There was the equivalent of a hundred and fifty wagonloads of ammunition on these trains, and so far he had moved less than fifty of them. That and a hundred double-caisson loads for the artillery.

At the rate it was going, he sensed they'd never get it all off in time.

He turned to his staff.

"One of you get back to headquarters. Tell Walter Taylor I need more wagons sent back here now, anything, ambulances^ anything. Another of you track down Alexander. Tell him we have enough ammunition to resupply one hundred guns…"

He hesitated.

"And tell him to prepare to abandon any of his pieces that cannot get together full teams by nightfall."

The two couriers galloped oft, and Pete stood alone in the rain, looking east, wondering if at any minute he might see an armored train coming down the track.

A major was supervising the off-loading, and he called him over.

"Major, post some sentries down the track a few miles. The Yankees are coming in on us from that way. The moment you see them, blow the rest of this up."

"Sir?"

"You heard me, blow these trains up. Then as you pull back, set fire to every train on these tracks."

"Hard to do sir, nearly all the locomotives are cold, their fires out."

"Be ingenious, son," Pete said, trying to smile. "I'm giving you the chance to put the damned B and O out of business for a long time; you can claim to be the biggest train wrecker in history."

The major smiled back.

"We'll find a way, sir."

Pete mounted and rode off, weaving his way around the long strings of boxcars, flatcars, hoppers, and locomotives.

He passed the spot where Lee had almost been killed, wreckage still strewn across the track, and to the empty flat-cars where Cruickshank had finally managed to get the damn pontoon bridges unloaded and moving.

Ahead there was a distant thumping, occasional muffled rattling of rifle fire, just when he had assumed there was nothing serious going on. Grant was just waiting them out now.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 12:15 P.M.

The reassuring click of the telegraph sounded behind him, the replacement crew sending out the first test signal a half hour ago, and now forwarding a full report of the battle and a coded signal by Grant, indicating his belief that Lee was moving his forces toward Hauling Ferry.

Treasury Office Washington, D.C.

12:40 PM.

The cost, merciful God," Lincoln sighed as he sat down, holding the tear sheet just handed over by the telegrapher. "The cost."

Elihu was by his side, reading over his shoulder. "Grant held, though," Elihu said. "He held." There was a touch of exuberance in Elihu's voice, but for the moment Lincoln could not react.

"Estimate our losses at twenty-five thousand or more." He kept rereading that one line.

The signal had been sent directly from Grant, to Hagerstown, from there to Harrisburg, then repeated down to Port Deposit. With the recapture of Baltimore, a victory heralded on the front pages of all newspapers across the country, the telegraph line had been restored directly back to Washington.

That number, twenty-five thousand, was now public knowledge. He could picture by this evening hundreds of thousands gathering at telegraphy stations across the nation, anxious parents, wives, children, all waiting for the first casualty reports to come through, names, more names, and yet more names, each one tearing a tragic hole into a family that would never heal.

"Sir?"

It was Elihu, lightly touching him on the shoulder.

Lincoln stirred from his thoughts and looked up.

"Sir, Grant held at Frederick. In fact he reports Lee is retreating, trying to flee Maryland and get across the Potomac to Virginia. That is the coded part which just came through. We have Lee on the run."

Lincoln could only shake his head and sigh.

"Yes, I know, Elihu. As we did last year after Antietam. He slipped the net then and the war continued."

Lost in gloom, Lincoln stood up and walked out of the room. A moment later Elihu heard a clamor out in the street as a cavalry detachment pushed the waiting crowd back, reporters shouting questions, as Lincoln slowly walked across Lafayette Park to return to the White House.

Elihu watched him disappear into the rain, his heart breaking at the sight of the man, who appeared, like Atlas, to be carrying an impossible burden upon his shoulders.

Elihu turned back to the telegrapher.

"A message to Hancock, coded. Inform him to expect a full attack by Lee before the day is out."

Hauling Ferry 2:45pm

Mr. Bartlett?"

Jim was asleep, heading resting on the table. He stirred. It was a white officer.

"Yes, sir?"

"General Hancock wishes to see you, Mr. Bartlett." "Of course."

Jim stood up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, taking a few seconds to wipe his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief. Like so many who fall asleep at midday he was surprised by the bustle of activity around him even as he had dozed. Men were setting up awnings to protect boxes of ammunition being off-loaded from a canal barge, a company of a hundred men, shovels and picks on their shoulders, were coming off the line to eat their noonday meal. They were all covered in mud, soaked to the skin, but their spirits were still high, a team of a hundred moving from the kitchen area back up to replace them, gibes about the food awaiting the returning crew being exchanged.

Jim followed the officer out from under the awning, glad when one of his assistants came up and offered him an army poncho and an army slouch cap to cover himself. The immaculate clothes he wore as a butler at the White House, black coat, trousers, boiled shirt, black cravat, were now filthy, most likely beyond any hope of repair.

He mounted his old swaybacked nag and fell in with the officer by his side.

"Your men, Mr. Bartlett. I never seen such workers," the officer said. "They just don't stop."

Jim smiled at the compliment.

"Thank you, sir. These boys have a reason to be here. Mr. Lincoln gave them that, Mr. Lincoln and you soldiers. We'll dig till we hit China if that is what you need."

The officer chuckled and shook his head.

"Maybe get a few million of them to help us, is that it?"

"I heard say those working out in California on the railroad are mighty fine workers."

"How the country is changing," the officer said.

"How is that, sir?"

He reddened slightly and shook his head. "Oh, nothing." "You mean us colored, the Chinese, and such?" "No offense, Mr. Bartlett."

"None taken, young sir. Yes, the country is changing."

They crested the top of the slope and Jim smiled with satisfaction. Little more than a day ago this had been open fields, woodlots, and just the beginnings of a trench. The entire landscape had been transformed by the terrible needs of war and he smiled because he had had a hand in achieving what needed to be done.

A rectangular bastion was before him, a hundred feet long and about fifty feet broad. The earthen ramparts were eight to ten feet high, all sides around it dug out into a moat. On a raised platform in the center was one of the huge cannons, what the officers were calling a Parrott gun. Four other smaller guns were inside the bastion as well. The entryway was a rough-hewn bridge made of logs split in half.

"Be careful," the officer said, "it's a bit slippery."

Not too sure of himself on horseback Jim decided to dismount and walk in.

Sentries were posted at the entryway. Just behind them, inside the fort, was a stack of logs that he realized could be thrown across the entrance to block it if the fort was surrounded. Within, hundreds of men, all of them soldiers, were forming up, some already positioned at the guns. The officer led the way for Jim as they walked across the muddy ground and up a sloping ramp, paved with logs, to where the great gun rested. Hancock, leaning heavily on his cane, was standing by the muzzle of the gun, field glasses raised, looking toward the road that headed north.