He pulled out his watch. It was not yet past six-thirty in the morning. Still no assault, but he knew it would come.

In the Railroad Cut 7:00 AM.

Phil Sheridan ignored the scream of a solid shot plowing in, striking the edge of the cut, then bounding up with a howl, passing over head. Still mounted on Rienzi he slowly trotted down the length of track. "How you doing, boys?" he shouted. Men, faces begrimed with powder, up on the lip of the cut, looked down, grinning, surprised to see a major general right in the thick of it.

Phil knew they had a special attachment to their old Burnside. He had to dispel that here and now, and there was only one way to do it, regardless of Grant's orders to not "recklessly expose yourself."

Hell, that's what a good general had to do at times. There are moments when if you do not lead by example you can't lead at all.

Another shot screamed in, this one striking the heavy barricade that had been erected six feet high across the east side of the cut to offer some protection from enfilade. It was made of piled-up railroad ties and rails, wrenched up during the night, the solid shot sending a fifteen-foot section of rail whirligiging through the air like a deadly scythe, cutting two men in half.

The blockhouse, just on the other side of the barricade was getting absolutely pounded to shreds. He had ventured a Napoleon for that position, but word was it was already dismounted by a direct hit through the gun port, but half a dozen volunteers, all of them sharpshooters had stayed on, peppering the rebs across the creek.

The best men of the three regiments holding the cut were up on the lip, taking careful aim as ordered, firing, then passing empty muskets down to men within the cut who were busy reloading and passing the guns back. Sheridan dismounted and crawled to the edge of the cut, stuck his head up, and looked to the other side.

It was hard to see anything. All was veiled in smoke, flashes of light rippling up and down the riverbank. The air was alive with the hum of minies zipping past, a splatter of dirt kicking up nearly directly in front of his face. He deliberately remained motionless for several seconds and then slid back down.

"Hot enough up there for ya, General?" someone shouted, and the men began to laugh.

"Not as hot as you're making it for those damn rebs!" Phil replied and a cheer went up.

He mounted and rode on.

Hauling Ferry 7:30 A.M.

The growl of gunfire was a continual wave from the north. Men as they labored on the entrenchments would pause, look up, talk to each other until -a sergeant came along and shouted for them to get back to work.

Winfield walked the line. It was easier than riding. He noted with interest how the Catoctin Ridge seemed to act as an acoustical reflector, like a cliff returning an echo, the sound of the artillery up at Frederick bouncing off of it, reverberating the length of the valley.

It sounded like one hell of a fight, and, for a moment, he regretted being here. But then again, at least I'm here, near it, rather than back in Philadelphia reading about it.

"General, sir." He smiled as Jeremiah rode up, his horse lathered, saluted, and dismounted.

He reached into his oversize haversack and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, opening it up.

"Sir, I'm sorry this took so long, but what with the darkness, I finally figured it was best to wait till dawn to finish my work, rather than make a mistake."

"You decide what's best when it comes to mapmaking, Jeremiah," Hancock replied warmly. "I trust you."

"Sir, I'm afraid you aren't going to like some of what I got to tell you."

"Go on." Jeremiah looked around for something to put his map against and finally opted to press it against the flank of his horse, who, completely exhausted, was now cropping on the rich pasture grass.

"I think we have to link the defensive line from here all the way up to Nolands Ferry. That means a front of over three miles. If we try to hold these points individually, particularly Nolands, Lee could easily flank it, moving between us here and there, roll the Nolands position up, and then have a means of getting back across the river, while blocking us at this position."

"That's a long front for this command," Winfield said.

"That's why I said you might not like it, but that's the lay of the land, sir."

Winfield studied the map sketched out by Major Siemens. He saw the point of it, that the Potomac behind them curved slightly to the north, cutting off Nolands Ferry from observation here, and also a shallow ravine cut down between them. Lee could force his way between these two strong-points, isolate one, then annihilate the other. He had to keep the two positions linked if they were to hold.

"It's one tall order for digging," Jeremiah said. "I've sketched out what I would like, though. Strong bastions here, then one every six hundred yards, right up to Nolands, thus providing interlocking fields of fire. One of those hundred-pounders in each of the bastions, backed up by several thirty-pounders, would make it a grand killing ground. We also have to drop a lot of timber to open up the fields of fire, however."

Winfield nodded in agreement.

"I've calculated the amount of digging it will take," Siemens announced. "Three to four days at least with the men available."

Winfield said nothing, continuing to smile, which caught Jeremiah off guard.

"Sir, I figured you'd be kind of upset about this news, but that's the way I see it. I've also drawn up some fallback plans, bastioning each of the ferries, but I'm not comfortable with it."

Winfield held up his hand for Jeremiah to stop talking, and then, with his usual dramatic flair, he pointed down to the canal to a line of barges unloading and to the towpath beyond.

Thousands of black men were moving along the banks of the canal, getting off the boats, slowly walking up the tow-path, pushing wheelbarrows, nearly every man armed with a tool-an axe, a shovel, a saw, a pick.

Winfield motioned for Jeremiah to follow him. Together they slowly walked down to the canal, the men from Washington, under a bedsheet banner, gathering around them.

"Mr. Bartlett, is it?" Winfield asked, approaching an elderly black man dressed in, of all things, formal attire of black jacket, vest, clean white shirt, and cravat.

"Yes, sir," Jim replied.

"May I introduce Maj. Jeremiah Siemens, my topographical engineer."

"You mean a mapmaker, sir?" Jim asked.

Almost involuntarily, Jeremiah masked a smile behind his fist. "Something like that, Uncle, but I'm also an engineer who lays out fortifications."

"Yes, I am an uncle, and a grandfather as well," Jim said, bracing his shoulders slightly. "I have a son and a grandson with Burnside's Corps; they're fighting even now up there. And I worked in the White House as the head butler before volunteering."

As he spoke, he motioned to the north and the distant gunfire.

Slightly humbled, Jeremiah dropped his condescending tone and extended his hand.

"Maj. Jeremiah Siemens." He paused. "Mr. Bartlett."

Jim took his hand formally. "How may we be of service to you this morning, Major."

Jim looked over at Winfield.

"Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said, "we need miles of trenches and fortifications in place no later than tomorrow. Major Siemens here has laid out the plan, but we are short of men, short by tens of thousands of the men needed to build them."

"That is why we volunteered," Jim replied.

Even as they spoke, another barge came up, several dozen black men getting off, then turning around to lend a hand with off-loading the barrels of salt pork and heavy small crates marked MUSKET ROUNDS,.58 CALIBER, ONE THOUSAND.

Behind them, farther up the towpath, more men came forward slowly, having walked the entire distance from Washington.