"This way!" McPherson shouted.
Leading part of an Illinois regiment, McPherson pointed the way straight into the center of town. Two of his staff had dropped in the last block and a dozen men of the Illinois regiment. The center of the town, he thought. Hold that intersection and we can hang on awhile longer.
"Come on boys, come on!" He spurred his mount ahead.
Sergeant Hazner leaned up on the windowsill. If not for the spreading fires it would have been impossible to see a target. He saw the column, an officer on horseback, rose up to shoot, and a volley from across the street drove him back down.
Sergeant Robinson stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as a Yankee officer, alone, came around the corner on horseback. His own men staggered to a halt, the column around him confused for a brief instant, then raising their weapons up.
Robinson, rifle poised, aimed straight at the officer. He was less than ten feet away.
"For God's sake," Robinson shouted, "surrender!" The officer looked straight at him, grinned, offered a salute, and then started to turn as if to ride away.
Robinson shot him, feeling as if it was murder. The man jerked upright, swayed, and then tumbled from his mount.
A few seconds later Yankee infantry appeared, and at the sight of the downed officer a wild shout of rage rose up from them and they lunged forward.
Robinson's Texans deployed, delivered a volley at point-blank range, and charged in with bayonet. A frightful melee ensued.
"McPherson! McPherson!" the cry went up among the Yankees, even as the Texans waded in, clubbing and lunging.
Within seconds the Union troops broke and fell back, driven around the corner by the advancing Texans.
Robinson, however, stopped, and knelt down by the Union officer, who was still alive.
"Sir, why didn't you just surrender?" he asked.
"Not in my nature," McPherson gasped. "Could you do me a favor, soldier. Can't breathe. Help me sit up."
Robinson set his rifle down and propped McPherson up against the side of the building. McPherson coughed, clearing his lungs, blood foaming from his lips. "Thank you."
"Sergeant?"
Robinson looked up and was stunned to see General Lee approaching, oblivious to the battle raging around him, staff nervously drawn in close in a protective ring.
More troops of Hood's old Texas brigade were running past, going into the fight.
"Who is that, Sergeant?" Lee asked.
Robinson looked at the man's shoulders.
"A major general, sir."
Walter took the reins of Traveler as Lee dismounted and stepped up to the two. Robinson, not sure whether he should come to attention, decided to continue to help the wounded officer and kept him braced against the wall.
"Oh, God," Lee sighed, "James."
McPherson opened his eyes.
"General, sir. Sorry we had to meet again like this."
Lee knelt by his side and took his hand.
"James. Dear God, James, I'm so sorry."
"Fortunes of war, General. Remember old Alfred T. Mahan always talked about that, the chances of war."
Robinson did not know what to do. Should he draw back, stay to help the Union general, or rejoin his command?
The sergeant looked over at Lee.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, voice near to breaking. "I asked him to surrender, but he wouldn't. I'm sorry, sir." His voice trailed off.
"Not your fault, Sergeant," McPherson whispered. "Did your duty. Foolish of me, actually. Don't blame yourself."
Robinson found himself looking up into Lee's eyes, and was filled with anguish.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Lee shook his head.
"No, Sergeant. War, contemptible war, did it." Lee looked back at McPherson. "Are you sorely hurt, James?"
McPherson nodded. "Can't seem to breathe." Blood was spilling out from just under his armpit, trickling down from his lips and nostrils. "General?"
Lee looked up. It was Walter.
"Sir, it isn't safe for you here. Word is more Yankees are coming into the town. Sir, you must move!"
Lee nodded, then looked from his old student to Robinson.
"Sergeant, get a detail together. Carry General McPherson back to the depot down by the river. Stay with him, I'm ordering you to stay with him. Find my surgeon down there, and see that the general is tended to immediately."
"Of course, sir," Robinson replied.
He wondered for a second whether Lee remembered the incident at Taneytown, where he had defied Lee, grabbing hold of Traveler's reins and blocking his advance. But the general seemed lost in misery.
