the pass through the Catoctins, I looked back. That whole riverbank a mile wide was just swarming with them. You could see a lot of dust in the distance, maybe infantry, maybe more cavalry. I couldn't tell."

McPherson nodded, still studying the map. Twelve miles at least to Frederick. He looked east. The high expanse of the South Mountain range was only a couple of miles ahead, a tough climb.

"The road ahead?"

"It's the National Road, sir, well macadamized. Tough on the horses, though. Mine was going lame. About six miles across the next valley and then up over the Catoctin Pass."

Custer had certainly triggered something. If Lee takes the bridges, then blocks the pass, Grant's plan unravels.

He didn't hesitate any longer with his decision. He turned and looked back. His massive column, fifteen thousand men, was visible for miles back across the valley, dust swirling up, morning light glinting off shouldered rifles, white canvas tops of ammunition wagons and ambulances standing out.

They'd been marching since before dawn, having already covered nearly ten miles. He was planning for them to break in another hour to cook up their midday meals.

He looked back at the troopers. "If I get you fresh mounts, can you guide me?"

The two hesitated, then nodded. McPherson turned to his staff.

"Pass the word to every regimental commander. I want the men pressed. Three miles to the hour, ten-minute break to the hour and not a minute more. No straggling, provost guards to keep them moving until they drop on their faces. I want this column moving and moving hard. Round up my headquarters guard detail and find fresh mounts for these two boys. I'm going up to Frederick. I expect to see this column crossing the Catoctin Pass no later than midafternoon. Do you understand me?"

"Sir, it looks like hard pushing getting over those mountains," one of his men said, pointing toward the looming South Mountain range directly ahead.

"Get all wagons off the road, just infantry. The wagons can fall in behind them after the corps has passed. Ambulances, tell the surgeons to pack what they can on a horse and then fall in riding with the column. Pull ammunition out of the wagons, get the extra rounds passed out to the men as they march by, eighty, a hundred rounds to each man if possible. Send word back to General Grant describing everything you've just heard here. I don't have time to write it out. Tell him I'm going ahead to Frederick."

He pointed at one of his young, eager lieutenants.

"You, get back up the road to Burnside. Inform him of what you've heard here and my decision to force-march on Frederick. Tell him I hope he will press forward with all possible speed to my assistance."

The two couriers from Custer were off their mounts, one of them patting the animal's neck with affection, pouring water into his hat, emptying his canteen, the horse eagerly gulping down the few drops.

Troopers from the headquarters company came up, a lieutenant detailing two men off to trade horses. The cavalryman from Custer's Brigade was reluctant to leave his mount, handing over the reins.

"Her name is Ginger. She's a good horse, carried me through three charges. I'll come back for her after this is over."

The trooper receiving the horse nodded, the two understanding each other and their love for their mounts. There was a pause and they shook hands.

"William Bradley, I'll take good care of her. Mine is Sarah, she's got a tender mouth and hates spurs, so go easy on her."

Bradley gently led the horse over to the side of the road where it could crop some grass while he took its saddle off.

McPherson saw the exchange and could not help but smile. The two men trading horses were actually not much more than boys, their mounts beloved pets, companions.

He looked to the mountains ahead. So close and yet so far, he thought, but it was not of the fight ahead he was thinking. Who he thought of now was beyond the imposing range, little more than fifty miles away, in Baltimore.

If not for this rebel invasion of Maryland I'd be married now. Grant had promised him, once Vicksburg fell, he could have a furlough to go to Baltimore to marry Miss Emily Hoffman. And then the rebels took Baltimore, and not a word from her since.

Ironically, he knew her parents were delighted. They were devout secessionists and at the start of the war had forbidden their marriage.

So close, he thought. Perhaps we can end this war as Grant said we would, and then I'll ride into Baltimore and, parents or not, Emily and I will marry.

Custer's troopers finished their exchange of mounts and saddled up, coming over to his side, disrupting his thoughts.

McPherson motioned to one of his staff, who pulled out a flask, handing it to the two troopers.

The one gladly took it, draining it half off, the second shook his head.

"I'm a temperance man," he said.

"Good for you, son," McPherson replied. "Now let's go see what your General Custer has started."

Monocacy function

11:00 A.M.

The depot was burning, the pounding of the last hour from the four guns arrayed on the opposite bank having torn it to shreds and then finally ignited it. The last of the troopers within poured out of the building, running and dodging as another shell screamed in, detonating on the track of the main line, ballast and shrapnel spraying.

