His first concern was that the rebs might blow up the huge stone viaduct at Relay Station. Thus once the armored cars and their locomotives were rolled off the trains at the dockyard and switched onto the Baltimore and Ohio's main line, he had set off. The charge by rail worked. Their arrival at dark sent the rebs scurrying back across the bridge, and dawn revealed that their commander, who he now learned was Lo Armistead, had indeed been trying to find enough powder to stuff up under one of the arches of the bridge to bring it down. Armistead had failed, and so they had been able to continue pushing west.

Today, though, had been frustratingly slow work. The rebs kept tearing up the track ahead, smashing switches. An armored car would be raced forward, firing its massive gun, and they'd scatter, pull back, and then resume their desperate work.

And yet they were moving forward, mile by mile. He knew his nickname, whispered behind his back, 'Tardy George."

The hell with them. His tardiness, as some called it, was being methodical and, by God, he certainly was not tardy at Taneytown. If only Sickles had listened to him at Gunpowder River and gone a bit more slowly, this whole operation would be different now.

The yard boss stood up, waved his hand, indicating the rail was fixed. The engine vented steam and George walked back to the command car behind the locomotive, climbing aboard. During their stop a telegrapher had hooked into the line and handed George the latest news.

"Heavy fighting all along the line at Frederick. Grant."

There was no need to be told that. Whenever the train stopped all could hear the rumble in the distance.

The yard boss ran back aboard his own train on the parallel track, saw George, saluted again, then turned to one of his men, who reluctantly offered up a bottle out of his pocket.

"How much we paying that man?" George asked of one of his staff.

"Sixty a day."

"Damn, I don't even make that much. I don't even think the president himself makes that much."

"Well, sir, he said that's what the rebels paid him, and he did his utmost to play hell with them. He was the only one around, and he does good work. Almost everybody with the Military Railroad command are still up in Harrisburg or repairing the Cumberland line."

"More than the president," George mumbled.

The train moved forward, gaining a little speed. Through the window he could see where the rebels had torn off several rails, heated them, and then bent them around a telegraph pole. The train shifted slightly as it crossed over the patched section, rolled forward another half mile, then slowed again.

Another break, damn it.

It was slow, he knew, but it was relentless. On the road parallel to the track, infantry was marching forward, the shot-torn standard of the old Fifth Corps at the fore.

The Army of the Potomac was marching toward the battle. Slow as ever, perhaps, but it was in the field again-and looking for a fight.

Hunt's batteries were lost in clouds of smoke. It was impossible to see them other than by the flash of their guns. Grant looked back toward Frederick. McPherson's boys were up, forming at the edge of town, four thousand of them, but ready to refight a battle the way they had done two days ago, street by street.

Around Grant his staff was hurrying about, packing up map cases and field desks and piling equipment into the single wagon that served as his headquarters, now harnessed to a team, back end open. Several enlisted men started to drop his tent.

"Leave that be," Grant shouted. "It's not important now. Get mounted and ready to move."

The rebel charge was still coming forward, picking up momentum. Hunt was already flanked but still holding on. He was tempted to ride down to him, but decided against it.

I am not a corps commander. He had to force himself to remember it. Nor even in command of a mere army. The telegraph connection that was being taken down even now was his link to an elaborate operation on three fronts in Maryland as well as to Sherman down in Georgia; the battle directly before him was not his only concern.

And besides, if I go dashing about, that will infect everyone. It always does. Stay calm, stay calm.

The last of the headquarters gear was packed up. The telegraphy wagon, was already on the move toward town.

He motioned for the headquarters wagon to set off, the driver looking back anxiously toward the rebs swarming up the road less than a quarter mile away now.

Ely led over Grant's horse and he mounted, making it a point to do nothing for a moment, taking the time to light a cigar.

He could see Ely was agitated. Minies were zipping by. He puffed on the cigar for a moment, watching them. Nodded and turned Cincinnatus.

Without a word he rode toward the town.

Chapter 18

With General Lee

Noon Gen. Robert E. Lee reached the edge of the ford, several companies of cavalry deployed around him in a protective circle, carbines and pistols drawn.

The Union position here had just collapsed, nearly a thousand men taken prisoner, nearly all of them Ord's men, including General Ord himself, with a scattering of colored troops mixed in.

The ground was carpeted with bodies, ambulances from both sides now picking men up, six and seven to an ambulance, to be taken into the Confederate lines. Several surgeons were at work in the field, awnings set up, a vast sea of agony around them.

He spotted Jubal Early, standing by one of the tents, leaning on one of his staff, pants leg torn off just above the thigh, blood streaming down from his knee.

Lee rode up and dismounted, going to Jubal's side.

"I'm sorry to see you are hurt, sir," Lee said.

"Think I'll lose the leg," Jubal said weakly.

"Perhaps it will not prove to be that bad," Lee lied, a quick look down revealed that a bullet had shattered the poor man's kneecap. That he was even coherent at this point with such an agonizing wound was a mark of the man's strength.

"I've turned what's left of my division over to John Gordon," Jubal said, motioning toward the creek, "but sir, frankly, I no longer have a division. It is completely fought out."

"You did well this day, sir," Lee said, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then returned to Traveler and mounted.

The Union prisoners were slowly shuffling to the rear, many of them detailed to help carry wounded from both sides. It was a procession of agony, men crying, many in shock, some looking up at Lee in wonder, more than a few in defiance.

He saw a small number of black prisoners, with one white officer, being herded off to one side, the men surrounding them shoving with rifle butts and bayonet points. Lee went over to them.

"What is going on here?" he snapped.

A surprised sergeant looked up.

"Sergeant, what is your name?"

"Len Gardner, sir, Third Louisiana."

Lee turned to Walter.

"Note that name, Walter. Sergeant Gardner, if I hear of any accounts of abuse of prisoners I shall personally hold you responsible."

The group ducked down as an errant shell screamed overhead.

The white Union officer stood up first and stepped to Lee's side and saluted.

"Capt. Averall Heyward. Thank you, sir. I think they were getting set to execute us."

"That's a damn lie," Gardner cried.

Lee looked at Gardner and fixed him with a cold gaze.

"I tend to believe this officer's word over yours," Lee snapped.

"Captain, take your men, fall in with the other prisoners. You will be well treated. Walter, write down the following:

"I have spoken personally with the Union officer bearing this note. He shall report to me after the action of this day to inform me of any abuse dealt to him or any other man or officer serving with the United States Colored Troops."