"I'll see he is taken care of, sir," Robinson whispered.
"General Lee, a favor," McPherson whispered.
"Anything, James."
"My fiancee is in Baltimore. We were planning to many but then this campaign started. Interfered with our plans." He paused, struggling for breath, coughing up more blood. "Could you send for her?" "Of course, James. Anything."
"Her name is Emily Hoffman." He paused again as if already drifting away, Lee leaning closer.
McPherson chuckled and then grimaced with pain.
"Can't remember her address, it seems. But it's on her letters in my breast pocket."
"She'll be on a train and up to you by tomorrow, James."
"Would like to see her again."
"You will, my friend. God forgive me. I am so sorry."
"Duty divided us," McPherson whispered, "but you are still my friend, sir."
Lee, head lowered, could not suppress a sob, squeezing McPherson's hand "General, sir!"
It was Walter, dismounted, placing a hand on Lee's shoulder.
"Sir, it is too dangerous here. They have reinforcements coming in from the pass. We must move!"
Lee stood up woodenly, his gaze turning again to Robinson.
"Sergeant, this man is your duty now. Please see to him, and I shall be grateful." "Yes, sir."
Lee mounted and rode off.
A number of soldiers who had gathered round to watch had already made up a litter out of blankets and muskets strapped together. Robinson gently helped to pick up the general and place him in the litter.
"Help me sit up, Sergeant," McPherson gasped. "Can't breathe lying down."
"Certainly, sir," Robinson said softly, as if to a sick child. "I'll keep you up. You'll be all right, sir."
McPherson looked at him and smiled weakly.
"Don't think so. You're a damn good shooter, Sergeant."
Sgt. Lee Robinson found he could not reply.
As the group setoff he caught a glimpse of Hazner standing outside a building, remembering him from the charge at Fort Stevens. As they passed, Hazner saluted.
Braddock Heights 7:30 P.M.
Come on boys, that's it, that's it!" Grant shouted.
The lead division of Ninth Corps was storming over the heights, running at the double, Sheridan in the lead.
Whatever had been said before about colored troops, he now laid to rest as he watched them pass. These men were tough, unbelievably tough, rifles at the shoulder, moving at the double, still keeping columns. A few collapsed as they passed, but then struggled to get to their feet and press forward.
Sheridan barely paused to salute, obviously in his glory. He had driven these men forward without pity, and they had answered to his call.
"How did Burnside take it?" Grant asked, as Sheridan rode up to his side.
"Like a soldier actually," Phil replied. "I think he expected it. I don't like the man leading these colored men, Ferroro, but for the moment he'll do. He, at least, is at the front. Tough men, double-timed them the last two miles."
"Hunt?"
"Courier came back, saying if Burnside's boys will get the hell off the road he'll have the first guns up by midnight."
"Good, very good," Grant replied enthusiastically.
"Sir, I've got a battle to fight," Phil announced excitedly, and turning, he fell in with the column, heading down the ridge into Frederick, and as he rode the heavens opened and the rain began.
Frederick 8:00 P.M.
General Lee stood at the edge of the town watching it burn even as the storm swept down from the hills. By the flashes of lightning he could see a column of Union troops coming down off the ridge.
It had to be another corps. Reports were they were colored, men of Ninth Corps.
The battle for today had served its purpose. The Union Seventeenth Corps had been shredded in the town. There was no sense any longer in trying to hold it It was afire, all semblance of control lost. Throughout the night Grant would keep pouring more men in while Johnston would not arrive much before midnight and it'd still take several hours to bring him up.
No. The day had started off poorly with the bridge, but he felt confident now. They had smashed a corps, and Grant would not let that pass lightly. He'll bring in the rest of his men. Now is the time for us to take the good ground.
He turned to Walter.
"Order Scales and Robertson to evacuate the town, to pull back to the other side of the river."
"The other side, sir? What about the bridge?"