George Custer sat behind the blockhouse just west of the depot, feeling light-headed, his anxious staff gathered round.

Mann was still holding the National Road bridge but had just reported that a second rebel battery was deploying on the far side, and could expect to engage at any moment. Also, it appeared that more rebs were coming up and already across the ford between him and the railroad bridge. Word had just come back from Town that several companies of rebs were across the river to the south as well, at a place called McCausland's Ford. Town already had a picket line out and, for the moment, was holding them, but more troopers, a regiment or more, could be seen on the opposite bank, heading in that direction.

"Gray, you detach half your men, send them to back up to Town," George said.

Gray nodded to one of his staff, who galloped off. Seconds later a shell nicked the side of the blockhouse, bounded off, then exploded on the far side of the track, the group hunkering down.

"Sir, maybe it's time we get out of here," Gray offered. "We're being flanked on both sides. They got two batteries. I just had a rider come down from Frederick. He was up in a church steeple and said he saw plumes of smoke, from trains approaching. My God, if they have infantry on those trains, they'll force the bridge regardless of loss. By then we'll be cut off from retreat as well."

"We hold," Custer said coolly.

"Sir, we did our best," Gray countered. We can still get out, pull back to the top of the Catoctins behind us."

He pointed to the mountain range now standing out boldly under a late morning sun. "There's only one road. We can block it all day. We get cut off and wiped out here, the rebs will have the bridge and the pass, too."

"What good is holding the pass if Lee keeps this bridge, gets his pontoons across, and then escapes?"

"Escape, sir? It's time we thought about escaping. Besides, the men are damn near out of ammunition. If infantry are coming up, what are we supposed to do, throw rocks at them?"

Custer shook his head, feeling so weak he couldn't respond. He looked up at Gray.

"May I suggest, sir, you're seriously injured, perhaps you should get back to the surgeon."

"And have you take command and order a withdrawal?" Custer snapped angrily.

Another shell slammed into the blockhouse, the building shaking from the impact, the men still inside cursing.

Their argument was cut short by the distant cry of a steam whistle and Custer looked up expectantly. For a few seconds he wasn't sure of the direction the sound came from. Could the rebel reinforcements already be coming up? A second whistle sounded and he struggled to his feet.

"We are going to blow this bridge, then we'll get out," Custer announced. "Get my horse!" ' eb Stuart shifted his field glasses. It was hard to see with the smoke that billowed up in the still summer air, but then he saw it, two trains, coming out of Frederick. What is going on? He watched them intently, and then the realization hit. "Tell Captain Jackson with the battery, I want his guns to hit those trains before they reach the bridge. Order the Fourteenth onto the bridge now."

His staff looked at him, confused by the suicidal order. Only minutes before, Jeb had been exuberant, the river had been forded at two locations, he was funneling men across even now, and in another hour they'd have the depot.

'Those trains!" Jeb shouted. "They'll blow them on the bridge. Move it!"

Every step of his horse was agony to him, but George kept his saddle, galloping up the length of track toward Frederick. There was a sharp curve ahead, a small white clapboard schoolhouse to one side. He saw the smoke of the lead locomotive; it wasn't moving fast but it was coming on, rounding the curve, the locomotive not pulling anything other than its tender.

George slowed. He saw Lieutenant Schultz on the cowcatcher, the excited lieutenant leaping off as the train skidded to a stop.

The smoke of the second locomotive was several hundred yards back.

"We got a plan, sir!" Schultz cried. "Where's the cars loaded with coal oil?" "That's the second train, sir." "Where's Tyler?"

"He's piloting the second train. He sent me ahead, but we got to talk quick, sir." "The third train?"

"Another ten minutes or so before its steam is up." "I don't understand," Custer said, again feeling lightheaded.

Schultz quickly outlined the details, the idea registering with George, who in spite of his pain grinned. "Do it!"

Schultz ran up to the cab of the locomotive waving his arms.

The venting of steam stopped, pressure built up, smoke billowed from the smokestack, and, finally, the engine began to inch forward. As it slipped past Custer the engineer and two firemen on board leapt out.

The locomotive continued, unpiloted, down the track, and for a second George was hit with a deep fear. He had never thought to pass the order to make sure the switches had been set properly. He could only pray that someone down at the burning depot knew what to do.

He turned about and started to ride back down the track. To his left he saw puffs of smoke. Men, his men, on horseback, pulling back along a road, reb skirmishers pressing them.

