He bounded up the stairs, going to the third floor, then scaled the ladder up to the cupola, Sergeant Lucas behind him.

Breathing-hard, Phil uncased his field glasses and looked back down the road he had just traversed with his small company. Behind him, not three miles away, was a column of Yankee troopers. Not a company or regiment, it had to be a brigade or more the way the dust swirled up behind them, clear back to the horizon.

"Custer?" Lucas asked.

"Yup. It's gotta be him."

"Driving damn hard," Lucas said.

'That's George," Phil said drily.

He remembered many an afternoon, George and he, out for a ride after seeing to their duties as cadets, trotting along the heights overlooking the Hudson, talking about all their hopes and dreams of glory. The war was still ahead, the arguing and shouting of politicians of no concern to them during those wonderful days but four years ago. Their talk instead was of what it might be like out on the great prairies of the West, with endless horizons ahead of them, or perhaps a posting to California or Charleston and the lovely belles that might await them there.

He smiled with the memory, how on so many nights, after lights out, they'd lighted a candle concealed behind a blanket and he'd sat up with George, reviewing yet again plane geometry or French, trying to coax his roommate along, to keep him, last in his class, from flunking out.

On those rides together George would inevitably challenge him to race, and off they would gallop together, George usually winning and teasing him about the legend that southern boys could always beat a Yankee on horseback.

So now we are in race again, old friend, Phil thought as he raised his field glasses and scanned the horizon, but this time, I have to beat you at it.

He scanned the horizon. The day was clear, no haze. Taking out a map, he propped it against the windowsill, orienting himself. The hills to the north must be Gettysburg, the South Mountain range beyond. He scanned that way. Nothing. No troop movements, at least on this side of the range, but what was happening beyond it? Well, that was a mystery.

Looking toward Gettysburg he thought he caught a gleam of reflected light, perhaps some dust. Infantry? It was impossible to tell.

George, though, was obviously driving southwest, coming straight at him. If so, what was his goal?

Shadow the east side of the mountains? Why moving so fast? If he was to provide a screen for the advancing infantry, they'd still be a dozen miles back. Was he heading for some objective this way? Phil traced a finger down the map.

Frederick?

Why there, if the bulk of the Union army, as seen by the patrol by Syms, was now north of Hanover? He had sent Syms and a dozen men back north even as they had pulled out of Hanover to try to identify a unit, but so far nothing had been heard from them. He feared Syms was most likely lost.

Frederick. Push hard and he could be in there by tomorrow morning. Block the pass or perhaps take the railroad.

A distant line of skirmishers emerged along the road back to Littlestown, advancing at a trot. Now less than two miles away. In another fifteen minutes they'd be into the town.

Give them a punch here? he wondered. Leaning out of the cupola he looked down at his ragged command. They had been retreating for nearly two days. Horses were blown, half a dozen men left behind because of a thrown shoe, a mount collapsing.

No, he had to keep pulling back until Stuart sent up reinforcements.

"We keep moving, Sergeant Lucas," Phil said bitterly.

The two raced down the stairs, ignoring the servant, who, amazingly, had actually made up some tea and had it waiting for them.

Coming back out on the porch Lucas shouted for the men to remount and get ready to move.

Duvall leaned against a porch pillar, casing his field glasses, dreading the thought of getting back into the saddle. He had been riding since dawn, was exhausted, and just wished for an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

A clatter of hooves echoed, some of his men turning, raising carbines or pistols, looking toward the road from the mansion back into the village. They relaxed at the sight of Lieutenant Syms. His mount was lathered, foaming, Syms's features pale as he reined in, grimacing with pain.

"Can't believe I found you here," Syms gasped, leaning forward in his saddle, breathing hard.

"You look like hell," Duvall said.

Syms smiled weakly and fainted. Lucas went to his side to help him out of the saddle. Half a dozen willing hands came to his side, carrying him up to the porch of the mansion.

Syms opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. The servant from the mansion knelt by his side and gently held a cup of tea to his lips. Syms took a drink and nodded his thanks.

"Where are the rest of your men?" Phil asked.

"Dead, captured, or played out." "What did you find out?"

"I must have ridden fifty miles since dawn. Circled around Custer's men. By God, are they moving fast!" "I know."

"We hit a Yankee infantry column about twenty miles north of here. Phil, it's a sham, all a sham." "What do you mean?"

"We came over a rise and there they were, a column marching on the road, not even any skirmishers forward. Scared the hell out of me. I mean we were less than fifty yards away when we ran smack into them."

He grinned weakly.

"One sight of us, though, the mighty cavalry of the Confederate army"-Syms chuckled at the memory-"and the entire column bolted and ran like sheep. Not a shot fired, they weren't even loaded up.

"We ran them down, took a dozen prisoners, the rest of them just disappearing, jumping fences, throwing their rifles and packs away, running off into the woods and across the fields. Hell, if I had fifty men, I could have bagged five hundred."

"Militia?"

"You're damn right. Nothing but militia. If it wasn't so funny, I'd of been disgusted with 'em. One of them, a lieutenant, cried like a baby and spilled everything when we threatened to shoot him."

"My God, you didn't!" Phil said.

"Hell, no." Syms grinned weakly. "He said all the boys in his division were in the army for ninety days to avoid the draft. The entire army was just like him. They'd been lying about Harrisburg for weeks. Just hating Grant's men who lorded it over them. Grant's boys are moving to the west, behind the mountains. These boys, under Couch, crossed the river by ferry down at Wrightsville. Supposedly close on to twenty thousand of them. They were even told they wouldn't have to face a battle, just march about for a week or so."

Phil sat back on his heels.

"Damn all."

The realization hit. McPherson's men, tough veterans, had crossed at Harrisburg. If they weren't in front of him, that meant they had to be on the road over the other side of the South Mountains.

It was fitting together. Custer makes a dash to seize the pass at Frederick; McPherson comes through with the rest of the army behind him.

'The rest of your men?" Phil asked.

"We got jumped riding through Gettysburg on the way down here looking for you. Some troopers from your friend's brigade."

He seemed to drift away for a moment, then sighed. "I had to leave my men behind, Phil. I had the best mount. The boys even told me to ride for it and carry the news back to you. My boys, they're dead now or prisoners. They turned back to fight while I rode off."

Phil knelt by his side, holding his hand, and shook him slightly.

"Look at me," Phil said softly, and the lieutenant gazed up at him.

"Are you certain of this report? The entire army north of us is militia?"

"That's what the prisoners we took told us. They were scared. Hell, I hated to do it, but I had a cocked gun to the lieutenant's head and said I'd blow the man's brains out if the others lied. We kept them separated, then brought them up before the lieutenant one at a time, and they all said the same thing. One of 'em even identified the four corps marching with Grant-McPherson, then Burnside, then Ord, and finally Banks. That poor lieutenant soiled his britches, he was so frightened."