As he passed, an occasional officer would come to attention, salute. A few offered comments. "We'll give 'em hell today." "How you doing, General?" "Wait till you see the shootin' my boys can do."

He acknowledged each one and walked on.

Every piece was a rifle, either a three-inch ordnance gun or a ten-pound Parrott. He had always liked the look of the Parrott, with its extra band of iron wrapped around the breech, and though it was more cumbersome to move than the three-inch ordnance gun, he always felt that it was a better piece for true long-distance work.

Ammunition was well organized. Each of the forward caissons carried but two rounds of canister-for use if by some chance the rebs did get up close; every other slot was filled with case shot or solid bolts. Each battery had one limber to the rear loaded just with canister if an emergency should arise. During the night twenty additional limber wagons, each loaded with two chests of ammunition, had come up; an additional two thousand rounds and more was on-the way.

Even now trains were hauling ammunition down from Harrisburg to Hagerstown, off-loading it to be sent the final miles along the National Road. Grant had assured him he would be kept well supplied.

He turned and slowly walked back to his headquarters. More men were up. He could feel the tension in the air.

There was a faint brightening to the eastern horizon.

"Gentlemen, time we went to our posts," Henry announced quietly.

East Bank, Monocacy Creek 4:55 A.M.

Phil Duvall, now a major, sat up and tossed his blanket aside. Sergeant Lucas was by the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. Their horses were calm, lined up on their tether line; a couple of his men were already up, tending to them, one brushing his mount down and talking quietly to her, rubbing her ear, the horse nuzzling in to him.

"What time is it?" Phil asked. "About five I'd reckon, sir," Lucas replied. Phil went over to the fire, extending his hands. There was a slight chill in the air, rather a comfort after yesterday's heat.

It had been a wonderfully still night. They were no longer down by the bridge. Jeb had assigned a couple of additional companies to him and told him to probe south at dawn, down to the Potomac, that there were reports of Yankees there. An easy day, he hoped.

Lucas handed him a cup of coffee.

"Better get the boys up," Phil said. "It's time to move."

Sgt. Lee Robinson of the First Texas stood at attention as steam vented from the train and it slowly began to inch its way down the track, a locomotive pushing a single passenger car.

The men around him were silent, saluting as the car drifted by, engine bathing them in steam, bell tolling slowly. It disappeared into the dark. He relaxed, looking around at his men. "A brave lady she was," one of his comrades whispered. Robinson said nothing. He had followed the orders General Lee had given to him, helping to carry McPherson to the rear. No other orders had come after that, and he assumed that he and his boys should stand by as guards, which they had done throughout McPherson's ordeal of dying, helping to fetch small things, some of the men volunteering to help with other wounded when there was nothing to do for the general. Their final task was to carry the body, draped with a Union flag, back to the rail line, since no carriage or wagon could be found. The widow had walked with them, never saying a word, and he had been overwhelmed with guilt, at times wanting to blurt out that he was the one who had shot McPherson. That would bring her no comfort, he knew; in fact, it would forever put a name and a face to the man who had killed her husband.

He looked to the west, to the dark sky, slill filled with stars. To the east Orion was up, a faint glow of indigo and scarlet spreading beneath it.

"Let's go find our unit," Robinson said. "That's where we belong now."

Sergeant Hazner stood up cautiously. The truce had lasted through the night, men gossiping back and forth across the river, but all had become silent as the eastern sky began to brighten, a Yankee shouting across, "You boys better hunker down now. The ball is about to commence."

The fog lifting from the river floated just below him, rising up so close it seemed almost solid, as if he could leap put of the trench and walk upon it to the other side.

He hated their position, the one that fate had cast for his regiment, right smack in the middle of the line.

After their fight on the heights, and in Frederick, all had figured that Lee would put them into reserve. Instead they had filed in, just after dusk, directly in front of where Lee had established his headquarters, the Fourteenth South Carolina on the left flank of the log blockhouse overlooking the shattered bridge. No one needed to be told that one hell of a lot of fire was going to be coming their way, and the work of the unit they replaced, though they had dug in, had left something to be desired. He and his men had labored until midnight deepening their trench, dragging up lumber to pile atop it, cutting back brush and small trees to the front to improve fields of fire.

When they paused in their work, they could hear the Yankees engaged in the same work on the other side, not a very comforting sound.

Finally, Colonel Brown ordered them to stand down at midnight and get some rest.

"How are you doing, Hazner?"

"Fine, sir," and he saluted as Brown came up.

"Still quiet," Brown said.

"Not for long, sir."

West Bank of the Monocacy 5:10 A.M.

Sgt. Washington Madison Bartlett of the United States Colored Troops was already up. It had been impossible to sleep. His men had been restless during the night, many sitting around the campfires, already using the old soldier slang for what it would be like to "see the elephant," meaning their first day in battle.

Some boasted, others were silent, many prayed. More than a few who could write spent the night penning letters, first for themselves and then for their comrades. A preacher who claimed to have been a recruiter for the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts had joined them just before leaving Philadelphia, Reverend Garland White, walked from campfire to campfire, kneeling with the men, offering a prayer, a few words of encouragement, then stood up and went to the next group and knelt again.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out two letters: one from his father and the other, now almost in tatters from having been passed around so much, the letter from Lincoln. It was too dark to read them, but simply holding them was like a prayer in itself.

His father, at least, was safely back in the White House, personal buder now to the president. He wondered what his father would say if he could see him now, on this morning of battle.

"Father?"

He turned. It was his son William smiling up at him nervously.

He had been forced to play the role of the sergeant with his son since they joined the army together, ignoring him, yelling at him when need be, even picking him up a few times by his collar and pushing him to his task. But they were in the dark, alone.

"Afraid, Father?"

"Yes, of course, Son."

"I'm terrified."

He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"When the shooting starts, just remember to stay at your post with the other drummer boys and help the stretcher bearers."

He wanted to say, for God's sake, stay direcdy behind me, let me be your shield this day, but of course he could not say that.

"Your granddaddy is proud of you, William."

The thought of his own father gave him pause. At least his father was safe, a servant in the White House, who, until last week, when they moved out, had sent along daily and often eloquent letters about Lincoln and the reasons for this war of liberation.

He could feel the boy trembling, and he pulled him in close to his side.