Despite his confidence in his own abilities. George Thomas was a modest man who disliked show-off generals like McClellan. He cared for his men with a father-like concern and they reciprocated by calling him “Pap,” for pappy. His concern for his men sometimes led him to be meticulous in his planning and that sometimes exasperated those who were higher up than he.

Despite his stint in purgatory, Thomas had won a number of small battles, fought well in larger ones, and forced people to notice his abilities.

Finally, he had been given a command worthy of his own expectations even though it was under Grant. Ulysses Grant was four years his junior and hadn't even been in the army at the beginning of the hostilities, while Thomas had been a major in the regulars. Thomas had swallowed his pride and taken command of the Union forces defending Baltimore. It was some solace that his new command was almost twice that of the entire U.S. Army at the beginning of the war.

George Thomas's role was to shift to Washington and take command over Meade's smaller field force when the Confederates moved to his south. He would then pressure Lee into a battle. This suited Thomas just fine. The sooner Lee was defeated, the sooner the damned war would be over and he could start talking to his relatives. If he wanted to, of course. He had begun to think he'd never return to Virginia.

However, all of this depended on orders from Grant, who was choreographing the whole thing and, in Thomas's grudging opinion, doing a fine job. So where, then, were the orders? In anticipation of getting the word from Grant, his army was prepared to move, and part of one corps, Major General James McPherson's, was already on trains and marking time throughout the night.

Thomas was normally quite calm, but this day the burly general was concerned. Thus, when trainloads of men from Sherman's army began to arrive, Thomas was puzzled and angry. Where the hell were the orders to move? Obviously, Sherman had gotten his, so where were those for Thomas's army? Then when telegrams from Washington started to come in informing him that some fighting was occurring, General Thomas had the sickening feeling that something had gone wrong.

Thomas took a deep breath and calmed himself. It was time to actually be a general and not just an order taker. He might catch hell for taking the initiative, but he was not built to stand and let the world pass him by. It barely occurred to him that, by taking prompt action, he might divest himself of what he felt was an undeserved reputation for being too slow.

Thomas located McPherson standing by his train and watching the arrival of Sherman's lead units. “Everything s fucked up,” Thomas said. “Go now.” McPherson was quickly alert. “We have orders?”

“The hell with orders.” Thomas snarled. His anger was towards the situation, and not the thirty-two-year-old McPherson, who was one of the better generals he'd ever commanded. If McPherson was surprised by the unusual outburst, he didn't show it.

“Only Logan's division is on trains.” McPherson said. “What about the rest?”

Thomas thought quickly. Flexibility was needed. His preference was for thorough planning, but there was no time for that luxury. He had to improvise. His own empty trains were being blocked on sidings by Sherman's arrivals. When Colonel Haupt found out what was happening to his precious schedules, the colonel would shit.

“Sherman's men are arriving and they're already on trains. I'm not going to waste time getting them off and your men on. If something's fucked up in Washington, it needs tending to right away.

Sherman's boys’ll simply follow you, and you do what you have to with them. I'll square it with Sherman and Grant, and well sort them out later. Is that a problem?” McPherson assured him it wasn't and strode off. Minutes later, the first trainload of Union troops began to chug its way towards Washington.

Major General George Thomas took a deep breath and wondered if he'd saved the day or messed it up utterly. He^’d tried to cover his ass by sending a telegram to Grant telling him what he^’d done in the absence of orders that made any sense. At least no one would ever again call him over-meticulous.

Colonel John Rawlins knew the shame and nausea that came from failure. The first telegrams from Washington telling of the Confederate attack and asking where Thomas was were fobbed off. Thomas was on his way. He was slower than Grant liked, but he did his job and did it well. Thomas would be there. He had been ordered to Washington, and Grant had every confidence that Thomas would get there before Lee could do much damage.

But when a telegram came from Thomas stating that Sherman's men were arriving and asking should he or should he not proceed to help Meade, it had shocked Grant's staff and stunned Rawlins who, as chief of staff, had the responsibility for sending out all orders. Grant had remained outwardly imperturbable, but he had fixed Rawlins with the icy glare he used to intimidate and crumple those who crossed him.

A moment later, Grant had softened and a look of pity had come across his face. He, Grant, had made the mistake of entrusting Rawlins_: and the responsibility for anything that happened was Grant's, not Rawlins's. However. John Rawlins knew that he would never again be trusted with anything important.

Rawlins had run to the telegraph office with a fresh set of orders from Grant telling Thomas to proceed to Washington immediately and with all possible haste. They also told Thomas to assume command of Meade^’s forces as planned and now Sherman's as well, and to coordinate the defense of Washington. While these telegrams were being sent. Rawlins checked the message log for the previous night and saw that nothing had gone out for Thomas.

Then he remembered being knocked to the mud and scrambling for lost papers. He had assumed that he had recovered them all and hadn't double-checked. The mix-up was all his fault. He should have checked.

Rawlins was so upset he wanted to weep. The Confederates were attacking Washington and Thomas's army was nowhere near the place. He. John Rawlins. a fine lawyer and good friend of Ulysses Grant, stood a good chance of being remembered by history as the man who lost both the capital of his country and the war because of one moment's carelessness.

If he'd had a gun. he would have blown his brains out. But then, he thought sadly, he'd probably have missed.

At first Nathan mistook the dull booming for the sound of natural thunder in the rainy night. After all, it was storming and thunder was not unknown at that time of the year. He almost slept through it.

But then he^’d noticed a difference in the sound. It was too sharp, too rhythmic. He'd walked to the window and opened it carefully so as to not wake Rebecca. He wasn't successful.

“It's not a thunderstorm, is it?” she asked. Her face was pale in the night and she looked both grim and concerned. She looked like a waif with the quilt pulled up to her chin. She was naked underneath it, as her monthly curse had ceased.

“Cannons,” he said simply. The war had come to Washington, D.C.

“You're going?”

“Yes.”

He dressed quickly in the uniform of a Union colonel. Rebecca had thrown on a robe and gone to awaken Fromm. The former sergeant had put on his own uniform and then saddled two horses. Nathan was surprised.

“Got to see this one,” Fromm said with a grin. Thanks to Bridget Conlin's good cooking, his uniform barely fit him.

Nathan and Rebecca hugged tightly and without words that would have been meaningless. Nathan and Fromm mounted their horses and cantered off into the night.

For Sergeant Billy Harwell, this was the worst of all possible nightmares. They had been roused by Captain Melcher with the stunning news that the rebels were inside the fortifications around Fort Stephens and that Melcher's regiment was going to try and plug the leak.