The next engine came around the bend, pulling a passenger car and boxcar. It was picking up speed as it thundered past him. Sergeant-hopefully soon-to-be lieutenant-Tyler leaned out and waved.

George loosened his reins, spurring his mount. The pain forgotten for the moment, he galloped down the track toward the depot, riding just behind the train.

Phil Duvall looked around anxiously at his men. Over half his command was down after five long hours of fighting. Men were tearing open the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, trying to load back up. Wide-eyed, he gazed over at the colonel of the Fourteenth, who was breathing hard, gulping.

The man was scared. Hell, who wouldn't be? "Alright boys," the colonel cried. "Let's go!" The colonel stood up and then stepped out right to the middle of the bridge, standing between the two tracks, saber out, pointing.

There was a hesitation and he looked back. "Come on, you bastards!" he shouted. "Don't let it be said that the Fourteenth is filled with cowards!"

Men stood up and began to run forward, hunched low, hugging the sides of the bridge, dashing from one support beam to the next.

Phil looked around at his own small command that the colonel of the Fourteenth had "volunteered" into this mad charge. He caught Sergeant Lucas's eyes, the man looking at him as if to say, "Do we really have to do this?"

"Come on, boys," Phil said, swallowing hard. "Let's go."

He stood up and ran forward. There was no rebel yell this time. The situation was too grim for that. It would be a mad dash into a blaze of fire erupting from the other side.

They reached the middle of the bridge, several men already down, one tumbling off the side of the bridge into the stream. Others were dropping, crumpling; some were slowing, returning fire.

There was the discordant hum of an artillery shell, followed by three more soaring overhead, but he could not see where they landed.

And then he heard it coming. Looking up, he saw a locomotive, near to derailing it seemed, coming through the switch from the spur line to Frederick and on to the main track. It was thundering straight toward him on the east-bound side.

He jumped back, flattening himself against a trestle beam, the engine roaring by. He caught a quick glimpse of the cab. No one was on board.

What the hell is going on?

The engine raced across the bridge, the temporary structure shaking and rattling with its passage. All the men in the charge stopped for a second, looking back as the train cleared the bridge and then disappeared around the bend.

"Here comes another!" someone shouted.

Phil looked back to the west, the smoke of the passing train making it difficult to see.

Another locomotive was coming off the spur line on to the main track, this one beginning to slow down. Sparks were shooting out from the wheels as it began to brake.

"Get it!" someone screamed.

And instantly dozens of shots rang out, sparks flying off the brass and iron siding of the locomotive. To his absolute amazement he saw three Yankees aboard the locomotive, one of them now swinging a heavy sledgehammer, as if smashing something. Phil raised his revolver and fired it, emptying all six rounds. The man staggered but swung again. From out of the passenger car several Yankees emerged, jumping down. One of them made a dash for the side of the bridge as if to jump off, but he was shot before reaching the railing.

From inside the passenger car he could see flames erupting, blowing out the windows, a popping sound, like muffled explosions within, each pop setting off more flames.

Phil stepped up to the side of the locomotive and pointed his empty revolver at the man with the sledgehammer.

"Make a move and I'll blow your damn head off," he threatened.

The man looked at him, grinned, and dropped the sledgehammer, putting one hand up in the air, his other arm hanging limp.

"Get down!"

"You're damn right I'm getting down," the Yankee said, reaching for the railing by the steps and then leaping off. He hit the bridge flooring and cursed, going over on his side.

"Reb, give me a hand up."

"Why?"

Already carbine fire from the far side of the bridge had resumed. Torn, Phil felt he should go forward and still try to capture the other side.

"I'll tell you a secret, reb."

"And that is?"

"This son of a bitch is going to blow up in a few minutes, and there isn't a damn thing you can do now to stop it. I've smashed up the works good and proper, and that boiler is getting set to let go."

Phil looked around at his men. The way ahead was already almost impossible to traverse; the passenger car was burning fiercely, flames like blowtorches blasting out of the windows, which were shattering from the heat.

The Yankee was half up to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed, his features pale.

"You want to live, reb, get off this bridge now.r Phil reached down and pulled the man roughly to his feet. "Pull back!" he roared. "Get off the bridge!" His men needed no urging. They had had enough of this fight.

Shoving his prisoner along, Phil broke into a run, the two crossing the final feet back off the bridge and tumbling down into a culvert.

The Yankee grunted as he hit the ground next to Phil and then, to Phil's amazement, the Yankee reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it.

"You first, reb."