"The other side has higher ground, Walter. You saw the survey Jed Hotchkiss did for us today. It's a good defensive position, and I will not venture a fight on this side. Grant's blood is up, and he'll hit us, come tomorrow. Let him think we're retreating and that will bring him on. I want everyone back across the river and then let us see what Grant will do. Once we defeat him, we can repair the bridge and move our pontoons."
"Yes, sir."
Walter rode off.
Lee sat silent, watching the town burn, the wounded coming out, and he lowered his head.
"Merciful God," he whispered, "forgive us what we did to each other this day. Please let this be the last fight. Let it end here so that no longer friend is turned against friend."
Braddock Heights 1:00 A.M.
In spite of the rain, Frederick continued to burn. The moon was out, its light reflecting off the thick haze of smoke that cloaked the valley below. Word had just come back to Grant that McPherson was wounded, perhaps already dead, and now a prisoner. His corps was a shambles, according to Sheridan, at best six thousand troops still effective.
A bloody first day, upward of nine thousand men killed, wounded, or captured between McPherson and Custer. The damage to Lee, Grant wasn't sure about, though hundreds of rebel wounded were now in the hospitals behind the heights or being tended to in the town, what was left of it.
Ely came up to him with a dispatch to sign, a request to be carried through the Confederate lines to Lee, asking for information on McPherson. Lee's nephew, Fitz Lee, had been taken prisoner, his horse shot out from under him. His leg was badly broken in the fall and might need to be amputated and he wished to inform his uncle, as well, that his kin was being well taken care of and would receive the best treatment possible.
Grant signed the note, and Ely went off to find a courier willing to brave approaching the Confederate side, under flag of truce, at night.
The clattering echo in the valley behind him was building. Coming up the road he saw a band of officers, one of them carrying a sputtering torch. It was Henry Hunt.
Hunt spotted Grant and came over.
"Damn, sir, wish I could have gotten here sooner," Hunt gasped. "Just the road was clogged with infantry, that damn Ninth Corps."
"That damn Ninth Corps, as you put it," Grant replied, "has come through now, under Sheridan. They're down in the town."
Grant pointed to the smoldering nightmare below, and Hunt nodded, whistling softly.
"Looks like it was one helluva fight."
"It was, and it will be. Where are your guns, sir?"
Hunt proudly pointed down the road. Already visible by the light of the torches and lanterns around the hospital area, the first team was pulling hard, coming up the slope. As they rounded the final curve the dismounted gunners were leaning into the wheels of the lead piece, horses panting and slipping on the macadamized road, which had turned soft and greasy after the heavy thunderstorms. The driver was shouting, cursing, trace riders spurring their mounts, and the piece lunged forward, gaining the crest. Behind it was a double caisson pulled by six more horses, behind that another gun, and then another double caisson, all of them struggling and lunging forward to gain the final slope.
"We've been on the road eighteen hours, sir. Getting down the road over South Mountains was tough going since the rain had just passed. I lost several pieces upended, teams killed, and several men when the guns went out of control. I'll send horses back in the morning to get them. My men are beat, but where do you want us?"
"That's the spirit, Hunt," Grant said approvingly. "That's the drive I want. Take them down the slope. You'll find General Sheridan has set up headquarters, I'm told, in what's left of the railroad depot in the center of town. Report to him."
"Sheridan, sir?"
"McPherson's down," Grant said quietly. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know."
"Sheridan's in command down on the field at the moment. I'm waiting up. here. Don't worry, Hunt, you'll get your chance at your grand battery; I'm not splitting you up. Phil has the lay of the land down there and will tell you where you should set up for the moment. Report to me down in the town at dawn."
"Yes, sir."
"Where's Ord? Have you heard from him?"
"He's right behind my column, sir. Cursing at me all the way, says I'm slowing his march."
"That's Ord," Grant said with a smile.
"He should be along once the last of my guns has passed. I'd say he's about three miles back."
"You've done good today, Hunt. Now get to work."
Henry looked at him and then grinned, saluted, and rode off, yelling at his men to move faster regardless of the downslope ahead.
"Sir?"
It was Ely.
