Lincoln threw back his head and laughed, a laugh unlike any he had experienced in weeks.

"He's got you, Elihu. We need this man."

Elihu shook his head, then leaned out of his saddle and extended his hand.

"All right then. We'll talk after this is over, but by heavens I'll never speak a word again when you are around."

The man grinned and took Elihu's hand.

"We're on the same side, sir. Maybe for different reasons, but the same side."

"For the same reasons now," Lincoln said quietly, and he looked back at Jim. 'Troops have to have priority on the boats, but wherever there's additional room, you men get aboard."

A cheer went up.

Lincoln extended his hand.

"I should warn you, though. It will be dangerous. I cannot guarantee that you will be treated well if things turn against us and you are captured."

"Then we fight," Jim said quietly. "A pick or an ax is as good as a bayonet."

"Not against disciplined troops," Elihu said softly.

"It'll be hours, most likely, before there will be room on any of the boats," Lincoln said.

"We already figured that," the burly man said. "We'll just start walking if you don't mind. Follow the canal path."

Lincoln suddenly was overcome by emotion, his face limp with sadness.

One of the men held up a banner made out of a bedsheeL Emblazoned in red letters: WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS.

The crowd cheered again and then spontaneously poured down the street, turning on to the canal path to head toward the front. As they surged by him, Lincoln remained motionless.

Looking back toward the boats, he saw Colonel Shaw leading the men of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts aboard several barges. Shaw caught his eye and snapped to attention, saluting, his men cheering as they saw their brothers pouring down the street and then turning to follow the canal path.

"How" the world is changing," Lincoln whispered. He reached over and took Jim's hand.

"God be with you, my friend."

"And with you too, Mr. President," he paused, "and thank you."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia East Bank of Monocacy Creek August 26 7:00 A.M.

Gen. Pete Longstreet rode up the steep slope past a wooden blockhouse, pausing for a moment to watch as a gun crew struggled to maneuver a twelve-pound Napoleon through the back doorway, then rolled it into place inside, positioning it at a gun port looking down on the river below.

The blockhouse was perfectly positioned to cover the ruins of the railroad bridge and the still-smoking wreckage of a rail depot on the other bank, less than four hundred yards away. To either flank of the blockhouse men were digging in, cutting trenches, a work crew dragging cut lumber from the mill just south of the track to pile atop the barricades.

A scattering of Yankee skirmishers were around the depot on the other side of the creek, but for the moment there seemed to be one of those informal cease-fires between them and the Confederate skirmishers. Many were up, walking about, examining the wreckage, both sides adopting the live-and-let-live attitude of soldiers who were more than willing to fight when called upon, but considered sniping to be little better than murder if there was no immediate purpose to it. Like schoolboys they prowled around the wreckage, coming to the river to examine the bridge and gape down at the two shattered locomotives in the creek. A few had started fires to fix one last pot of coffee before battle was rejoined.

Even Pete stopped for a minute to look at the ruins. It was obvious there had been one hell of a fight here yesterday. Bark had been peeled off trees by bullets, hunks of metal from the exploding train littered the riverbank, and burial details were at work on both sides of the river, as if clearing the ground for the next harvest, which would begin soon enough.

"Hey, reb, who's the general?" a Yank with a booming voice shouted from across the river.

Several of the Confederates down by the bridge looked back and saw Pete.

"Why, that's old Longstreet!" one of them shouted back. "Now that he's here, there'll be hell to pay for you boys."

Pete shook his head. A compliment in a way, but the men would be in Yankee headquarters within the hour. Curious, this war: no matter how often the men were lectured on it, skirmishers on both sides tended to gossip and give away secrets, just like old women at a quilting party.

Pete pressed up the hill to a flat plateau where Lee, Jeb Stuart, Walter Taylor, and John Hood stood, all with field glasses raised, looking toward the distant ridgeline.

Pete offered a salute as he approached, and Lee, lowering his glasses, smiled.

"General, good to see you. You must be exhausted after such a long ride."

"I'm fine, sir," he lied. He was numb after the twenty-four-hour ride, the anxiety of what was happening ahead, and the frustration he felt as he paralleled the railroad track and saw the colossal traffic jam mat stretched for miles. The hope had been that during the night, once Hood was finished moving his divisions up, the trains could start shuttling troops from his own corps forward, sparing them the rest of the march. That was clearly impossible. Only a few engines were moving, while dozens waited to back up through the single-line track between the two tunnels.

'Tell me, General, when can we begin to expect your troops?" Lee asked, as Pete dismounted. One of the staff handed him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

"I left them during the night, sir. The lead division, McLaw's, should be up by noon."

"Good. And General Beauregard's Corps?"

"Behind the rest of my column, sir, but he is also moving on parallel roads, not the National Road. He should start filing in late this afternoon."

Lee nodded approvingly.

"How are things here, sir?" Pete asked.

"Grant is living up to his reputation," Lee said and motioned to the Catoctin Ridge.

Pete uncased his field glasses and focused on the distant ridge. Though it was wreathed in early morning mist and smoke from the burning town, he was able to catch glimpses of troops moving down the road.

"Ord we think," Walter interjected.

"McPherson and Burnside are already accounted for," Lee said. "That only leaves Banks. Scouts with General Stuart reported a number of batteries coming into the town during the night."

"I heard you really chewed into McPherson yesterday," Pete said.

"Yes," Lee replied, his voice now barely a whisper. "Sir, I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect to James. He was a good man."

"He's still alive," Walter said.

"Will he pull through?"

Lee shook his head.

"Again, sir, I'm sorry."

"It is God's will," Lee said softly.

"Most-of McPherson's Corps was destroyed yesterday," Walter said. "We briefly tangled with some of Burnside's men last night. Colored troops."

"Damn all," Hood said coldly.

Lee turned and looked over at Hood, who lowered his gaze.

"They are to be treated like any other troops we face,"

Lee announced. "If taken prisoner, they and their officers are to be shown all due respect, as has been our tradition. I want everyone to understand that." "Yes, sir," Hood said.

"So that leaves one of Grant's corps unaccounted for," Longstreet said, feeling it best to change the topic. "Banks, supposedly his strongest unit."

"I suspect he is on the far side of that ridge even now," Lee announced.

"There's nothing to the north," Stuart said. "My screen is still holding, though there has been some heavy skirmishing with Grierson. The only cavalry unit to break through so far was Custer, and we saw what happened to him yesterday."

"But he did bum the rail bridge and covered bridge and mauled several regiments in the process," Hotchkiss interjected. "I'd consider that a fair trade."