Campfires by the thousands were springing to light along the river, on both sides, the scent of wood smoke, coffee, and frying salt pork filling the evening air. To him it was a comforting smell, part of his life, a better part of the army life he had always loved. The day's march done, the men settling down, songs drifting on the air, rations being cooked, the first stars of evening coming out.

If only war were like this forever, I would love it so, he thought, but only if this moment could be frozen, not what had been or what was to come. Behind him his staff was having their supper, spread out on a rough plank table, the men laughing at a joke. They were used to his going off like this, especially before a fight, to be alone, to smoke, to think, to recalculate, to think again, in silence. Besides, the migraine still tormented him and the thought of trying to eat anything beyond some hardtack made his stomach rebel.

Was everything in place? Is there anything I forgot?

He knew it was senseless to try to reason those questions out now, and yet always he did it on the eve of a confrontation. It was not a question of resolve, however.

He had resolved on this moment on the day the telegram arrived from Lincoln bearing news of Union Mills and of his own promotion to command. He knew the focus of his task, to track Lee down, bring him to battle, and then destroy him.

So many would die tomorrow. He knew that; they all did, on both sides of the river. Even as the men around the camp-fires joked and sang, many others had drawn off. Some sat alone, looking up at the heavens, in wonder, in prayer, or, for a tragic few, in terror. Others knelt or stood in prayer. Some stood in circles around a trusted minister or simply a man of the regiment who everyone acknowledged "had the ear of the Lord." Some sang hymns, others recited psalms, a group of Catholics knelt before a makeshift altar while a priest offered up mass and then absolution.

Others wrote letters home, or if they could not write, dictated a few lines that a comrade would jot down. The darkness deepened, the sky a deep indigo, and he sat in silence, smoking, and watching the far bank of the river.

Home of Dr. O'Neill Near Monocacy function

7:30 P.M.

Emily looked out the window, watching as the hills to the west darkened, the last glow of twilight fading, a cooling breeze fluttering the curtains. "Emily?" "Yes, James."

She reached out and took his hand. Her father, on the other side of the bed, wiped James's brow with a damp towel.

"Is it dark out?"

"Yes, dearest."

He smiled.

"Thought I couldn't see anymore."

Reverend Lacy sat by her side, hand on James's chest. He looked over at her and she could see in his eyes that he sensed something.

He suddenly arched his back, struggling to take a breath, the struggle continuing for long seconds.

"Dearest, dearest," she gasped, standing up and leaning over him.

"You'll always love me, Emi?"

"You are my husband now."

"I'll wait for you. Please wait…"

He took another breath and then seemed to fall back, his body beginning to relax.

"The Lord is my shepherd," McPherson whispered as he gently exhaled.

"I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," Lacy replied.

She could feel his hand relax. Leaning over, she felt his last breath drift out of his body and, instinctively, she breathed in, as if by so doing she could take his soul into hers.

"He leadeth me beside the still waters," Lacy contin-^ ued.

She whispered the psalm with him, and when finished stood up and let James's hand slip from hers.

Strange, she felt as if his presence were still there and then was, ever so gently, drifting away.

Lacy stood up. He closed James's eyes and pulled the sheet over his face.

He was silent as Emily walked to the window, the evening breeze drifting in. In the west the evening star was shining. She knew then that if she should live another fifty years, every time she saw it, she would think of him, of this moment.

There would never be another in her life. There would be no children, no years of growing old together, of watching a family grow even as they faded away. This war had taken all that away.

In the fields below her, hundreds of campfires glowed. It was a beautiful sight, and at that moment she could see why her husband had loved it so. This world of men-of such violence-was a world also of comradeship. Behind her she heard muffled sobs, of her father, her mother, and of young Captain Cain, weeping for a fallen enemy who had become a comrade.

The campfires flickered and glowed. How many of those gathered about them tonight will be with my husband tomorrow? she wondered. How many wives at home prayed tonight, mothers and fathers, children and friends, and tomorrow their worlds will end as mine just has.

Would anyone realize that? she wondered. Yes, those who suffered what we have. But later, long afterward, would anyone care? Would anyone remember?

And long years from now, when others spoke of this time and dwelt upon its supposed glories, who would think then of those left behind? Who would think of a childless, aging widow, dying alone, hoping that her young love did indeed wait for her in heaven?

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 8:00 P.M.

General Lee smiled and nodded as Pete Longstreet came to his side carrying a folding camp chair. "Mind if I join you, General?" "Glad for the company." Pete unfolded the chair and sat down by Lee.

"Beautiful evening," Lee said.

Pete nodded in agreement, lighting a cigar and puffing it to life.

The valley below them was aglow with campfires, the evening air cooling, darkness cloaking the mountains, the woods, and fields. From both sides of Monocacy Creek came singing, some boys shouting out "Bonnie Blue Flag" and seconds later the other side of the creek echoing to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

"A regular song fest by the bridge tonight," Pete said quietly. "I dare say, those must be Irish boys over there; they have some good tenors.

"Strange isn't it? Serenading each other on the eve of battle."

"Happened before, week before Chancellorsville," Lee said. "They finished with both sides singing 'Home Sweet Home.'"

Lee fell silent for a moment, voice near to choking at the memory of it, the way it had started out with patriotic airs, then to songs from before the war, and then finished with the haunting refrain, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 'Tomorrow should decide it," Lee said, regaining his composure. "I hope so, sir."

"You don't sound the way you did that night before Union Mills," Lee said, looking over at his old comrade.

"That seems a long time ago," Pete replied meditatively. "Why?"

"It's just that they don't stop. They just keep coming at us. Before Union Mills, I saw it clearly. Lure them into that one great fight, which we did, and they would see our resolve and bring an end to it. And now, two months later, here we are again, another army before us."

He gestured to the campfires on the far side of the creek.

"Just about a year ago we crossed through this same ground. Just on the other side of those mountains we fought Sharpsburg, and I remember those campfires and the evening rain. Then the cold night before Fredericksburg and the thousands of fires."

The chorus from the other side echoed. "I have seen him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps."

Pete fell silent.

"It will end here," Lee whispered. "I hope so." "I know so."

Lee reached out and patted Pete on the knee.

"It will end here. That army across from us is the last they have. They will venture it tomorrow. We saw their first lunge late this afternoon, and they drew back and spent hundreds to our few score. That was just a probe, a test. Tomorrow Grant will come at us with everything he has. They will come again tomorrow, and it will be like Fredericksburg, like Union Mills."