Fire and steam boiled across the track, the two locomotives seemingly mated in a single tangled pile of scrap metal, both tracks torn up and mangled by the collision.

Lee looked back. Fortunately, the head of the convoy bearing Scales's Division was skidding to a stop, a good hundred yards back from the wreck.

"What in heaven's name was that?" Hotchkiss whispered, coming up to Lee's side, brushing himself off.

"Did all the men get out?" Lee asked.

Walter looked around.

"I think so, sir"

There was a voice inside him that whispered that he never should have thought of using the railroads to move his men. It was a strength of the Yankees, but sometimes also a weakness, since a single derailment could tie up movement for days. He looked back at the trains bearing Scales and his men.

"Get them dismounted," he said. 'Traveler is back on the second or third train. Bring him up to me. I'm riding forward."

He walked up the line to look at the wreckage, shielding his face from the heat of the fire. One of the men had indeed not gotten out, the fireman who had leapt to their car to give the warning, thereby saving Lee's life. The man had apparently been caught between the passenger car and the tender, his body nearly torn in two.

He knelt by his side. Fortunately, the poor man was already dead. He whispered a prayer and then stood up. Someone with Scales had already thought to bring Traveler forward, and Lee mounted up.

"I'm going forward, gendemen. Get Scales up as quick as possible," he said quietly, and, edging around the wreckage, he pushed on toward Monocacy.

Monocacy Junction 11:50 A.M.

Custer knew he was dying. It wasn't the arm that got him. It was the hunk of red-hot metal, bursting from the explosion, that had shattered his legs, killing his horse as well. Several of his men had tenderly carried him back behind the depot and into the blockhouse.

He chuckled. Hell of a way to die. Hope the artists make it look good.

The rebs were now closing in from all sides. He had ordered Gray and Mann to try to get out, to get up to the Catoctin Pass and hold it till Grant arrived.

The bridge was still standing, but barely. The north side was collapsed between the second and fourth piers, the south side a twisted jumble of torn-up track, smoldering wood. A scattering of shots still echoed, now a circle of fire as the rebs who had forded the river to the north and south closed in.

Alger had not made it out. Shot in the stomach, bent double but still game, he raised his revolver to fire at the rebs coming down the main track from the west.

The ring closed in tighter. The rebs flanking him now circled the higher ground around the blockhouse, firing volley after volley into the gun ports. The inside of the blockhouse was a shambles, a shell having pierced a gun port, striking down a dozen men within.

Numbed, George looked around. Damn rotten place to die, he thought. Out in the open, after a damn good charge. That's how I wanted it, Custer's Last Charge. Not inside this shambles.

"Cease fire," he whispered.

Alger looked over at him.

"Cease fire," George said again.

Alger nodded, looked around for something white, finally tearing off the bloody shirt of a dead trooper, putting it on the point of his sword, and sticking it out a port.

The gunfire outside slacked and then stilled.

"Put your guns down, boys," George said softly.

The begrimed men around him said nothing.

"You done good. You just might have given Grant the time he needs. No shame in surrender after what we did."

"You Yanks, come on outta there."

Four men picked up the makeshift litter, made out of a blanket, and carried George, blinking, into the sunlight. They set him down against the blockhouse after he asked to be able to sit up.

Directly ahead the railroad bridge was still burning. To his right the remnants of the covered bridge had already collapsed, hissing and steaming into the creek. He had certainly made a fine job of destruction here this morning.

Dozens of his men were being rounded up, hands over their heads, being herded to the far side of the depot, which had just collapsed in on itself.

A thin line of rebel troopers were now coming across the railroad bridge on foot, edging their way across over broken beams, twisted track, barely able to negotiate the collapsed section except for a single stringer that had somehow survived.

"George, how are you?"

He felt a hand slip into his.

"Phil?"

"It's me, George." "Think I'm dying, Phil." Phil hesitated. "You are, George."

A blanket had been placed across George's legs. He looked down and saw part of a leg sticking out at an impossible angle, other leg gone nearly at the hip. So damn stupid, killed by an exploding train.

"How are you, sir?"

It was hard to see.

"Who is it?"

"Corporal Tyler, sir. You said I'd make lieutenant if I blew up the bridge."

"I did, didn't I. What are you doing here, Tyler?"

"He's my prisoner, George," Phil said. "A brave man. Figure he saved my life. I'll see he gets taken care of, and will sign a statement of your promoting him if you wish."

George smiled, no longer able to speak.

"Hell of a fight, George. You certainly put a twist into us. You always wanted glory," Phil said, his voice suddenly choking. "Well, you got it, my friend."

But he was already slipping away, to visions of other places, and, of course, of glory.

CHAPTER TEN

Richmond, Virginia

The Confederate White House

August 25 Noon Frustrated, President Jefferson Davis tossed the latest dispatches on his desk. It was turning into another hot day, and slipping off his coat he walked about the room, hands behind his back.

Something was brewing, that was clearly evident, but what he could not tell. The latest word from General Lee was dated from yesterday morning, indicating that Grant had indeed crossed the Susquehanna, that he appeared to be coming straight south toward Baltimore, and that Lee was preparing to engage.

He could sense the difficulty Lee was facing. The Richmond Examiner was still hailing the great triumph at Gunpowder Falls, predicting now that Washington would fall within the week and the war would be won.

His own experience, though, whispered to him that it would not be that easy. Lee's dispatch indicated they had sustained over eight thousand casualties, many of regimental and brigade rank. His leadership ranks were sorely depleted and the Army of Northern Virginia had always relied on its midlevel officers to give it a speed and flexibility the Union army did not seem capable of matching. The battle had been fought in hundred-degree heat. Of course, he'd prefer to rest and refit before seeking action yet again. Grant had disrupted that.

The disturbing part was all the other news. In the pile of dispatches was a report, taken from the telegraph line at Harpers Ferry, sent over to Winchester and from there to Richmond, with the information from an.outpost that a Union cavalry brigade had occupied Frederick. Another report had come in from a scout, who rode down from Green-castle during the night to Winchester, claiming that all of Grant's army was in the Cumberland Valley, heading straight to the Shenandoah Valley.

Did Lee know this?

The news from the west was of equal concern. Bragg had lost Chattanooga without a fight, pulled back, and yesterday turned at a place called Chickamauga, where Sherman had fought him to a standstill, Bragg complaining that had he been properly reinforced with but one more corps he could have destroyed Sherman. Bragg now claimed he might have to retreat as far as Atlanta if he did not receive sufficient reinforcements. He had already dispatched Joe Johnston's small force to Bragg, but sensed that would not help much. If anything, those two would quickly turn on each other.