"Send the following to headquarters: 'Grant started crossing Susquehanna shortly after midnight. Ord's Corps in the lead.'"

Gunfire outside interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw what was left of Sym's detachment galloping onto the parade ground: one trooper leading the horse of a wounded comrade, who was slumped over in the saddle.

" 'Believe Grant moving down this valley, heading south. Regiment or more of their cavalry about to storm Carlisle. Abandoning this post.' Now send it!"

Billings worked the key as Duvall went to the window and looked out. The Yankee cavalry were clearly visible on the main pike, deployed to either side of the road, forming a battlefront several hundred yards across. They were coming on cautiously, most likely not sure if this town was. well garrisoned or not. Mounted skirmishers were now advancing less than a quarter mile away.

Billings finished sending the message, the confirm reply clicking back seconds later.

"Smash all this equipment, then get mounted," Duvall snapped, and he walked out of the room.

He reached the ground floor and saw three troopers upending cans of coal oil onto the floor, a sergeant holding a rolled-up newspaper, already striking a match.

"What the hell are you doing there, Sergeant?"

"Well, sir, this is Yankee government property, isn't it? Figured you'd want it torched."

The sergeant was grinning. There was something about arson that seemed to excite most young men, and the wanton destruction of this fine old barracks would be quite a blaze.

Duvall looked around, the corridor lined with old prints, lithographs of the war in Mexico, a portrait of Lincoln still hanging but the glass on it smashed, a rather scatological comment penciled across his brow. The barracks were a reminder that this was the oldest military post in the United States. It dated back to the French and Indian Wars.

The newspaper flared. The sergeant looked at him expectantly.

I grew up a little more than a hundred miles from here, Duvall thought. We were neighbors once, a sister even marrying a fine young man from the theological seminary down at Gettysburg. He had not heard from her in more than a year, not since her husband was killed at Second Manassas, fighting for the Yankees.

We were neighbors once.

"Sergeant," Duvall said quietly. "Don't."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Let it be."

The sergeant looked disappointed.

"Go out and mount up."

The sergeant nodded, carrying his flaming torch, tossing it by the doorstep, where it flickered and smoked, his disappointed assistants following. Billings came running down the stairs and out the door behind them.

Duvall took one last look, walked over to the smoldering paper and crushed it out with his heel, then stepped onto the porch. His command of a hundred men was mounted, many with revolvers drawn, expecting to be ordered to turn out on to the pike and face the Yankees head-on.

Syms was kneeling over the wounded trooper, shot in the back, lying on his side, blood dripping out.

"We leave him here," Duvall said. "They'll take care of him."

"Sir, forgot to tell you," Syms said, looking up at Phil. "Your old friend is over there."

"Who?"

"George Armstrong Custer. That's his brigade dogging us. I saw him in the lead."

George, it would have to be him. No one spoke. All knew that he and George had been roommates at West Point.

An orderly led up his mount, and Duvall climbed into the saddle, turned to face his men, and pointed south. "Let's go, boys."

"We ain't fighting 'em?" Sergeant Lucas asked, coming up to Phil's side as they trotted across the parade ground, angling toward the road out of the south side of town.

Phil shook his head.

"Hell no, Sergeant. That's not a regiment out there, that's Grant and the entire Yankee army. Now let's go."

Washington, D.C.

August 22 6:00 A.M.

Maj. Ely Parker, aide-de-camp to Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and approached the east gate of the White House. A crowd milled about on the sidewalks, spilling into the streets. Guards lined the iron fence facing them. There was a low hum, as copies of newspapers, which had just hit the streets minutes before, were passed back and forth. He caught snatches of conversation. "Sickles is dead." "The rebs will be here by tomorrow I tell you…"

At his approach a detachment swung the gate open, a captain stepping forward to block Ely's approach. Ely leaned over, showing a slip of paper.

"Bearing dispatches from General Grant," he whispered. The captain examined the note, nodded, stepped back, and saluted.

"Hey, who's the Injun they're letting in?" a civilian shouted. "Injuns and niggers, Abe's got a helluva an army, don't he?"

Ely knew he shouldn't, but he was just so damn fed up and tired. Being a full-blooded Seneca in the army, he had often drawn comments, which he knew how to deal with, usually by a cold stare. But this morning he was tired, damn tired and fed up. He turned his mount and stared straight at the man who had shouted the insult.

The crowd parted back to the offender.

"Got a problem there, Major?" the man asked.

"Injuns and niggers are dying for you," Ely said quietly. "And you stand out here taunting. If you don't like us, at least have the courage to put on a gray uniform and fight us like a man. You're a coward, sir, and if you don't like that, wait out here for me after I meet the president and we can discuss it further.

"Pistols, swords"-he paused-"or tomahawks."

The man paled. A flicker of laughter greeted Ely's comments. "Bully for you," someone shouted. The loud-mouthed civilian turned and stalked off. Applause rippled through the crowd.

Angry that he had allowed himself to be baited, Ely turned back and rode the last few feet to the entry to the White House, dismounting wearily.

The captain at the gate came to his side.

"Can you tell me what's going on, Major?" he asked curiously.

Ely shook his head.

"Sorry to ask, sir," the captain pressed. "Just the city's been crazy with rumors for two days now. Word is the entire Army of the Potomac was wiped out and Lee will be here by tomorrow. That crowd has been out there all night. A lot of them are like that fool you dealt with. I have my men standing by with loaded rifles."

Ely said nothing, just nodded as he walked up the steps to the door, a sergeant opened it for him. An elderly black servant, waiting inside, offered to take Ely's hat.

"I'm bearing dispatches from General Grant," Ely said. "Is the president available? I'm ordered to deliver these to him personally."

"He's awake, sir. In fact, been up most of the night. Could you wait here, please?"

Ely nodded. The servant turned and went up the stairs, returning less than a minute later.

"This way, sir."

Ely followed him, looking around with curiosity. It was his first time in the White House, in fact, the first time he would stand before a president. If not for all that he had seen the last few days, the enormity of what he was bearing with him, he knew he should be nervous, but he wasn't. If anything, he was angry, damn angry.

The servant knocked on a door and seconds later it opened. Ely was surprised to see that it was the president himself opening the door.

The man towered above him, dark eyes looking straight at Ely.

"Thank you, Jim," the president said, then extended his hand to Ely.

"Come on in, Major. I was hoping you or someone would come down from our General Grant. Are you hungry?"

Caught a bit off guard, Ely lied and said no.

"Jim, could you bring our guest a cup of coffee?"

Ely stepped into the office. One other person was in the room, shirt half open, tie off, sitting on a sofa by an open window.

"Major Parker, is it?" Lincoln asked.