He had not commanded these men long, and he knew some resented him and his meteoric rise to command. But by God this was his day now. It was almost worth losing an arm for. A week from now the illustrated papers would be plastered with images of him, arm in sling, leading a charge, bridge blowing up in the background. It could very well mean a second star.

"Help me up."

Again more eager hands reached out, helping him slip his jacket on, then up into the saddle.

"Get a report down to me, Tyler, once you're ready to roll. Until then I am going to keep Stuart and his rebs off the bridges."

"Yes, sir."

He turned and galloped off.

"You know I used to hate that son of a bitch," one of the troopers said, "too much glory seeking, but, damn me, he sure has the stomach for a good fight."

One Mile North of Boonsborough, Maryland 9:45 A.M.

Riding as he always did at the head of his column Gen. James McPherson, commander of Seventeenth Corps, Army of the Susquehanna, saw the swirl of dust ahead, two troopers riding hard as they came out of the village. They had slowed for an instant as they approached his advance line of mounted skirmishers, several of the skirmishers then falling in by their side to lead them in.

McPherson urged his own mount to a quick trot and forged ahead to meet them at the edge of town. The troopers, their mounts snorting, lathered with sweat, reined in, saluting, the men gasping for breath. "General McPherson?" "You have him."

"Thank God, sir," one of the troopers gasped. "Afraid we'd kill our mounts if we pushed them much farther." "What's your report?"

"Sir, we're with General Custer's Brigade. He's in one hell of a fight just east of Frederick, facing two or more brigades of rebel cavalry." – "What is Custer doing there?" McPherson asked. Though he had no details of what was supposed to be happening east of the Catoctins, his information was that the cavalry was to slowly push south, acting as a deceptive screen to keep Lee's attention focused north until his corps gained the pass and were into Frederick.

"Sir, yesterday," a trooper gasped, "the general got word the rebs were moving a pontoon train through Frederick. He decided to get there first and block the bridge over Monoc-acy Creek. We got there just minutes ahead of a whole swarm of rebs. Sir, he's asking for infantry support."

"The railroad bridge there-what is it made of?"

"Wood, sir. But the creek's only a hundred yards wide or so. Doubt if we can get a fire burning on it; anybody steps out on it is bound to get shot."

"Artillery?"

"None, sir, we left it behind in the dash down to Frederick." "Which rebel brigades?"

"Don't know, sir, but I can tell you, as I was riding up over the pass through the Catoctins, I looked back. That whole riverbank a mile wide was just swarming with them. You could see a lot of dust in the distance, maybe infantry, maybe more cavalry. I couldn't tell."

McPherson nodded, still studying the map. Twelve miles at least to Frederick. He looked east. The high expanse of the South Mountain range was only a couple of miles ahead, a tough climb.

"The road ahead?"

"It's the National Road, sir, well macadamized. Tough on the horses, though. Mine was going lame. About six miles across the next valley and then up over the Catoctin Pass."

Custer had certainly triggered something. If Lee takes the bridges, then blocks the pass, Grant's plan unravels.

He didn't hesitate any longer with his decision. He turned and looked back. His massive column, fifteen thousand men, was visible for miles back across the valley, dust swirling up, morning light glinting off shouldered rifles, white canvas tops of ammunition wagons and ambulances standing out.

They'd been marching since before dawn, having already covered nearly ten miles. He was planning for them to break in another hour to cook up their midday meals.

He looked back at the troopers. "If I get you fresh mounts, can you guide me?"

The two hesitated, then nodded. McPherson turned to his staff.

"Pass the word to every regimental commander. I want the men pressed. Three miles to the hour, ten-minute break to the hour and not a minute more. No straggling, provost guards to keep them moving until they drop on their faces. I want this column moving and moving hard. Round up my headquarters guard detail and find fresh mounts for these two boys. I'm going up to Frederick. I expect to see this column crossing the Catoctin Pass no later than midafternoon. Do you understand me?"

"Sir, it looks like hard pushing getting over those mountains," one of his men said, pointing toward the looming South Mountain range directly ahead.

"Get all wagons off the road, just infantry. The wagons can fall in behind them after the corps has passed. Ambulances, tell the surgeons to pack what they can on a horse and then fall in riding with the column. Pull ammunition out of the wagons, get the extra rounds passed out to the men as they march by, eighty, a hundred rounds to each man if possible. Send word back to General Grant describing everything you've just heard here. I don't have time to write it out. Tell him I'm going ahead to Frederick."

He pointed at one of his young, eager lieutenants.

"You, get back up the road to Burnside. Inform him of what you've heard here and my decision to force-march on Frederick. Tell him I hope he will press forward with all possible speed to my assistance."

The two couriers from Custer were off their mounts, one of them patting the animal's neck with affection, pouring water into his hat, emptying his canteen, the horse eagerly gulping down the few drops.

Troopers from the headquarters company came up, a lieutenant detailing two men off to trade horses. The cavalryman from Custer's Brigade was reluctant to leave his mount, handing over the reins.

"Her name is Ginger. She's a good horse, carried me through three charges. I'll come back for her after this is over."

The trooper receiving the horse nodded, the two understanding each other and their love for their mounts. There was a pause and they shook hands.

"William Bradley, I'll take good care of her. Mine is Sarah, she's got a tender mouth and hates spurs, so go easy on her."

Bradley gently led the horse over to the side of the road where it could crop some grass while he took its saddle off.

McPherson saw the exchange and could not help but smile. The two men trading horses were actually not much more than boys, their mounts beloved pets, companions.

He looked to the mountains ahead. So close and yet so far, he thought, but it was not of the fight ahead he was thinking. Who he thought of now was beyond the imposing range, little more than fifty miles away, in Baltimore.

If not for this rebel invasion of Maryland I'd be married now. Grant had promised him, once Vicksburg fell, he could have a furlough to go to Baltimore to marry Miss Emily Hoffman. And then the rebels took Baltimore, and not a word from her since.

Ironically, he knew her parents were delighted. They were devout secessionists and at the start of the war had forbidden their marriage.

So close, he thought. Perhaps we can end this war as Grant said we would, and then I'll ride into Baltimore and, parents or not, Emily and I will marry.

Custer's troopers finished their exchange of mounts and saddled up, coming over to his side, disrupting his thoughts.

McPherson motioned to one of his staff, who pulled out a flask, handing it to the two troopers.

The one gladly took it, draining it half off, the second shook his head.

"I'm a temperance man," he said.

"Good for you, son," McPherson replied. "Now let's go see what your General Custer has started."

Monocacy function 11:00 A.M.

The depot was burning, the pounding of the last hour from the four guns arrayed on the opposite bank having torn it to shreds and then finally ignited it. The last of the troopers within poured out of the building, running and dodging as another shell screamed in, detonating on the track of the main line, ballast and shrapnel spraying.