"Yes, sir," Elihu replied wearily.

"Elihu, this is important. Once aboard the train, feel free to open the envelope and read it. You will then see why. Once you have linked up with General Grant, you are to stay with him." Lincoln spoke with a deep sense of urgency and almost foreboding. "Sir?"

"Stay with him until it is decided one way or the other." Elihu nodded.

"It's still not certain, sir," Elihu said. "Hancock repulsed Lee, but he has escaped us before. He still might slip back across the Potomac, and if so, the war will drag on for another year or more."

Lincoln nodded.

"I know that. The country knows that. And I am not sure the country can take another year of this kind of bloodletting without achievement."

He sighed, stood up, and walked over to the window, as Elihu noticed was his habit when thinking. He gazed out over Lafayette Park, the crowd gathered there, the ring of sentries.

"Another year. I don't think I can bear it. Nearly four hundred thousand Americans have died on both sides already. Another year, my God, six hundred thousand, seven hundred thousand?"

He turned away from the window.

"Are our sins so great that we must be punished so? I first asked myself that question after we failed so miserably at Second Bull Run a year ago. Now I feel a redoubled sense of trying to understand what God intends by this terrible agony for our nation."

Elihu could not reply.

"Just do as I've requested," Lincoln finally said. "And let us pray that when we meet again, all shall be well."

5:15 A.M.

The army had started moving fifteen minutes ago, the first light of a hazy, fog-shrouded dawn concealing their movement. Grant, staff following, was mounted, heading down toward McCausland's Ford, horses nervous as they gingerly moved around the carpet of dead covering the field. More than one of his men had already vomited from the stench.

He clutched his cigar firmly in his mouth, puffing furiously to block out the smell. The migraine still bedeviled him, and he feared that if he took too deep a breath of the fetid air, he would humiliate himself by vomiting as well.

He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, unable to bear looking down at the ground. The few glances were out of a nightmare, made worse by the half light, the wisps of fog drifting off the ground… men tangled together, his and Lee's, black and white, corpses swollen, both sides mingled together. To his right a circle of lanterns lit up a Confederate hospital area. He did not dare to ride near it, for he knew the sights within, and his courage faltered at the thought of approaching it. Some generals did so after a fight, calmly walking in to visit their men, but that was something beyond him, something that he knew would break his will. As a result, some said he was heartless; few realized just how heartfelt his decision truly was.

To the east, fires continued to glow, a clear sign to him that the rebel army was pulling out, burning the trains and their abandoned supplies.

He reached the ford, and from the far side there was a loud splashing, the escort around Grant nervously raising revolvers.

"Who goes there?" someone shouted.

"Union!"

"Come forward. Union here."

Riders approached, fog swirling around them, and Grant smiled. It was Ben Grierson.

"General, good to see you looking so well," Grant said happily.

"And you, too, sir. Been wandering around out here since midnight trying to find you."

The two saluted, and then Grant leaned over and warmly shook his hand.

"A lot is happening, sir." Grierson said excitedly.

"First off, where are the rebels?" Grant asked.

The mere fact that Grierson had met him here, literally in the middle of the Monocacy, meant that Lee had abandoned his position on the line, a move he had anticipated. But the presence of Grierson confirmed it.

"Sir, we linked up late yesterday with Sykes and the Army of the Potomac just outside of Marysville. I have two brigades of cavalry with me. We moved along the railroad, and shortly after midnight we reached the trains."

Grierson pointed back to the glowing horizon.

"Lord, what a mess they made of it. Must be over a hundred wrecked and burning locomotives back there, everything blown to hell. We rounded up a few prisoners. They said they were with Longstreet's Corps, which pulled out during the night. Lee pulled out yesterday with two corps."

Grant nodded. It was what he had assumed. The report of Lee being seen down at Hauling Ferry was now confirmed by this report.

"Go on."

"Must confess I got a bit disoriented around here. Couple of hours ago we followed the tracks to the river, tried to cross, but some of your boys on the other side were a bit trigger-happy, and I felt it best to sort of wait things out till dawn.

"About an hour ago, we ran into your skirmishers crossing the river, and they directed me down to this ford. Glad I ran into you."

"As I am glad to see you," Grant replied.

"Longstreet's Corps is in full retreat. Apparently they started evacuating this position around midnight. I have my two brigades dogging them on the two roads leading down to Hauling Ferry."

"What about Sykes?"

"He is over toward Urbana. About six or seven miles southeast of here. Couch's militia is falling in behind him." Grant smiled.

The net was indeed closing in.

"Sir, what happened here?" Grierson asked. "I tell you, coming up these last few miles, I've never seen anything like it before. Hospitals packed with Confederate wounded. Came across thirty or so field pieces, spiked, wheels smashed, abandoned. And good Lord, the smell. What happened?"

The mention of the smell finally got through to Grant.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said softly. "Must relieve myself."

He took his mount to the east side of the Monocacy, the ground held so tenaciously by Lee, then by Ord, and then again by Lee. He hurriedly rode up the embankment and dismounted. He walked over to a small tree, branches stripped clean by the gunfire, grabbed hold of it, leaned over, spitting out his cigar, and vomited.

He stood there for several minutes, gagging, vomiting again, each convulsive breath carrying with it the terrible cloying stench of the dead all around him, men lying in the mud, bodies half floating in the water, ghostlike faces looking up at him as if in reproach.

Tears streamed from his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

"Sir?"

Embarrassed, he looked up. It was Ely, holding a canteen. He nodded his thanks, took the canteen, and swished a mouthful, then got sick again. Ely stood by his side.

"It's alright, sir," Ely whispered. "It's hit all of us. Sir, nothing to be ashamed of. It's hit all of us."

Another mouthful spit out, and then a deep, long drink. For a second he wanted to ask if the water was clean, for if it had come from the river he knew he'd vomit again.

"That's it, sir," Ely said softly. 'Take another. Believe me, sir, all of us understand."

He drank again and fought against the wish that it was pure whiskey, a quart of it. No, don't think that.

He took another sip, spit it out, and handed the canteen back.

"Thank you, Ely."

"Of course, sir."

Ely stood formally to attention, as if the exchange that had just taken place had never happened and would be forever forgotten, something that history would never record, how the victorious general had vomited like a sick child on the field of victory.

He let go of the tree, took his hat off, and, taking out a soiled handkerchief, wiped his face and brow. He nodded, indicating that he was all right. Ely turned and walked away.

Grant returned to his horse and mounted. Only then did the rest of the staff and Grierson cross the stream.