Their train from Baltimore had indeed made good time, as McDougal had promised, until it stalled ten miles from the front line. A locomotive had run out of fuel on the single-track line and ground to a halt ahead of them, and then three more had stalled. Judah Benjamin had left him there, finding a horse to go forward to report to Lee.

A scattering of men, most of them skulkers from the rear, plus a few squadrons of cavalry troopers who had rounded the skulkers up, were busy scavenging the countryside for enough wood to get the boilers going again, the troopers driven to distraction because every time they turned their backs the skulkers dropped their loads and attempted to disappear into the surrounding woods.

"Find some teams. God damn it, where are the teams of mules we sent up with these trains?"

The men stood around silent. The boxcars which had been carrying the mules were open, all the mules gone, most likely commandeered by some other unit.

"Find some damn teams!" Cruickshank roared.

"Major Cruickshank?"

A courier approached out of the dark, riding, of all things, a mule.

Cruickshank glared up at him, the courier lit up by a railroad lantern he was carrying.

"It's General Cruickshank now!" he roared.

The courier stood his ground.

"General Longstreet sent me out here hours ago to look for you." He paused. "Sir. May I inquire where you have been? I was told you would be with these pontoon bridges."

"No, damn you, you may not inquire. Now what the hell do you want?"

"Sir, I carry orders from General Longstreet to you, informing you of his wish that you begin to move these bridges south toward either Nolands or Hauling Ferry."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Sir, I don't know. I assume, sir, you being a general, you would know."

That was too much. Cruickshank walked up to the man, grabbed him by the leg, and lifting, tipped him right off his mount.

The lantern went flying, shattering on the adjoining track, spreading flame, which gradually winked out.

"Damn you, sir. I demand satisfaction," the courier cried.

"Look me up after the war is over," Cruickshank snapped.

"I shall inform General Longstreet of this affront."

"And he'll laugh in your face, sonny. Now go tell good old Pete that when he can find me two hundred and fifty mules, I'll start moving these bridges."

"I'll tell him that and more."

"You do that."

The humiliated officer went to grab the reins of his mule. "Don't touch him! That mule belongs to me now."

"The hell you say."

Cruickshank reached for his revolver, half drawing it. "He's mine, so start walking."

The officer glared at him angrily, the men around Cruickshank laughing. He turned on his heels and strode off.

Cruickshank handed the mule off to one of his men.

"Now go find two hundred and forty-nine more," he said.

He leaned back against one of the flatcars bearing a pontoon bridge, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bottle given to him by McDougal. He had not dared to drink it in front of a secretary of state, and, for that matter, he was in no mood to share it with any of his men, so he waited till they wandered off, most of them chuckling about the fight.

Once alone, he uncorked it and drained it down neat, crawled up under a pontoon, and was soon asleep, oblivious to the column of troops that began to pass by, swarming over the railroad tracks, falling in along a road on the opposite side, and heading south.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Buckeystown Ford

August 28 3:00 A.M.

That's it, sir." Jeb Stuart reined in, the forward scout by his side gesturing straight ahead. He dismounted, and followed the scout. The two of them walked slowly, almost as if they were actors tiptoeing across the stage.

The gesture struck Jeb as a bit absurd, but he followed the scout's lead, not sure how far off they were from the river. Sound was drowned out by cascading water. An overcast was beginning to set in, stars dimming, and it was hard to see much, but he could see glimpses of what he assumed was a dam, the white sparkle of water flowing over it. "Mill on the other side," the scout whispered. They walked thus for another hundred yards, and then Jeb saw some of his men, lying to either side of the road, as if resting, but they were spread out into a skirmish line. The scout crouched down, Jeb joining him. "Can you make out the ford?"

Yes, he could, low flowing water, again sparkles of white, they were almost at the edge of the creek. Enough starlight still shone through, and he thought he caught a glimpse of someone on the other side.

"Hey, who's over there?"

It was a Yank on the other side, and Jeb froze.

"I'll shoot. Now who is over there?" The scout stood up.

"Don't get riled up, Yank, we're just sitting over here, same as you on your side." There was a pause. "What you doing, reb?"

"Sent down to picket this place, make sure you don't try and sneak across here. And you?" "The same." "Got any coffee, Yank?" Again a pause.

"Yup. Trade you a pound of coffee mixed with real sugar for a pound of tobacco."

"Sounds good to me, Yank. Let me ask my boys for their tobacco. I'll be right over."

Jeb grinned. This scout knew his business. Now standing in the open he walked down the skirmish line.

"Come on, boys, give it up," the scout whispered.

Some of the men cursed softly, one of them complaining they already had plenty of coffee, but the scout took their pouches.

'Take that hat off, sir," the scout whispered as he strolled past Jeb. "You stick out like a sore thumb with it on. And crawl down a bit closer so you can listen."

The scout went down to the water's edge and held his hands up.

"Meet you halfway, Yank, and no foolery now." "Promise, reb."

The scout splashed into the creek and Jeb watched him carefully. It wasn't more than knee-deep. The scout slowed, luring the Yank closer to their side.

"How are you, Yank?" the scout asked.

"Fine, and you?"

"Damn glad to be down here rather than up in the thick of all that fightin' today."

"Damn right," the Yank said. "Where you from, Yank?"

"Name's Michael Greene. I'm from Illinois. And you?" "Luke Snyder. I'm from Virginia." The two shook hands.

"Got that tobacco? Ain't had a smoke in days."

"Sure enough. Same for me with coffee. Would you boys mind if we lit a little fire to boil some up?"

"Naw, we won't shoot, but keep it back a ways from the creek."

There was an exchange of packages, and then the flare of a match, which startled Jeb, causing him to crouch down lower. The two were lighting their pipes while standing right in the middle of the creek.

"Glad when this is over," Snyder said. "Just want to go home. My wife just had another baby."

"How's.that?" the Yank chuckled.

"Oh, a furlough about nine months ago, right after we whipped you at Fredericksburg."

The two laughed softly.

"We weren't at Fredericksburg. You sure wouldn't have whipped us. We was busy taking Vicksburg. I'm with Ord." Jeb smiled. This scout was damn good. "I heard you boys are tough."

"Damn right we are. Sorry to tell you this, reb, but we're gonna whip you for sure this time, and then we can go home. Our boys ain't never lost a battle."

"We'll see about that, Yank."

"Grant is gonna just grab your Bobbie Lee by the nose. You'll see."

"Again, we'll see. Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Yank."

"Seemed like a hell of a lot of fighrin' further up the creek today," Greene said. "Bunch of bodies came floating down right around dark."

"Yeah, there was."

"You in it?"

"A bit," Snyder replied.

"We win?"

"You got across the creek. Kind of figure that's where the fighting will be again, come morning."