No. Never think that. Do that and I start to become like all the others who faced Lee, worrying more about him than what my own plans are.

"I think that's General Sheridan coming up," Ely announced, pointing to the west.

Indeed he was-coming on hard, lashing his mount, Rienzi, up the final steep slope.

"Damn that man," Sheridan shouted, even as he reined in.

"Burnside?"

"Exactly. Says he can't possibly push his men any faster."

Grant looked back to the boiling cauldron of battle down below, Sheridan falling silent by his side.

"My God," Sheridan said, "what a fight."

"It is. I sent McPherson down there to hold Lee in place. If we had dug in here, Lee never would have sought battle and perhaps slipped off."

Grant turned to Sheridan. "I will not leave McPherson down there to be slaughtered. I need Ninth Corps and I need Hunt's guns. We've sucked Lee in and a good counterblow right now would hurt him."

Sheridan did not reply.

"He's got his colored division in the lead, sir. What about that?"

"I don't care which division he's got in the lead. I want them into this fight before nightfall!"

Grant looked around at his silent staff. Ely gazed at him and simply nodded, as if reading his mind.

"General Sheridan. You are to take command of Ninth Corps." Even as he spoke he motioned for Ely to write out the authorization. "Relieve Burnside of command on the spot. Tell him he can report to me tomorrow for reassignment. You will take command of the corps and push them forward with all possible speed. Any division or brigade commander who fails in doing that, relieve them on the spot and find someone who can do the job. Send word back to Hunt to push forward even if it takes all night. If we can save McPherson, Lee will surely hang on for a rematch tomorrow, and we need guns in position to meet him. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, sir!" Sheridan said with a grin.

Ely finished writing the dispatch, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Grant who scanned it, then signed the document relieving Burnside.

Sheridan snatched it, turned, and, with staff trailing, set off at a gallop.

Frederick 6:00 P.M.

General, they're hitting us from the north!" James McPherson turned to look as a courier came riding in from the north side of town. "Full division. Robertson's I'm told. Hood's old command."

"Good," McPherson said with a grin. "The more the merrier."

"Our boys are falling back. They can't hold."

"Then go back there and.tell them to get into the houses, hunker down, and, damn them, hold. We've got to hold!"

All around him was blazing wreckage. The pleasant town of Frederick had become a battlefield much like Fredericksburg the year before. The entire western end of the town was afire, flames leaping from building to building on the westerly breeze that had sprung up. There was a touch of coolness in the air and he looked up at the dark clouds gathering on the other side of the mountain, filled with the promise of an evening thunderstorm.

It was always said that a battle brought rain, and it was hard to tell at this moment whether the thunder rolled from the heavens, the incessant rifle fire in the center of town, or the burst of artillery streaking through the streets.

Monocacy Junction 6:20 P.M.

Lee stirred anxiously, sipping a cup of coffee, leaning against a fence rail, looking toward the town wreathed in smoke. It sickened his heart to see a church spire collapse in flames, and he whispered a silent prayer that if it was being used as a hospital that those within had been evacuated.

He looked back at the bridge. All the fires were out hours ago, and hundreds of men were now at work. Men were tearing up track from the spur line, bringing it down, along with the ties. A crew of men were tearing at the timbers of a barn, dismantling it piece by piece to get at the precious beams, which would then be dragged down and slung into place to provide bridge supports. A captain with Stuart, who had worked on this same line before the war, said he could get a bridge in place for at least one track by late tomorrow and was now running the job.

Robertson's boys were going in. The volume of fire on the north side of town was clear evidence of that. Now if only Johnson's division was up, he could make a clean sweep of it, envelop McPherson from the left, and close the trap. But the latest dispatches from Baltimore indicated Johnson's men were still on the rail line, twenty miles back.

Longstreet and Beauregard were reporting good marching on the roads, but were still a day away, and his artillery reserve, so dependent on the railroad, had not yet left Baltimore.

This was unlike any battle he had ever fought. He had hoped, when first he grasped Grant's maneuver, that he could catch him by surprise here, at the base of the Catoctins, tear apart one, perhaps two, of his corps, and then chase him down and finish him. He had placed too much reliance on the railroads, and now it was telling.

He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and walked over to his staff, who were hurriedly eating while standing about the smoking ruins of the depot, watching the work crews scrambling about the wreckage of the bridge.

"Gentlemen, I think we should go into the fight," Lee said.

Several looked at him with surprise. It was obvious they had assumed that after the long day he would establish his headquarters here for the night.

"General, let me go forward," Stuart said. "My boys are blocking that Yankee brigade on the south side of town. I can manage things."

"No, I want to see how Robertson is doing," Lee announced.

Everyone knew better than to argue with him. An orderly brought up Traveler. He mounted and headed into the cauldron, staff following anxiously.

The White House 6:00 P.M.

Lincoln ate alone; his servant Jim Bartlett had delivered a tray with a few slices of fried ham, some potatoes, and coffee to his office. Finishing his meal he stood up to stretch, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor amounting to a signal. Jim politely tapped x›n the door. "Come on in."

"Sir, should I clear your tray?" Jim asked. "Thank you," Lincoln replied.

Lincoln had gone to the window. Crowds had gathered in Lafayette Park, with troops ringing the White House. Lincoln suddenly turned. "Jim, a question." "Anything, sir."

"The colored of Washington. I know this might sound like a strange question. But with all the news of the last few days, what do you hear?"

"Well, sir, I've spent most of my time here in the White House, but I do hear talk with the staff."

"And that is?"

"Frustration, sir."

"Frustration? Over what?"

Jim stood holding the tray and Lincoln motioned for him to put it down.

"Jim, let's talk frankly. I need to hear what you have to say. This war is your war, too."

"Precisely why so many are frustrated. They want to be in on it."

"What about volunteering for the Colored Troops."

"Sir, both my son and grandson are already with them."

Lincoln sensed the slightest of defensive notes in Jim's voice, as if the president had implied that those who were frustrated should join the army.

"I meant no insult, Jim, and yes, I am proud of the service of your son and grandson."

"Sir, so many men here are working folk with large families to support. Day laborers, men who work the rail yards, the canal docks. They can't afford to go off for twelve dollars a month the way some can like my son. But still they feel it's their war."

Lincoln took this in and nodded.

"Perhaps a way can be found for them to volunteer for short-term service," Lincoln said offhandedly. Jim suddenly smiled.

"Can I take that as a request, sir?" Jim asked. "To talk with folks and see if there'd be some interest in that."