Lee smiled.

"And you, my old warhorse, will hold the center."

"Yes, sir."

"Generals."

Walter Taylor approached and Lee could tell by his demeanor that the news was not good. "Go on, Walter."

"Sir, a message just came up from Doctor O'Neill's house. General McPherson is dead. Sir, my condolences, I know how close you were to him."

It was inevitable. Reverend Lacy had told him earlier in the day that it was only a matter of hours.

"And Miss Hamilton?" Lee asked. "Did she arrive safely?"

"She is now Mrs. McPherson. The reverend married them when she arrived."

"I see," Lee said softly and lowered his head.

Though Pete was present, he did not hesitate to go down on his knees. With bowed head he recited the Twenty-third Psalm, Pete and Walter joining in.

He was silent for a moment, reflecting on James, just how young he was at the Point, how enthusiastic and cheerful, always eager to help underclassmen, even protective of plebes, admonishing others one day in chapel that the usual hazing endured by first-year cadets was unchristian and unprofessional. It was an unpopular view with the cadets and even many of the instructors, who saw hazing as a way of toughening boys into men, but Lee had wholeheartedly agreed with him and admired his courage for standing up and speaking out.

"Miss, I mean, Mrs. McPherson. Walter, please convey my deepest sympathies to her. Inform her that when this crisis is over and time permits I wish to personally convey those sympathies but cannot do so at this moment."

"Yes, sir. I've already written out a brief note for you to sign."

"Thank you, Walter, but I'll do that myself later." "Yes, sir."

"Please be certain that Reverend Lacy stays with her. If she wishes to join a train back to Baltimore and to take her husband with her, we are at her disposal."

"Yes, sir."

He stood up and saw that there was something else. "What is it, Walter?"

"We've just had a scout come in. Says he is with Mosby and he carries a dispatch from him." "Concerning?"

"Sir, a large convoy of canal barges carrying Union troops moved this day up the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. They have traveled as far as Hauling Ferry, where they started to unload."

"How many barges? How many men?" 'The note doesn't say, other than 'dozens of barges.'"

"What about the courier?"

"He says it looked like thousands of Yankees. He got across the river just ahead of their patrols and rode straight here."

"Looks like they are trying to close the back door," Pete said, slapping his hands together. Lee nodded in agreement.

He was silent, looking again at the flickering campfires on the far bank. The Union boys had long ago finished their "Battle Hymn" and both sides were now singing 'Tenting Tonight."

"It won't affect us tomorrow," Lee said.

"I don't like it, though," Pete replied. "We've always had a way out of Maryland if need be. They're trying to block it now."

"It won't affect us tomorrow." Lee repeated himself, this time more forcefully. "So what if they block the fords and ferry crossings at this point? Once we destroy Grant, we can destroy each of those positions piecemeal. Scattering troops like that just makes it more certain that we can mass and destroy them. It will just take a little time. First we must win here."

"I'd feel better, though, sir, if we had managed to get our pontoon bridge across that creek and down to the Potomac. We've always operated in the past with a secure line of retreat if need be." 'Those days are finished." Lee replied. "And Grant-did he have a secure line of retreat in May when he crossed the Mississippi and hit Johnston's army and then moved north to invest Vicksburg?"

Pete shook his head.

"No, sir, he didn't. He took the gamble."

"And won. We are all gamblers in this game, General Longstreet. Grant wants to make us nervous. Let him. But if I was one who actually gambled with money, I'd bet a hundred to one that, come dawn tomorrow, Grant will attack. If. he attacks, we defeat him, then it is moot whether the crossings are blocked or not. It will be Grant who will have to try to escape us as we push him back on to that one road over the mountains."

"Grant will attack," Pete agreed.

Lee sat back down in his camp chair.

"The troops blocking the fords. They must be the garrison from Washington. If so, then so much the better. I will order Mosby to let them pass, then once up here he can do a night raid, get across the Potomac, and smash a few of the canal locks. Canals are even more vulnerable than railroads. Destroy a single lock and the entire section above floods out, leaving the boats stranded, while down below the canal gets washed to overflowing. They will be stranded, and we can either turn on Washington or finish them at our leisure."

Pete found he had to nod in agreement.

"I think you should get some rest, General," Lee said. "It will be a hard day's work tomorrow and we must be up early."

"Yes, sir."

Pete stood up and then, strangely, came to attention and formally saluted.

"Good night, sir. And please get some rest as well." "Thank you, General."

Pete walked off, trailing a cloud of cigar smoke, and Lee watched him leave.

Sighing, he turned around and gazed out over the valley, the thousands of fires flickering low, the song from the valley below becoming softer. This time it was "Lorena."

"The years creep slowly by, Lorena…"

James is dead, and so many out in those fields will be dead this time tomorrow… Please God, let it end here. Bring us victory if it is Your wish… and let it end here.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monocacy Creek

August 27,1863 4:30 A.M.

General Hunt, sir." Henry Hunt opened his eyes. A sergeant was leaning over him, holding a lantern. He didn't recognize the man and for a moment was disoriented.

"Sir, you told me to wake you an hour and a half before dawn."

Henry grunted and sat up. A low campfire glowed in front of him, several enlisted men squatting around the fire, one feeding in small sticks while another reached out with a gloved hand and pulled out a battered tin pot.

Henry stood up, stretched, mouth feeling gummy, stomach a bit weak. He had misled Grant about the typhoid; it still troubled him a bit He stepped away to discreetly relieve himself, then came back to the campfire.

The men were part of his new staff. He was never really good with names and had yet to learn theirs, but they were about the business of morning chores, one looking up with a smile and offering him a cup of coffee, another handing over a plate that actually had fried eggs on it and a slab of ham.

He nodded his thanks, the men talking quietly among themselves as he ate his breakfast glad that it stayed down and settled his stomach. Finished, he set the plate down, took his cup of coffee, and stood back up and lit a cigar.

It was still dark, a mist rising off the river, filling the valley, pale moonlight reflecting off it. In the fields about him there was a thin layer of mist and wood smoke. Many were still asleep, or pretending to sleep, lying in their blanket wrapped in thought. Around low fires small groups were gathered, some silent, some talking.

He walked the few yards down the slope to where the right flank of his grand battery was deployed. A handful of men were still digging; most, however, were asleep, some lying curled up on the ground, others resting under a caisson or field piece.

He started to walk the line. Guns were well placed, inter-valed at ten yards, lunettes thrown up around each piece, some well built to shoulder height on the flanks, a bit lower in front to offer an open field of fire. The horse teams for the ammunition caissons had been unhooked and sent to the rear, a quarter mile back. Lunettes had been thrown up around the dangerous cargo, and bombproofs for the ammunition had been dug by some of the crews and even roofed over with logs.