She shuddered. Would there be any more food when Lee's army returned? Of course not. Ships from England had brought some, but nowhere near enough to feed the city. The land was fruitful enough, but few were working it. and so much was focused on both cotton and tobacco. Certainly the farmers had food for themselves, but they weren't making that much in excess. Of course, even if they did, it would have to be paid for with worthless Confederate money. Who could blame the farmers for not sacrificing themselves, although she did wonder about the large land-holders who could afford to provide sustenance for the city and chose not to. She did not regret having disposed of her landholdings.

Despite General Hamptons doubtlessly sincere feelings, she confronted the reality that the Confederacy was a losing proposition. The war could not continue as it was. Hampton and others were simply denying reality. They could not accept that all their sufferings might be for naught. The South would simply starve. When her British lover returned, it would be time for a long, frank discussion about their futures,

Idly, she wondered just what papers General Hampton had lost and why they were so important.

Wrapped in dark blankets to hide the white facings of their red uniforms, the three-hundred-man Forlorn Hope crept through the night towards the low, shadowy bulk of Fort Stephens.

Behind them lay a brigade of Confederates from Longstreet's Corps. If the British thrust succeeded, the Confederates would rush forward to secure it while others came forward to exploit it. The bulk of the army lay in the distance, with the rest of Longstreet’s Corps being the closest. Again, this was to lull the garrison into thinking that there would be no attack against Washington. The all-seeing balloons had been permitted to observe the main Confederate force several miles away from the trenches of Washington, and apparently moving southward.

All of Lees army, however, was primed for a fast move to Washington. The Union balloons were now all down. There were too many clouds for clear observations, and there was the threat of lightning that could easily destroy them.

As the British assault forces under Wolsey were just about within rifle shot of the Union fort, the low, gray skies opened up with a drenching storm that turned them all into cold, soaking wretches. Worse, it further softened the damp ground and turned it into mud. Still, they moved forward, only at a much slower pace.

“This is bloody marvelous,” Wolsey exulted as he urged the men on. There was a huge grin on his rain-streaked face.

Knollys shook water from his cap and grimaced. “If this is your idea of a good turn of events, I'd hate to see a bad one.”

Wolsey clapped him on the shoulder. “Knollys, you dunce, this means they can't see us. I'd even bet that their sentries have run for cover and will wait out this storm.”

“I hope you're right,” Knollys muttered. It was widely understood that the garrison of forts like Stephens were not combat-experienced regulars. Maybe they would duck for dry places and wait until the storm passed.

The British soldiers inched, crawled, and stumbled through the mud. When they reached the first line of barricades, the chevaux-de-frise, they crawled up to and through the interlocking barricades. There was no rifle fire from the trenches.

Maybe he's right, Knollys thought with growing hope. A select handful of British soldiers slithered over the lip of the trench and disappeared from sight. Still no sound. A head peeked over and waved them onward.

“Migawd.” someone muttered. “Were bloody fucking in.”

By this time, most of the assault force had made it through the chevaux-de-frise and were awaiting the signal to rush the trench. Knollys gave the command and they hurled themselves forward and into the earthen pit. A dead Union soldier lay facedown in the water at their feet.

“He was all wrapped in his blanket and never saw us,” Wolsey said, and Knollys realized the brigadier general had been one of the first men over the top. “Our men are fanning out and taking care of other sentries. If they are as alert as this poor boy was. we'll have no problems. Your wish has come true. John. It's New York all over again.”

More British poured in and Wolsey sent a runner back for reinforcements. 'They'd best start now. The weather will slow them down,” Wolsey said.

Just then, a shot rang out, strangely muffled by the rain. There was shouting and an additional burst of gunfire. The garrison, safe and warm in its earthen-covered barracks, was awake and angry.

While fierce skirmishing took place, Knollys grabbed a couple dozen men and headed to the rear of the fort. It was imperative that no one escape to warn the city. It was possible, just possible, that the adjacent forts, De Russey and Slocum, were not able to hear the gunfire through the muffling effects of the rain.

Knollys quickly set his men in a firing line just as a half-dozen frightened Union soldiers came running. They ignored the order to halt until a half-volley dropped two of them. The remainder surrendered, as did others who stumbled upon the scene. It was working.

“Major, over here, please.” yelled a sergeant. “I've found their telegraph line.”

“Cut it.” Knollys hollered. “Cut it now!”

The sergeant hacked at the wire and it separated. That was close. Knollys thought, then he wondered if his action had been in time.

Firing inside the fort slowed and then ceased. While some Union soldiers had fought bravely, others had been confused and disoriented by the sudden British attack. The survivors were now prisoners. Knollys saw handfuls of Confederates in among the British as they rounded up the remainder of the garrison. The brigade from Longstreet^’s Corps had begun arriving. A dull boom came from the direction of Fort De Russey. “What the devil?” Knollys snapped.

“They've seen us,” said Wolsey, who had just walked up to him. “More precisely, I think they've somehow noted the Confederate mass heading in this direction. With a little luck they won't realize that there's a hole in their dike.”

“But their guns overlap Fort Stephens,” Knollys said. “That means they can maul Longstreet’s men, who can’t get here all that much faster than we did. It’s still going to be a long, slow crawl for them to get here.”

“Good point,” Wolsey said. He turned to some other officers who'd accompanied him. “Get some of the guns we've just captured and turn them on De Russey. That'll distract them. We'll lose some of the element of surprise, but that's a price we'll have to pay. At any rate, Knollys, we've done it. We're in Washington.”

Major General George Henry Thomas fully understood that he was both a damned good general and his own worst enemy. At the beginning of the Southern insurrection, he had considered resigning his federal commission and joining the Confederacy to help defend his native Virginia. After deep and profound thought, he had decided to stay with the Union, but the damage had been done. He had voiced his doubts and opinions to others and they had reached the ears of those in charge. Thus, he was not well trusted by the Union government, many of his own family had turned against him. and at least one former neighbor had said he'd shove Thomas's sword up his ass if he ever showed his face in Virginia again.

The family situation he could handle. He had never been all that fond of his unmarried sisters. It was the fact that he had been backwatered that galled him. He knew he was at least as good a general as Grant, and better than Sherman. In the beginning he had been cursed with assignments under dullards like Rosecrans. who still hadn't pushed the outnumbered Bragg into battle, and Halleck himself. Hell, if he'd been commanding instead of Rosecrans. Bragg's army would be retreating through the Gulf of Mexico by now.