Elihu and Haupt mounted as well. Grant looked around, totally disoriented.

"I know the way," Elihu announced.

The sergeant looked up at him, and Grant sensed the man was a bit disappointed, half hoping that the mighty general would wind up on his backside for having taken his horse.

Elihu led the way, moving at a walk down the length of the dock, passing another ironclad, this one rigged with lanterns hanging over the railings and boarding nets strung around its circumference.

They eased past a line of wagons, several carriages, and a couple of ambulances. The main barracks were aglow with a light that cast dim shafts of gold out the windows to dissipate in the cloaking fog. From within he could hear low groans, a sudden cry of pain. Naval sentries, half-asleep, stood outside the building, leaning on their muskets. Four bodies were lying on the lawn, bare feet sticking out from under the blankets, the corpses, like all corpses, looking tiny and forlorn.

Elihu broke into a slow trot as they went through the gates of the naval yard, the sentries looking at them wide-eyed as they passed.

"Hey, was that Grant?" one of them asked as they passed, their conversations muffled and then lost in the fog. They trotted up a broad avenue, passing a convoy of wagons parked by the side of the road. No one was about The streets were empty, the soft glow of streetlights marking their way. Two- and three-story houses lining the road were dark. Several street corners had small patrols stationed, three or four men. Some were up, standing, more than one man curled up, sleeping in a doorway while a lone comrade fought to stay awake, keeping watch.

A black cat darted across the street in front of Grant, causing his horse to shy, arid he fought it back down, urging it forward.

Elihu chuckled.

"Not superstitious, are you?" he asked.

Grant said nothing, letting go of the rein with one hand to reach into his pocket pull out a match, and strike his cigar back to life.

A wagon rumbled past them, going in the opposite direction. Inside, piles of newspapers were stacked high. The road slowly climbed up a slope, the narrow confines of houses giving way to a broad, open expanse of lawn. He didn't need to be told; it was the Capitol.

Dim lights glowed from within, the fog breaking up slightly to reveal, in the first early light of dawn, the great iron dome that was still under construction.

Elihu slowed a bit, reined his horse in, and stopped for a moment

"No matter how many times I see it, it still gives me a lump in the throat," he whispered.

Grant said nothing, looking up at the towering heights. Even now, at four-thirty in the morning, the building was open. A row of ambulances was parked in front of the east portico, stretcher-bearers carrying their burdens up the steps. Civilians were coming in and out, some moving slowly, wearily, after what must have been a long night of labor, others hurrying in.

He was tempted to stop, if only for a few minutes. It had been years since he had trod these halls, and within were men who had suffered, some enduring the final agony of having paid the ultimate price for the preservation of what this building represented. But other matters pressed, and he slowly rode on.

They skirted around the south end of the Capitol, dropping down to the broad, open, almost marshy ground below the building. Directly in the middle he stopped again and looked up.

The structure towering above him was imposing, solid, conveying a sense of the eternal… the temple of the republic for which he fought

Whether it would one day stand as a hollow testament to the failure of the dream, or remain the central hall of freedom, now rested squarely upon his shoulders. It was a responsibility he had not sought but which fate seemed to have thrust upon him. Strangely, he found himself wondering how this place would look fifty, a hundred and fifty years from now. Would it be barren, a city abandoned like so many capitals of the ancient world, or would it be vibrant, alive, the dream continuing, a place of pride, a republic that would endure this time of crisis and emerge yet stronger?

He pressed on, following Elihu, who had slowly ridden ahead, Haupt at his side. They reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned left. There was a light scattering of traffic, the first streetcar of the morning slowly making its way up the hill to the Capitol. A company of troops marching in route step passed on the other side of the road, rifles slung over shoulders, the men bantering among themselves, barely noticing the two officers and a congressman trotting past A barricade blocked off most of the street farther on, with two twelve-pound Napoleons deployed behind it, sentries standing at the narrow opening. No comments were exchanged as they rode through, though one of the men looked up curiously at Grant as he saluted.

As they dropped down off Capitol Hill, the fog thickened again. Riding in the middle of the street, they could barely see the buildings flanking either side. A drunk sitting on the curb was being soundly dressed down by a policeman who was hoisting him to his feet. A few ladies of the evening, or in this case the early morning, loitered under a streetlamp, looking over hopefully as they passed, but offering no comments.

They passed by the bright lights of the Willard, a small crowd gathered outside, mostly officers, but none looked over at his passage. He was glad of that, otherwise the rumor would explode like wildfire. With his private's sack coat, collar pulled up against the morning damp, he was barely distinguishable, except for the three stars on each shoulder.

Directly ahead was the War Department, Elihu leading the way. In the fog he caught a glimpse of the White House, troops deployed on the front lawn. The sky was brightening, shifting from indigo to a sullen gray.

They reined in before the dark somber mass of the War Department building. The sentries out front, in spite of the hour, were well turned out, uniforms smart, brass polished and reflecting the glow of the streetlights.

As he swung down off his mount, several orderlies came out of the doorway and at the sight of him slowed, stiffening to attention.

"General Grant?" one of them asked.

He returned the salute and nodded.

"Sir, the secretary of war is in his office; he told me to escort you in the moment you arrived."

Haupt dismounted with him, but Elihu stayed on his horse.

"Think I'll wander over to the White House," Elihu announced.

In spite of the hour, Grant knew that Elihu would rouse the president, and he was grateful. Stanton had no real love for him, and at this crucial first meeting it would be good to have Lincoln present.

Grant followed the orderly into the building after telling one of the sentries to find a way to return the horses back to the cavalrymen at the naval yard.

The corridors were brightly lit with gaslight, the floor beneath his feet sticky with tobacco juice, cluttered with scraps of paper, and even what appeared to be splotches of blood. Even at five in the morning it was bustling with activity, staff officers running back and forth; a lieutenant with his arm in a sling-the blood on the floor obviously from the leaking wound in his elbow-leaned against a wall, pale-faced, not even noticing as Grant walked past him. In his good hand he was clutching a roll of papers.

They went up the stairs, turned down another corridor, the air a bit stuffy and damp, and without fanfare were ushered into the outer office of the secretary of war.

A well-dressed colonel, sitting behind a desk, stood up as Grant and Haupt came in.

"Good morning, General, we were expecting you," the colonel announced in a soft, silky voice. "The secretary is asleep but I have orders to wake him the moment you arrive. Please make yourself comfortable."