'The dispatch is going off now. May I suggest you grab a little sleep. It's been a long day."
At the mere mention of sleep, tiredness overcome him. He'd ridden nearly thirty miles, been in the thick of it, and for the first time directly matched wits with Lee. He had also sent a good friend to his death or captivity.
Ely pointed to a house, a small clapboard affair on the other side of the road.
Grant walked over, dodging around a gun team pushing by him, the trace-horse driver swearing at him to "get the hell out of our way," the driver not realizing whom he was yelling at.
Lights glowed within the house.
"Hospital inside, sir," Ely said, "but a couple of the boys arranged a spot for you on the porch."
A bed was made up, an actual mattress under a couple of blankets.
Wearily he sat down, not turning aside the offer when Ely knelt to help pull off his boots. The migraine which had bedeviled him all day still held on, and he suddenly felt nauseous, as if the awareness of his affliction intensified it.
He lay back with a sigh. Migraine or not, within a few minutes he was fast asleep. Guards quietly circled the porch with orders from Ely to maintain a silent vigil. Ely sat down on the porch, leaning against the railing, struggling to stay awake to intercept any dispatches that might come in, but even he succumbed, falling asleep with his head resting on his drawn-up knees.
Out on the road the guns continued to pass, Napoleons, Parrotts, three-inch ordnance rifles, caissons, forge wagons, teams panting and struggling, crews cursing, moving woodenly in their exhaustion. They responded to Grant's orders for speed as he slipped into a dream wracked by nightmares of McPherson, of so many dead, all looking at him as if to ask whether it was indeed worth it, whether he was worthy of them.
Baltimore 2:15 A.M.
"Emily. Wake up, dear. Wake up." Starded, Emily Hoffman sat up in her bed, her mother by her side, holding a lit candle. "What is it?" she asked.
"Dear, there's a soldier downstairs. A captain, he insists on seeing you."
"A Confederate?" she asked, still half asleep and confused.
"Yes, dear," Her mother stifled a sob.
"James!"
She was out of her bed, snatching up her dressing gown, slipping into it, and half-lacing the top as she raced barefoot down the stairs. A light was glowing in the parlor, and as she stepped into the room, the soldier, who had been talking with her father, turned and stiffened.
"What is it?" she gasped.
"Miss Emily Hoffman?" the captain asked nervously. "Yes."
"Ma'am. I bear a telegram from General Lee, addressed to you, ma'am."
He held out the envelope, and she stood frozen, fearing to accept it.
The captain just stood there, red-faced, unable to speak, hand still extended with the envelope.
Her mother stepped forward, and the captain bowed slightly as she took the envelope and tore it open, her father holding a lantern up so she could read it.
Her mother began to shake, lowering her head.
"It's James," her mother gasped.
"Papa?" Emily looked at her father imploringly.
Her father took the telegram.
"It's addressed to you, sweetheart, from General Lee." He began to read:
"It is with a heavy heart I must-inform you that your fiance" has been severely wounded. I regret to tell you he is not expected to live. He was a beloved student of mine, and this tragedy touches me deeply. If you wish, you may take the next train out of Baltimore to come to his side at Frederick, where even now my physician attends him. The officer bearing this letter will escort you and your family."
Her father stepped forward, as if to hand her the letter, but she backed up, collapsing on to the sofa, sobbing.
"It's not safe," her mother said. "I think she should stay here. There's fighting up there."
"I'm going," she gasped.
"Madam," the officer said, "General Lee will provide for your safety and protection." He paused.
"If it was me," he whispered, "I'd want my Eleanor to be at my side."
Emily looked up at the officer. She felt at this moment that she should hate him with all her soul. It was someone in that uniform who had shot her James. But the look in his eyes, which were brimming with tears, stilled her anger.
"Thank you, Captain…"
"Cain. Bill Cain, ma'am. Headquarters staff for General Lee, stationed here in Baltimore. It's where I grew up."
He forced a smile through his tears.
