Grant looked back up into his eyes and saw there was no recrimination. The gaze was almost fatherly as Lincoln reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

"You have my word of honor on that, sir," Grant replied humbly.

"Good. Nothing more will be said on that," and Lincoln smiled.

"Now, establish your headquarters where you will. If Harrisburg is your choice, so be it"

"And General Sickles, sir?" Lincoln sighed.

"My hand was forced on that point. He might be a thorn in your side, the last of the old guard of McClellan's time, but then again, he seems to have conducted himself well in division and corps command. And like it or not, he was right about the second day at Gettysburg. If he had been allowed to advance, the same request he had made at Chancellorsville, all might be different now."

Lincoln smiled.

"Perhaps we would not even be meeting like this if he had been listened to. Some philosophers muse on the idea that history can take many paths, and perhaps that is true. It might very well have been the case at Gettysburg. So General Sickles now has his chance, but he is to answer to you."

"And if I find it necessary to relieve him?"

Lincoln sighed and looked away.

"Grant, you are the supreme military commander, but in this one case I will have to ask for your forebearance. Can I ask you to trust me on this score? The ramifications would, unfortunately, go far beyond the military issues and affect our entire war effort. I hope you understand."

He could not refuse the request as Lincoln had just made it, as if he was a neighbor asking for a favor.

"Yes, sir. Whatever you wish."

"Fine then. Are you hungry?"

Grant smiled and nodded his head.

"Yes, sir, to tell the truth I'm starving."

"We have an excellent cook. Perhaps some flapjacks with maple syrup, a good slice of fried ham, and some coffee?"

"I'd be delighted."

"We'll talk more later, when we are alone. But let's relax for the moment. I just met this remarkable fellow I'd like you to meet Hope you don't mind that he's colored."

"Of course not, sir."

"Been learning a lot of history from him these last few days; he's known every president since Madison. Has some delightful insights."

'It would be a pleasure to meet him."

"Good then. Elihu, I know you're looking for a meal as well at taxpayers' expense."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

Lincoln started to lead the way again, but then stopped and it seemed as if a visible weight had suddenly come back down upon his shoulders. He looked back at Grant, eyes again dark, careworn.

"May I ask a question, General Grant?"

"Yes, sir, anything."

"Can we win? Can we end this madness before it destroys us all, North and South?"

The intensity of the question, the look in Lincoln's eyes struck him. Rarely given to sentiment, he found his own voice choking for a moment, and he was unable to speak. It was as if a mystical bond was, at that moment, forged between them. As if in whatever way possible, he had to lift some of the infinite burden off this man's shoulders, and even as that thought formed he felt the weight, the awesome responsibility of knowing that the republic, its very survival, its fate over the next hundred years, rested on him as well.

He slowly nodded his head, looking straight into Lincoln's eyes.

"Yes, sir, we can win."

Near Leesborough, Maryland

July 20, 1863 2:00 P.M.

The last of the storm was passing to the southeast, dark clouds bristling with lightning. Stepping down off the porch of a pleasant frame house whose owner had offered him coffee and biscuits while waiting out the blow, Lee stretched, looking around, breathing deeply of the cool fresh air that came sweeping down out of the northwest.

After three weeks of unrelenting heat, humidity, and rain, he could feel that the weather had indeed changed, that this last blow had swept the air clean. The rain had come down in torrential sheets for a half hour, swamping the road, but now, as a column of men from Pickett's division were filing out of the woods where they had sought temporary shelter from the blast, he could see their renewed vigor. The temperature had dropped a good fifteen to twenty degrees, the air was crystal clear, sharp, a pleasure to breathe. It sent an infectious mood through the men, who were joking, laughing, splashing around in rain-soaked uniforms, boots tied around their necks. For a few minutes they seemed almost like schoolboys again.

He mounted Traveler, staff falling in around him. He waited patiently for President Davis and Secretary Benjamin to come out of the house, the two climbing into an open four-horse carriage that had been "borrowed" from a wealthy landowner near where they had camped the night before. The owner was furious about the requisitioning until he heard who would be using the carriage, then simply asked for a receipt, along with an affidavit to be given back with the carriage, confirming who had ridden in it. It was obvious he planned to make a commercial venture out of the carriage when it was finally returned.

Lee edged out onto the road, Traveler kicking up muddy splashes. Behind him the lead brigade of Pickett's division, Armistead's men, were forming up. Turning, he headed north, the road clear for several hundred yards ahead. His staff, the headquarters wagon, and the president's carriage followed. With Taylor and his guidon-bearer just behind him, he urged Traveler to a slow canter, enjoying the ride, the cooling breeze, a shower of heavy droplets cascading down around him as he rode under a spread of elm trees that canopied the road. Reaching a gentle crest he saw the village of Leesborough, a small, prosperous community with several stores, a couple of dozen homes, rich farmland surrounding it. The winter wheat had been brought in, but the orchards, especially the peach orchards, had been severely damaged by the passing army, nearly every tree plucked clean. Fences were broken down and gone as well, wet circles of ashes and partially burned wet wood marking where men had camped the night before.

At the intersection with the Rockville Pike in the center of town a regimental band stood, playing patriotic airs. A spotter for the band, having seen the approaching cavalcade of the army headquarters and the president, was running back to the center of town, waving his arms.

Lee slowed, looking over at Walter.

"It's good for morale," Walter said with a smile.

Lee nodded and waited, letting his staff ride on, then edging back on to the road alongside the presidential carriage.

"It's turned into a lovely day," Benjamin announced, gesturing to the sparkling blue sky overhead.

"That it has, sir. By evening the roads should dry out a little, and hopefully tomorrow we'll make good time."

Up ahead the band struck up "Bonnie Blue Flag," and a cheer rose, a regiment that had been coming down the road from Rockville stopping, men spilling out of column to swarm behind the band.

Lee said nothing, though this would play havoc with the marching order, stalling the troops farther up the road, but it couldn't be helped now. Besides, Walter was right. They needed a boost after the misery and frustration of the last week.

The reporters traveling with Davis were off their mounts, notebooks out; one of them produced a large sketch pad and, with charcoal stick in hand, began to furiously scratch at his paper.

Lee fell in behind the carriage, Walter at his side, as they rode into the small village. Cheer upon cheer greeted them. From the rear, Armistead's men were splashing through the mud, coming up on the double to take part in the show, slowing at a respectful distance, breaking ranks, holding caps in the air, and yelling.