Phil nodded and took the drink. A minute ago he figured he was a dead man, and for the moment was damn grateful to still be alive. He realized that if this damn fool had not come along with his train, he'd have been forced to continue in that bloody charge. Many of the men of the Fourteenth were now cut off by the burning passenger car, some daring the flames, crouched down low, running back, others just giving up and jumping off the bridge.

"What's going to happen?" Phil asked.

"You just watch," the Yankee said, taking the bottle back and gulping down at least half a pint in three or four hard swallows. "But stay down low."

Peeking up over the side of the culvert Phil now saw a third locomotive appear, a small switch engine. It looked like an antique from twenty years ago, but it was moving fast, men jumping off as it rounded through the switch on the spur line. It thundered on to the bridge, artillery shells detonating to either side of it.

The switch engine came onto the bridge, still building speed, and plowed into the train ahead of it. The boxcar at the rear of the second train collapsed, and an instant later exploded into a fireball of flame as hundreds of gallons of coal oil sprayed out. The boxcar then telescoped into the passenger car, the burning car bursting asunder, spilling out rivers of flaming oil on to the bridge. The switching engine upended, tipping over, crashing through a trestle railing, careening off the bridge with a roar. It plunged into the river below, tearing out the side of the bridge, ripping up track, an explosion of steam and smoke erupting as it hit the river.

"I'll be damned," Phil whispered, standing up.

"Get down, reb!" the Yankee shouted, reaching out with his good arm to pull him down.

The second locomotive had lurched forward half a dozen feet from the impact, breaking the rail, tipping over slightly.

"About ready," the Yankee said. "Now stay down!"

There was a thunderclap and Phil could not resist peeking over the edge of the culvert. He felt a wash of heat and steam, the boiler of the locomotive erupting. Debris soared heavenward: part of a drive wheel, the smokestack, nearly intact, hunks of metal, flaming coals that looked like meteors or mortar shells fired at night.

He could feel the ground shudder. The bridge itself seemed to lurch, almost as if it had jumped from its foundation, and then settled back down. Wooden beams collapsed, spraying fire across most of the structure.

On both sides, everyone stopped shooting. Like schoolboys they stood up to watch the destruction, — some even shouting excitedly.

"Down, reb!"

The Yankee pulled him back into the culvert, curling up as he did so. A hunk of red-hot metal, part of the boiler, hit the side of the culvert and then bounced over them, spraying Phil with a shower of boiling hot water so that he cursed and slapped at his face.

The echo of the explosion rumbled across the valley.

George Armstrong Custer, still mounted, watched, mesmerized by the spreading cloud of debris. He could barely keep his saddle now, and perhaps, if not already injured, he would have been more alert and seen it coming, the expanding explosion, shards of iron, wood, part of a train axle spinning end over end, the axle killing his mount and tearing him out of the saddle.

A Mile East of Monocacy

11:10 A.M.

The train lurched even as a fireman leapt atop the tender and down to the door of the passenger car "Out, get out!" he screamed. Lee, half dozing, opened his eyes, men looking up at the wide-eyed fireman.

"We're gonna wreck. Jump for it!" Their train was slowing, skidding, the locomotive brakes shrieking as if they were about to be torn apart.

Walter leaned out the window to look and then turned on Lee, grabbing him by the shoulder, hauling him physically out of his seat and pushing him back to the rear door, the rest of the staff now following him. The train was still moving at ten miles an hour or more. Lee reached the last step and hesitated. "Jump, sir! Jump!"

Lee leapt off, hitting the ground hard, rolling, Walter coming down by his side. Seconds later Hotchkiss was on the ground twenty feet away. More men piled out.

Lee sat up, confused, actually feeling a bit humiliated, and undignified by this sudden action. Then he saw it Coming down the track, straight at them, was a locomotive, moving frightfully fast.

Walter grabbed Lee by the shoulder, pulling him up and away from the track.

The firemen and engineer were the last to leap, hitting the ground on their feet, and began to run up the sloping embankment away from the train.

The locomotive coming toward them appeared to be slowing down but still it was coming on at a good thirty miles an hour or more… when it collided head-on with their train, both boilers exploding, debris soaring heavenward. The passenger car they were on disintegrated, and then actually slid backward, its shattered remnants rolling into the ditch Lee had landed in.

Stunned, he looked about, oblivious to the debris showering down even as Walter protectively stood at his side, looking up, watching for danger.

Fire and steam boiled across the track, the two locomotives seemingly mated in a single tangled pile of scrap metal, both tracks torn up and mangled by the collision.