"You might not remember me, Miss Hoffman, but I once danced with you at a social before the war. I met your fiance that night, an honorable gendeman."
"Mama, pack my things," Emily whispered.
Washington
August 26 6:00 A.M.
He almost wished that he was back on the train racing across Pennsylvania. At least for those wonderful twelve hours he was able to stretch out and sleep. No one disturbed him, the passenger car sealed and guarded. No news, no decisions, just peaceful rest.
He and his escort rode down the narrow streets of Georgetown, which in spite of the early hour was awake, filled with traffic. Troops by the thousands lined the roads, fully laden with backpacks, haversacks stuffed to overflowing, the men in long lines shuffling forward a few dozen feet, stopping, then moving again.
As he rode past them, the soldiers looked up, saluting. A few called his name, but they were tired, having been up nearly the entire night, filing down from the fortress lines. They kept the city awake with the constant tramp of their marching, the rumble of field pieces, the cracking whips of drivers urging on supply wagons. Men leaned wearily against muskets, swaying, some actually falling asleep standing up, then comrades nudging them awake when the column moved forward again a few dozen feet.
He caught sight of Winfield down by the docks. Amazingly, the man was actually on horseback, his features pale in the morning light, Elihu by his side. At his approach Winfield smiled and saluted.
"How goes it?" Lincoln asked.
"Oh, sir, the usual chaos." Winfield pointed to the docks and wharfs of the old Chesapeake and Ohio canal. Dozens of barges were lined up, troops filing aboard. A hoist was swinging the barrel of a thirty-pounder Parrott gun out over a barge and slowly lowering it down. The men were nervously standing back as the barrel came to rest in the hull, the boat sinking deeper into the water as it took on the burden.
It did indeed look like chaos, hundreds of workers hauling boxes of rations, ammunition, barrels of salt pork, and stacking them up inside the bulk-hauling boats, many of them coated with layers of coal dust from their years of service bringing coal down from the mountains of western Virginia. Troops were filing aboard passenger boats, a hundred men or more to each, and he could see a procession' of barges was already heading up the canal. Once aboard and settled in, the men relaxed, lying down to sleep, some sitting up, digging into their haversacks. One man had a small concertina out and was playing a lively jig.
"Ready to go!" The barge carrying three of the Parrott guns cast off, the four mules hauling it braying, digging in, their driver cursing at them, snapping a whip. The barge inched away from the wharf.
Resting in a sling by the side of a wharf was the massive barrel of a hundred-pound Parrott gun, twenty tons of metal, its iron carriage in another sling, dozens of men swarming around the monster, hooking cables to the thick woven mat the barrel was resting on. A work crew was busy carrying individual shells aboard, a hundred pounds each, and massive bags of grape and canister shot. Farther down the wharf, another boat, surrounded by sentries with bayoneted rifles, was loading barrels of powder, with hand-lettered EXPLOSIVES signs marking the entrance to the wharf.
"I should be leaving soon," Winfield said. "I think they've got the system down. I'll leave staff here to keep moving it along. I want to get up to the front. We have a brigade of mounted troops moving up the canal ahead of all this. Word will get out, and Mosby and his boys might try some mischief. I want to be up there if he does."
Lincoln nodded and extended his hand.
"Be careful, Winfield. You're a good man. Take care of yourself."
"Oh, I will, sir."
He started to dismount and a couple of young staff officers moved quickly by his side. It was not so much a dismounting as it was a lifting-down. He grimaced with the pain, but then, remembering Lincoln, he smiled.
"See, sir, no problem at all." He accepted his cane and leaned heavily on it. Then he limped off.
"Think he can handle it?" Lincoln asked, looking over at Elihu.
"If anyone can, it's him. He spent an hour with me yesterday morning, went over the details, and then was down here at the docks all day and clean through the night He knows his job."
"Fine, then. We made the right choice."
"Something curious going on you should know about," Elihu said, and motioned to a sidestreet, leading Lincoln as they wove through the columns of troops queuing up to get aboard the canal boats.
