Near Claysville, Maryland

August 18,1863 7:00 P.M.

General Lee looked to the west, to where the sky beginning to shift to gold and scarlet Already the days were turning shorter and, he realized, in another month the first touch of autumn would be in the air.

The afternoon heat was beginning to abate, the first cool breeze of twilight wafting along the road, which was packed solid with troops as far as the eye could see.

The men marched now with grim purpose. Orders had been given. They finally knew what they were doing, and he could sense that many of them were relieved. They had come down this same road only days before, for some the fourth time now that they had passed up and down it over the last month. In the march south, many had dreaded the thought that they were marching to a frontal assault on some of the heaviest fortifications in the world. He had not been able to share with them his thoughts and plans, that the march had been nothing more than a maneuver, a feint, to bring out the Army of the Potomac. Their efforts, their exhaustion, their marching under the hot sun of August had achieved for him that goal.

The wiser of them had undoubtedly figured it out long ago, and those not so wise would now boast that they had known from the start And now they were marching again, forewarned that this pace would continue through the night. Fifty minutes of march and ten minutes of break, hour after hour, with two hours' rest just before dawn, then back on the road yet again.

He thought for a moment of Jackson. This was the type of maneuver that Jackson relished and that a year ago was a forte that only he could claim. But in the last seven weeks that spirit had moved into the rest of the ranks, even to Old Pete, who at this moment was at the fore of the column a dozen miles up the road. His corps had been farthest back from Washington, placed there in anticipation of this moment. They were to spring forward, prevent Sickles from gaining Baltimore and the potential fallback position of the harbor, where the Union navy could support him. Then they were to pin him in place, then hold him till Hood came up on his right flank and Beauregard was properly deployed to spring the trap.

He knew Longstreet would see it through, a march to add another laurel like the one gained in the march from Gettysburg to Union Mills.

The road ahead drifted down into a darkly shaded hollow cut by a shallow, meandering stream. He drifted from the side of the road, the troops pressing on, passing over a rough bridge that had been built during the agonizing mud march of the month before. The stream was again a meandering trickle, thick, high grass and weeds bordering its banks.

The air in the hollow was damp, cool. Fireflies weaved and danced above the meadow grass. He let Traveler edge into the stream, loosening his reins, his old companion drinking deeply.

Alongside him, in the shadows, the bridge rumbled with the passage of troops, the closely packed column moving at a relentless pace, few of the men recognizing him.

This river of strength flowed by him, tens of thousands of his boys, his men, this flower of the South, these victors of so many hard-fought battles. And tomorrow they would go in again; none needed to be told of that

He watched them in silence, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. The tears came unbidden, surprising, as if waiting in the damp coolness of the stream to embrace and overwhelm him.

How many will I lose tomorrow? How many more must die? He caught a glimpse of a young drummer boy, silhouetted, exhausted, slumped over, riding on the pommel of an officer's horse, the officer with his arms around the boy to keep him from falling off. A man with rifle slung over his shoulder, banjo in his hands, was trying to pick out a tune. He passed on. Several men were momentarily illuminated by the flash of a match, someone lighting a pipe, then shadows again. Boys, young men, old men, rifles on shoulders, slung inverted, held by barrels in clenched hands. All were leaning forward slightly, blanket rolls and backpacks chafing shoulders. As always, the steady clanging rhythm of tin cups banging on canteens; a muffled curse as one soldier suddenly hopped about while trying to keep pace, his friends laughing when they realized he had picked up a splinter from the wooden bridge while marching barefoot.

Voices, hundreds of voices, filled the night, mingling together, overlapping, rising and falling, snatches of conversation as they approached the bridge, then disappearing as they marched over it and beyond…

"Gonna be a real fight tomorrow and you'll see 'em run… tell you I'm worried; her last letter said the baby was

due and I ain't heard a word in eight weeks Did you see

his face when Jimmie threw down them three aces?… It's been four months since I even kissed a girl and it's driving me just crazy… Ma said they buried Pa next to my little sister… Next war, I'm joining the navy I tell you…"

And thus it continued as they passed.

He took off his hat.

"Oh, merciful God," he whispered. "Guide me with Thy infinite love and mercy. Help me to do what is right. Help me to lead these men yet again. If battle comes tomorrow, I beg Thee to let it be swift and to bring this war to an end. Please, dear God, guide all those who fall into Thy infinite and eternal love. Comfort those who shall lose their loved ones. Guide me as well as Your humble servant to fulfill Your judgment and let the scourge of war soon pass from this land.

"Amen."

Traveler was done drinking; his head was raised, looking back at him, and Lee felt a flood of warmth for his old friend. It seemed as if the horse knew that his companion was praying, and waiting patiently for him to finish. He patted the horse lightly on the neck, whispering a few words of affection. He heard someone cough, and, a bit self-conscious, Lee looked over his shoulder and saw by the edge of the river his staff, all of them with hats off, many with heads still lowered.

He put his hat back on and crossed the stream, falling back in with the Army of Northern Virginia as it marched on through the night

Chapter Eighteen

Near Strasburg, Pennsylvania

August 19,1863 7:00 A.M.

Tell General Lee all that you've seen here. Remember, if they start to close in, don't hesitate to destroy the dispatches. Now ride!"

Wade Hampton watched as the half-dozen couriers galloped off into the morning mist.

It had been a running battle throughout the night Just before dusk he had been hit by three devastating pieces of news, one on top of the other. The first was that the Yankees, flanking wide, had cut across the Conestoga River a half-dozen miles above and below his line and were pincering in. The second, that a brigade of their cavalry having moved the night before on a wide sweep, a fifty-mile ride to his north and around Reading, was falling onto his rear. The third, that his way out, the river crossing, had already been cut by cavalry now joined by a brigade of infantry, which had been moved down by rail from Harrisburg to Columbia. Additional units were blocking every other ford. He wasn't facing a lone regiment, or even a brigade of experienced troopers. He was facing an entire division of cavalry backed by infantry, and they were good, damn good, the best he had ever seen.

The morale of his men, so high and exuberant just the morning before, was beginning to crumble. Word had filtered through the ranks that their comrades with the First North Carolina had been cut off somewhere up toward Reading and wiped out. A prisoner released by Grierson just before dawn had come riding in, confirming the news, and bringing with him an offer of honorable surrender.

Like hell! If need be, he'd ride clear to the outskirts of