Longstreet nodded back to the map and pointed at Harrisburg.

"Suppose he doesn't do what you expect. Then what?"

"Sickles?"

"No, Grant, sir. That is now our main concern."

"He will," Lee replied. "Grant will hesitate, caught off balance by Sickles, and then the administration will force him to detach troops to cover here. No, they will tie his hands as they have all the others."

"I hope so," was all Longstreet could say.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

August 17,1863 9:00 P.M.

Haupt, good to see you." Grant came out of his chair, extending a hand as the frail figure of Gen. Herman Haupt stood by the open flap of his tent

The appearance of the man shocked him. He was wasting away by the day; by the light of the coal oil lamp he had a pale, yellowish cast to his skin, his cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken.

As Haupt took a seat across from Grant, the general made a decision, uncharacteristically, without reflection or contemplation of the impact it might have on his plans.

"Haupt, I think I should relieve you of your office. Send you home for a month or two."

Haupt looked up at him angrily and shook his head.

"I respectfully decline, sir."

"Damn it, man, you are dying."

Haupt smiled.

"Not yet, and besides you need me."

"Yes, I need you, but a lot of good you will do me or the army if you are dead."

"Not by a long shot yet, sir. Give me a few more weeks, let me sort out a few things, and then I'll take the leave you suggest."

"Suppose I order you to go home now, tonight?" Haupt chuckled.

"I'd refuse. And then what? Court-martial me for insubordination?"

Grant shook his head and laughed softly. "No, I'd never do that, Herman." "It's getting better, sir."

He could see the lie in that but decided that for the moment he could not push the issue further.

"What do you have for me?" Grant asked.

"I barely got through. It's chaos not fifty miles from here. Hampton's taken Lancaster and is even now riding toward Reading. I'll confess, he's made a mess of things for us. He caught a number of supply trains in the rail yard at Lancaster. Wrecked nine locomotives."

Grant could see that such wanton destruction of his precious machines troubled Haupt. At heart he was a builder, not a destroyer.

"We'll take care of him. But what else?"

"I've got ten more batteries of guns coming down from Albany. I'm routing them around Lancaster and Reading and they should be here late tomorrow. Remounts are still coming in via the Pennsylvania railroad."

Haupt paused for a moment, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a notebook, thumbing through the pages.

"Let's see now. Two thousand, three hundred and fifty horses from Ohio, eight hundred and seventy mules from Ohio and Indiana as well. Seventy-five more wagons out of Lancaster before Hampton hit it. Two regiments from Illinois and one from Indiana should arrive here in three days. The colored regiments from Philadelphia will transfer here starting tomorrow. I'm routing them up to New York and then across to the Pennsylvania and Susquehanna through Pottsville, yet again to avoid Reading. Replacement bridging is in place at Wheeling for the Baltimore and Ohio, and a million rations should be stockpiled there by the end of the month. Vouchers to all the rail lines involved have been drawn as well."

He thumbed through his notes.

"Shoes. I've got fifty thousand more coming down from

Massachusetts and Vermont, but that will take another week. We're still short of tentage; one of the trains Hampton took was loaded with them, and of replacement rails and some bridging material."

"The pontoon bridges?"

Haupt shook his head.

"Only enough for five thousand feet so far. I'm pushing it hard, sir, but the routing of trains is still something of a tangle from the Midwest. We've yet to successfully shift all the rolling stock back out there, and it's causing problems."

Grant extended his hand and patted Haupt on the arm.

"You're doing fine, just fine, Haupt."

Herman said nothing, eyes glazed as he stared off.

"I'd like you to get some rest Haupt If I lose you, I lose the one man I'm relying on most right now."

Haupt's shoulders seemed to sag, as if the words of comfort had placed upon him an additional burden.

"Sorry, sir. Sorry I took sick at this time."

"No apologies should be offered, Haupt."

"I'll be on the pontoon bridges first thing in the morning."

Grant sighed. There was no way he could simply detach this man, to send him home, to let him take a month to recover from his bout with dysentery. Even if he wanted to, he could not, not tonight

"Go and get some rest, General. And that is an order."

"Yes, sir."

Haupt legs visibly trembling, stood up and saluted. Grant guided him out of the tent and watched him walk off. As Haupt disappeared, he caught Parker's eye.

"Call for my surgeon again," Grant said. "I want that man taken care of."

Parker saluted and followed Haupt.

Grant stood by the open flap of his tent The night was cool, pleasant, a gentle breeze wafting in as he lit another cigar, coughed as he drew the first deep breath, inhaling the soothing smoke.

In the open fields beyond, hundreds of campfires illuminated the night He could hear distant laughter, songs, a banjo playing. Nearby several officers were passing a flask, laughing.

It was all so soothing, and in this moment, alone, he realized yet again that in spite of the horror, the tragedy of it all, he did love it. The scent of wood smoke on the breeze, mingled with the rich smell of hay, horses, a gentle August evening camped in the fields of Pennsylvania. Better, far better than Mississippi with its hot, sultry evenings without a breath of fresh air. This was good, a moment of pleasure regardless of all that had transpired in the last day.

As he looked out over the encampment, the men, his men, victorious veterans of so many hard-fought campaigns, he was captivated yet again by the sense of destiny, of power.

He knew they were ready for the task ahead. It was strange how one could sense such things, as if the will of seventy thousand could become but a single voice, a voice that said that together all would see it through to the end, no matter what the cost.

He closed the flap to his tent and returned to his desk. The urge for a drink was suddenly upon him. Strange how it would come when unexpected, unanticipated. Just one drink, a soothing taste to relieve the tension.

But he had made the promise to one whose trust he desired, and though he knew that he could find the bottle easy enough, hidden away in his trunk, he gave it not a second thought.

The latest dispatch from Washington had come in just before sunset Enemy fire all along a five-mile front heavy artillery bombardment, fear that a night assault might be launched.

A copy of the New York Herald was on the table, declaring that Washington was on the brink of collapsing, a paper from Philadelphia decrying the continued slaughter, calling for Lincoln to meet with Davis to end the war.

It was strange. He and Lincoln were separated by not more than a hundred and fifty miles, but they could, in one sense, be as far away as if Lincoln was in China. Dispatches had to be routed through Philadelphia, to Port Deposit, and then by courier boat to Washington. Here again Haupt had set up such an efficient system that the secured envelopes moved efficiently, for their communications could not be trusted to any wire, where along the way a telegrapher could accept ten dollars from a reporter to divulge what the two were saying to each other.

And yet it was as if Lincoln was sitting with him now, in this tent, telling him to stay the course, to hold fast, to do what they had discussed in their brief meeting of a month past.