As they turned the corner Lincoln was startled to see hundreds of black men standing about in a crowd, many with shovels, picks, and axes on their shoulders. Others had wheelbarrows loaded down with baggage. Two men had between them a large two-man whipsaw. A scattering of them were armed with old muskets or pistols.
At their approach the milling crowd fell silent, many of the men taking their hats off, stepping back at Lincoln's approach. To his amazement Lincoln saw Jim Bartlett standing in the crowd-rather, standing out, since he was dressed in a fine suit while most of the men wore the ordinary clothes of laborers.
"Jim?" Lincoln asked. "May I ask what is going on here?"
Jim braced his shoulders back, staring Lincoln straight in the eye.
"Mr. President, remember last night when you asked me to see if men would be interested in volunteering short-term for some work?
"Well, we know where them boats are going." He nodded toward the canal barges loading up.
"How do you know that, Jim?"
With that a number of the men started to chuckle.
"Ain't no secrets from us colored folk, Mr. Lincoln," a burly worker replied, and that brought on more laughter.
"Too many of you white folks think we're invisible. We're cleaning the dishes and the missus starts gossiping with other ladies about what her husband just told her, we're sweeping the floor at Willard's and the officers are boasting, or we're emptying trash in the War Office and pieces of paper just come falling into our laps. Oh, we know."
That brought renewed laughter, and Lincoln could not suppress a grin. He instantly saw the wisdom of it, thinking himself of so many conversations in the White House with servants walking in and out of the room. By heavens, of course they'd know.
"What are you and your friends proposing, Jim?" Lincoln asked.
"Our hands, our backs. There are tens of thousands of colored in this city who want to do something, anything. Let us go with the soldiers. We can dig for them, and, sir, we know that's a worry of yours."
The burly man nudged the man next to him, a thin, frail gentleman with graying hair who stepped forward nervously.
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Washburne, I hope you ain't mad, but I brought coffee into the room while you and a general were talking. I heard you say something about moving the men, but maybe not having time to dig in proper, building forts and such."
Washburne looked at the speaker in amazement.
"You know I oughta fire you," he blustered. "What you overheard is a military secret."
"Oh, I heard Mr. Stanton talking all the time, a lot of things, sir, maybe you should know about, considering all the fuss he's kicking up in the newspapers."
Lincoln threw back his head and laughed, a laugh unlike any he had experienced in weeks.
"He's got you, Elihu. We need this man."
Elihu shook his head, then leaned out of his saddle and extended his hand.
"All right then. We'll talk after this is over, but by heavens I'll never speak a word again when you are around."
The man grinned and took Elihu's hand.
"We're on the same side, sir. Maybe for different reasons, but the same side."
"For the same reasons now," Lincoln said quietly, and he looked back at Jim. 'Troops have to have priority on the boats, but wherever there's additional room, you men get aboard."
A cheer went up.
Lincoln extended his hand.
"I should warn you, though. It will be dangerous. I cannot guarantee that you will be treated well if things turn against us and you are captured."
"Then we fight," Jim said quietly. "A pick or an ax is as good as a bayonet."
"Not against disciplined troops," Elihu said softly.
"It'll be hours, most likely, before there will be room on any of the boats," Lincoln said.
"We already figured that," the burly man said. "We'll just start walking if you don't mind. Follow the canal path."
Lincoln suddenly was overcome by emotion, his face limp with sadness.
One of the men held up a banner made out of a bedsheeL Emblazoned in red letters: WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS.
The crowd cheered again and then spontaneously poured down the street, turning on to the canal path to head toward the front. As they surged by him, Lincoln remained motionless.
Looking back toward the boats, he saw Colonel Shaw leading the men of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts aboard several barges. Shaw caught his eye and snapped to attention, saluting, his men cheering as they saw their brothers pouring down the street and then turning to follow the canal path.
"How" the world is changing," Lincoln whispered. He reached over and took Jim's hand.
"God be with you, my friend."
"And with you too, Mr. President," he paused, "and thank you."