Elihu smiled sadly.

"You are talking idealistically, sir, when we should be talking about the realities of running a republic."

Lincoln sighed and sat down. Picking up a pencil, he twirled it absently as he looked out his office window.

"We politicians are divided into two types in this war, in any war," Elihu said. "The majority, though they might proclaim that the dream of the republic motivates them at heart, are ultimately swayed by the advantage they can gain for themselves. They will proclaim to their followers that the good of the republic is the sole cause for their actions, and many will then follow.

"The second type, God save us, like you and Grant, are so rare. You two actually do wish to see this ideal, this dream, survive, and would give your lives for it without hesitation. Never confuse the two. I think it will always be thus, a hundred, a hundred and fifty years from now, if we survive; there will still be men and women who will proclaim their love of the republic, perhaps even believe it, but at heart are in it only for their own power.

"There is much of Sickles I like. He's a damn good general in his own right, but ultimately he is blinded by the light, the power, the dream that he can be the savior of this cause, and therefore he marched off yesterday morning, either to glory or disaster. But in either case, he will always say it was to save the republic."

"Stanton," Lincoln whispered.

"Sir?"

"It was Edwin who was behind this." Elihu nodded sagely.

"He could not accept my removal of Halleck. He felt I stepped on his toes in that. Halleck as well had poisoned him about Grant. Stanton was all aflutter over Lee being in front of the city again, now reinforced by Beauregard. I think in some way he must have goaded Sickles into action."

"That's what I was thinking as well, sir."

Lincoln sighed again, rubbing his eyes after yet another sleepless night.

"Is there any hope of recalling Sickles?" Lincoln asked.

Elihu shook his head.

"All three of his corps are across the river by now, moving on Baltimore. Lee, as you just told me, is storming north to meet him. I think by late today they will meet. All I can say is, let's pray that Sickles somehow proves himself, though politically that worries me."

"How so?"

"If he wins, if he defeats Lee in an open fight, sir, his next conquest will be your office. He wants to be president."

Lincoln laughed softly and shook his head.

"By God, Elihu. If he does win, if he ends this war, I'll gladly give it to him as a prize. I'll do anything at this point to see an end to the killing as long as the Union is saved."

Near Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

August 19, 1863 10:00 A.M.

The day was hot. The sun had risen a dark-red orb, promising yet another August day of sweltering heat for Maryland. It was now more than halfway up the midmorning sky. Dan Sickles took off his hat and wiped his brow.

The men marching past, his old Third Corps veterans, had rested well during the night He had balanced the odds of calling a halt to the march. Press on and force-march into Baltimore, but then his men would be exhausted, or let them get six hours' rest, a hot breakfast so that if action did come they'd be fresh.

It was a hard decision, balancing one factor against another, and balancing what Lee might do or not do. For Lee to disengage from Washington, turn around and march north, would have taken all of yesterday. Moving one man, of course, was the simplest task in the world, but fifty thousand, with rations, ammunition, artillery, supply wagons, ambulances; even the best trained units would take the better part of a day to disengage, form up, and then put the head in front of the tail. If Lee was deployed for an assault on the capital, the roads for miles to the rear would be clogged with supply wagons.

Then, on the other hand, he just might fling himself north and thus exhaust himself, and if so, his men would have the edge yet again, having rested and eaten.

He had to wait for the Sixth to come up. If he advanced too quickly, with all his men and supplies funneling through the one river crossing, his army would be strung out across twenty-five miles of road. He wanted them compact ready to go in as a single force, and thus one other reason for waiting six precious hours.

Though he had been part of the old Meade crowd, Sickles had given the Sixth to Gouverneur Warren. The man had conducted himself well in the Gettysburg campaign, was popular with his command, and had a tremendous eye for ground. Warren had reported that it would not be until mid-morning before the old Sixth would be fully across the river and deployed to march. Behind them would come a thousand wagons and more, which would be infuriatingly slow in moving, as always. Though Stoneman had assured him that his small cavalry force would protect the flank, it would be just like Stuart to try and cut in and wipe out this crucial supply link, thus stalling his advance, making him dependent on the navy to move supplies into the various ports along the Chesapeake Bay. That would be a logistical nightmare when it came to cross-service cooperation, especially with everything based upon speed, speed that he planned to make the most of today.

Coming up over a low crest, riding near the head of his column, Sickles reined in, shading his eyes, scanning the land to the south. Downtown Baltimore was less than fifteen miles away. They had covered over half the distance. Several of his staff, who had climbed into a tree, were exclaiming that they thought they could see the church spires of the city.

The call went up for the advancing column to halt, the usual ten-minute break after fifty minutes of marching. Two miles an hour, if the roads were good, the center of Baltimore by late afternoon, a triumph in and of itself. And not a rebel in sight, except for the distant screen of gray cavalry that drew back a step with each step of his advance. There was the occasional pop of a carbine, skirmishers firing at long range, but Stuart did not seem intent on holding him back.

Curious. Usually there'd be a fight for each ford, each bridge, if still intact. The countryside was peaceful, civilians out lining the road, some friendly, reporting that the rebel cavalry had run like cowards, others sullen, just watching, saying nothing.

The only wrinkle-the first courier had come up an hour ago with the report that Ely Parker from Grant's headquarters had crossed the river at Perryville and even now was riding to meet him. His people would, as ordered, "lose" Ely, dragging him about in a frantic search to find the commander of the Army of the Potomac to no avail. By the time Ely found him, he'd be into the city, and there was no way in hell that Grant would then order him to retire.

It was a good day for a march and perhaps a bloodless retaking of Baltimore. Lighting a cigar, he fell back in along the road, empty for the moment of troops, and rode forward, the men raising a cheer as he passed.

Baltimore, Maryland

August 19,1863 10:00 A.M.

The endless, relentless column of Longstreet's corps flowed along the roads into the western edge of the city. The men had covered nearly thirty miles in just under twenty-four hours, and the exhaustion was showing. In the last few hours straggling had increased; old men, young boys, seasoned soldiers, pale-faced from diarrhea, a stomach complaint, or lung illness, were now falling out. Unlike Jackson, he felt some slight pity for these men, especially after their nightlong march, and he had ordered his provost guards to deal lightly with them, to give out passes and tell them to fall back in when they were able.

Longstreet reined in, watching as a regiment of boys from Georgia flowed by. Marching order had broken down during the night, the neatly formed columns of fours replaced by a surge of movement, men jumbled together, most with rifles slung over shoulders, the roadside now Uttered with backpacks, blanket rolls, strange booty picked up over the last month and now tossed aside. Quilts, books, surprisingly a box of cigars, a clock, newspapers most likely hoarded not as reading material but for more practical purposes, a brass candelabra, a woman's silk dress, a framed painting of a ship, cooking pots, the usual decks of cards and whiskey bottles, all of it littering the side of the road as they passed. Nearly all were stripped down now to just musket, cartridge box, canteen. They kept on coming, most exhausted beyond caring, some with a fire still in their eyes, for the Army of Northern Virginia was on the march and there was a battle ahead. Most regimental commanders had passed the order that the men could strip down in the heat, so uniform jackets were slung over shoulders, revealing white cotton shirts long since gone to dirty, sweat-soaked gray. Men who had stripped off their shoes in the countryside now grimaced as they marched over cobblestones, cursing, of course, when they hit horse and mule droppings.