As he was sipping his second cup of coffee, realizing that his mission here was completed and it was time to leave the pleasant comradeship of the army and return to the turmoil of Washington, an officer came galloping along the roadside, leapt a fence, and rode straight toward the group. His stallion was sleek, jet black, the officer astride it cutting a sharp figure in a neatly fitting uniform. He reined in hard and dismounted with a flourish.

Lincoln's first instinct was a dislike of this man. He had the look of George McClellan about him, his uniform a little too neat when contrasted to Grant's simple four-button private's jacket, or Ord, covered with dust and sweat, and other officers begrimed. The man was short, about the same height as McClellan, and perhaps that was a trigger for Lincoln, who like many who were tall, saw military men of diminutive stature and too much braid as being "little Napoleons."

The officer came up to Grant, grinning, and saluted.

"General Sheridan, may I present you to our president?"

Sheridan turned and actually looked startled. He had not seen Lincoln sitting in the shade, slouched in a canvas-back chair, sipping coffee.

The man instantly snapped to rigid attention and saluted.

"Excuse me, sir, I mean, Mr. President, I didn't see you, sir."

He looked a bit flustered, and Lincoln's first sense of dislike dissipated. He stood up, nodded, and extended his hand, which Sheridan took warmly.

"Sir, an honor to meet you," Sheridan said enthusiastically.

'Thank you, sir."

"I heard you were with the army. I was hoping to be able to see you."

"You came here in what seemed to be a hurry, General Sheridan. Do you bear important news?" "Yes, sir." "Report then."

Lincoln was caught by the fact that Sheridan pulled a dispatch out of his breast pocket and handed it straight to him. With McClellan's army there would have been all sorts of secrecy, officers huddled outside, McClellan with a touch of pomposity excusing himself to go confer in whispers before coming back to tell Lincoln what was occurring-and often distorting the news. This openness was refreshing. The note, he saw immediately, was addressed to Grant, yet Sheridan had handed it directly to him. A small issue to be certain, but one that was. telling.

"I think this is for our general," Lincoln said, handing the note over to Grant, who opened it up.

Grant scanned the memo and stood silent for a moment, as if lost in thought.

"Interesting news?" Lincoln asked.

"Yes, sir, it is."

Grant looked around at the gathering.

"A report from General Custer." He paused for a second.

"Good man, Custer," one of the staff said, "promoted to brigade command just before Gettysburg. Aggressive as all hell."

Lincoln realized that Grant had taken the pause in order to be prompted, to get a little background on Custer before proceeding in front of the president.

"It was sent this morning at four A.M. from near Hanover. The report says that a civilian informant, whom Custer believes is truthful, came through the lines from Baltimore. General Lee is preparing to move his pontoon train via the B and O to Frederick, perhaps beyond." 'That's news," Ord said softly. "Is he running?"

Grant handed the memo to Lincoln.

"If I'm not mistaken, General," Lincoln said softly after scanning it, "Hanover is not that far from here. Why has it taken nearly eight hours for this message to arrive?"

Grant nodded in agreement, looking over at Sheridan.

"Sir, I was at the telegraph and railhead five miles north of here when it was carried in by courier. Seems some pro-Southern civilians, or perhaps rebel raiders, are cutting our telegraph links as Grierson advances on the east side of the mountain. Apparently the courier from Custer wasted several hours looking for Kilpatrick and then Grierson before moving it back up the line to Carlisle, where it was telegraphed to our railhead. Seeing the importance of it, I rode it down here myself."

Lincoln handed the dispatch back to Grant, saying nothing.

Grant motioned for the table to be cleared, and within seconds plates and cups were pushed back, a map quickly spread out, men gathering round.

"Is this reliable?" Grant asked, looking around. "I don't know this Custer. His dispatch states that he is moving on his own toward Frederick to intercept. Did Kilpatrick or Grierson authorize this?"

"Apparently not," Sheridan replied. "There're no endorsements or comments from either of them yet."

Grant looked around at the gathering.

"Again my question," Grant said sharply. "Custer. Is he reliable?"

"A glory hound some call him," Ely said quietly, "but from what I've been able to pick up, he's at the front of a fight."

"Last in his class at West Point. Damn young to command a brigade. Class of 'sixty-one," a captain added. "A staff officer with McClellan."

There was a momentary pause in the conversation, Lincoln standing quiet, watching.

"Captain, you are a staff officer under Grant. Should that disqualify you for field command if the need arises?" Sheridan asked.

The captain stood silent, then shook his head.

"How did he rise so quickly?" Grant asked.

"He can fight," Ely replied. "After Union Mills, he was one of the few who brought his command out relatively intact. Even defeated a couple of rebel infantry regiments trying to cut him off from Harrisburg. That's how he wound up under our command rather than back with the Army of the Potomac. He was in Harrisburg when we came in and did good service patrolling the western bank of the river."

Again there was a moment of silence as Grant examined the map.

Lincoln studied him carefully. This was strictly a military decision, and he was curious to see how Grant would handle it, what advice he'd solicit. Would he make his decisions on his own, and do so boldly, or convey timidity and lack of confidence?

Grant lit a cigar, and that seemed to be a signal for the others gathered round to fall silent. He puffed intently, staring at the map, picking up the dispatch for a moment, setting it back down.

"One thing to note here," Grant said at last. "Custer, by moving, has left a gap ten miles wide in our cavalry pickets shielding Couch's slow but steady advance. That was always a decoy, but one I hoped would hold for another day or two. If but one patrol of rebel cavalry attacks that opening, gets through, and takes a few prisoners, they'll realize that move is nothing but a feint. It's twenty thousand militia playacting at being our main force to direct Lee's gaze to the north rather than the west."

There were nods of agreement.

"We must assume Lee will know by the end of the day we are not coming straight on, but attempting to flank to the west of the mountains, so that game is up."

He was silent again for a moment, puffing on his cigar.

"Lee is playing the safe move. Get the pontoon train west and to the rear of his operational area."

"Do you think he's pulling out?" Ord asked.

Grant shook his head.

"Not like Lee. No, but he will play the safe move first. He needs to secure a line of retreat if we should outmaneuver him or defeat him outright. We'd do the same."

Grant looked over at Ely.

"What pontooning material do we know they have?"

"Their bridging material at the start of Maryland campaign was laid at Williamsport, and then washed away in the floods right after Union Mills. We know he captured some of ours after Union Mills."

"How much?"

"Enough at least to get across the Potomac." Grant nodded.

"That gives him a secure line of retreat if he can get it in place, say here, or here," and as he spoke he pointed toward several potential crossing spots south of Frederick.

Grant leaned back from the table, hands clasped behind his back.