Lee looked back. Fortunately, the head of the convoy bearing Scales's Division was skidding to a stop, a good hundred yards back from the wreck.

"What in heaven's name was that?" Hotchkiss whispered, coming up to Lee's side, brushing himself off.

"Did all the men get out?" Lee asked.

Walter looked around.

"I think so, sir"

There was a voice inside him that whispered that he never should have thought of using the railroads to move his men. It was a strength of the Yankees, but sometimes also a weakness, since a single derailment could tie up movement for days. He looked back at the trains bearing Scales and his men.

"Get them dismounted," he said. 'Traveler is back on the second or third train. Bring him up to me. I'm riding forward."

He walked up the line to look at the wreckage, shielding his face from the heat of the fire. One of the men had indeed not gotten out, the fireman who had leapt to their car to give the warning, thereby saving Lee's life. The man had apparently been caught between the passenger car and the tender, his body nearly torn in two.

He knelt by his side. Fortunately, the poor man was already dead. He whispered a prayer and then stood up. Someone with Scales had already thought to bring Traveler forward, and Lee mounted up.

"I'm going forward, gendemen. Get Scales up as quick as possible," he said quietly, and, edging around the wreckage, he pushed on toward Monocacy.

Monocacy Junction

11:50 A.M.

Custer knew he was dying. It wasn't the arm that got him. It was the hunk of red-hot metal, bursting from the explosion, that had shattered his legs, killing his horse as well. Several of his men had tenderly carried him back behind the depot and into the blockhouse.

He chuckled. Hell of a way to die. Hope the artists make it look good.

The rebs were now closing in from all sides. He had ordered Gray and Mann to try to get out, to get up to the Catoctin Pass and hold it till Grant arrived.

The bridge was still standing, but barely. The north side was collapsed between the second and fourth piers, the south side a twisted jumble of torn-up track, smoldering wood. A scattering of shots still echoed, now a circle of fire as the rebs who had forded the river to the north and south closed in.

Alger had not made it out. Shot in the stomach, bent double but still game, he raised his revolver to fire at the rebs coming down the main track from the west.

The ring closed in tighter. The rebs flanking him now circled the higher ground around the blockhouse, firing volley after volley into the gun ports. The inside of the blockhouse was a shambles, a shell having pierced a gun port, striking down a dozen men within.

Numbed, George looked around. Damn rotten place to die, he thought. Out in the open, after a damn good charge. That's how I wanted it, Custer's Last Charge. Not inside this shambles.

"Cease fire," he whispered.

Alger looked over at him.

"Cease fire," George said again.

Alger nodded, looked around for something white, finally tearing off the bloody shirt of a dead trooper, putting it on the point of his sword, and sticking it out a port.

The gunfire outside slacked and then stilled.

"Put your guns down, boys," George said softly.

The begrimed men around him said nothing.

"You done good. You just might have given Grant the time he needs. No shame in surrender after what we did."

"You Yanks, come on outta there."

Four men picked up the makeshift litter, made out of a blanket, and carried George, blinking, into the sunlight. They set him down against the blockhouse after he asked to be able to sit up.

Directly ahead the railroad bridge was still burning. To his right the remnants of the covered bridge had already collapsed, hissing and steaming into the creek. He had certainly made a fine job of destruction here this morning.

Dozens of his men were being rounded up, hands over their heads, being herded to the far side of the depot, which had just collapsed in on itself.

A thin line of rebel troopers were now coming across the railroad bridge on foot, edging their way across over broken beams, twisted track, barely able to negotiate the collapsed section except for a single stringer that had somehow survived.

"George, how are you?"

He felt a hand slip into his.

"Phil?"

"It's me, George." "Think I'm dying, Phil." Phil hesitated. "You are, George."

A blanket had been placed across George's legs. He looked down and saw part of a leg sticking out at an impossible angle, other leg gone nearly at the hip. So damn stupid, killed by an exploding train.

"How are you, sir?"

It was hard to see.

"Who is it?"

"Corporal Tyler, sir. You said I'd make lieutenant if I blew up the bridge."

"I did, didn't I. What are you doing here, Tyler?"

"He's my prisoner, George," Phil said. "A brave man. Figure he saved my life. I'll see he gets taken care of, and will sign a statement of your promoting him if you wish."

George smiled, no longer able to speak.

"Hell of a fight, George. You certainly put a twist into us. You always wanted glory," Phil said, his voice suddenly choking. "Well, you got it, my friend."

But he was already slipping away, to visions of other places, and, of course, of glory.