He judged the fence on the east side of the road, ready to jump it, but several troopers were already dismounted, tearing down the stacked-up split rails. The owner was down by the road, shouting curses about having just rebuilt the fence. Custer just looked over at him, grinned, saluted cheerfully, and then rode through the opening, cutting around the edge of a cornfield and into an orchard.- Looking back toward Frederick he saw where the men of the Fifth were coming out, riding to either side of the railroad track, going a bit slower. It'd take another ten minutes before they'd be up and deployed into line.

Turning, he gauged the distance to the river. He could see his goal now, a wooden trestle. The road he had just been on headed down to a covered bridge a few hundred yards south of the railroad crossing.

Dismount and go in carefully or rush it? He pulled out his field glasses and scanned the river bottom and could see nothing. All was cloaked in mist.

If it's only Phil down there, he most likely has only a hundred or so. But give them a little time and they could work some mischief and prepare a defense, or worse, perhaps some reinforcements are coming up.

Rush him on horseback before he has time to get ready. He cased his field glasses and drew his saber.

The men of the First were lined up, covering a front of a couple of hundred yards, pistols or carbines out of holsters, officers with sabers drawn.

He could feel that their blood was up. There was nothing like the anticipation of a mounted charge to do that to a man. The tension was building, horses sensing it as well, snorting, a few rearing up, men grasping reins tighter. Men were looking over at him wide-eyed, some grinning.

He hesitated for a second. Go straight in, or wait for the Fifth to come in on my flank? I've got nearly three hundred men with the First. Five to ten minutes is often the difference between victory and defeat. No, this is the moment!

"First Michigan! Forward at the trot!" He pointed toward the railroad bridge.

Monocacy function

August 25 6:10 A.M.

Typical George Custer," Captain Duvall announced, snaking his head. With field glasses focused on George, he watched as his old friend drew his saber, pointed, and then set off, moving to the front of the advancing line.

A thousand yards, three or four minutes, and they'll be on us. He scanned the ground, so far only one regiment. What looked to be a second was just becoming visible, along the bed of the spur line leading into Frederick. Why didn't George wait for them?

Phil lowered his glasses. Perched on the roof of the depot, he had a clear view, except for the mist still gently rolling up from the river directly behind him.

He had deployed half his men to the left, about a hundred yards over, where the toll road came down to the covered bridge. There was a nice little cut there made by the railroad, about fifteen feet deep, with steep, sloping sides, a perfect entrenchment and place of concealment for his mounts. The rest of his men were in the depot, toolsheds, and outbuildings.

The depot was inside a triangle of rail track formed by the main line of the Baltimore and Ohio right after it crossed the river, the main track running west. The other two sides of the triangle were formed by the spur line that came down from the town of Frederick, branching to either side of the depot so that trains from the city could head west or east.

There were two blockhouses as well. Rude affairs, abandoned. If only he'd had a few field guns he could have held this place against anything George threw at him. One blockhouse, on the far side of the river, looked straight down on the bridge. A single Napoleon twelve-pounder in there could have swept the bridge. The other blockhouse, inside the western edge of the triangle, commanded the railroad cut and the spur line. He had placed a half dozen of his best shooters in there.

George's advancing line was down to less than a quarter mile. He could hear their bugle calls floating across the morning stillness, a beautiful sound. They were picking up speed, George a good twenty yards in front. Phil focused for a few seconds on the distant figure, hat off, golden shoulder-length hair waving in the breeze, a match for the crazy-quilt patchwork of braid on his uniform.

Phil smiled. George always did like those things, a true seeker of glory. And in his heart he prayed that none of his men now singled him out. His own boys knew they'd been friends at the Point, but still, George was a target that just begged to be shot.

Phil slid down from the roof, knocking off a few shingles, jumped to the solid awning that protected passengers waiting for a train, then climbed through an open window to the second floor. His men were hunkered down by the windows, carbines raised, waiting. Many had the new Sharps breechloading carbines, captured during the Gettysburg-Union Mills campaign, cartridges laid out on the windowsills. More than a few were grinning. George was coming straight on, mounted, in the open.

Three hundred yards, now two hundred.

The Yankee bugle call echoed the charge!

The men over in the railroad embankment to his left waited, maintaining good discipline. Let them get close.

A hundred yards. Damn, they were coming on fast, yelling like demons.

A solid volley rang out from his forty men. Good shots all of them, a dozen saddles emptied. The men around him in the depot opened up, enfilading fire pouring into the flank of Custer's charge.

Monocacy Junction 6:20 A.M.

"Charge!" The bugles picked up the command, echoing across the valley, the sound all but overwhelmed by the pounding of hoofs, the high-pitched cries of men loosed from all restraint, caught up in the mad, magnificent splendor of a full-out cavalry charge. He looked back for a second at these good troopers, up off their saddles, knees braced in tight, leaning forward, holding reins with one hand, weapon in the other, crouched low over the necks of their mounts.

The first volley caught him by surprise. He felt a bullet wing past, puffs of smoke ahead.

He looked back. Several troopers had dropped, tumbling from saddles; four or five horses were down, men pitching off their mounts, tumbling end over end. And yet the momentum of the charge was now unstoppable, men and horses weaving around the fallen, riding full out, the first blow not slowing them, instead now driving them forward, weapons raised high. "Come on, Wolverines! Common!" The charge swept down through open pasture and fields. What appeared to be a ravine, perhaps a railroad cut, was straight ahead, marked by puffs of smoke. "Come on, boys!"

He urged his mount onward, the horse moving uncomfortably, favoring its right side. He spared a quick glance down and saw where a shot had sliced its right leg, blood streaming out.

Fifty yards, now twenty-five.

Rebs stood up-from the edge of the ravine, carbines lowered. He hunched down low in the saddle. Another volley. His horse just collapsed, throwing him, knocking his wind out. Troopers of the First Michigan were reining in around him, as he struggled to stand up, their pistols drawn, firing blindly at the puffs of smoke, cursing, yelling.

He judged the moment. Not too many over there, maybe not more than fifty or sixty. He stood up, feeling dizzy, looking for his saber. A trooper leaned far over from his saddle, picked it up from the ground, and tossed it to him.

"Come on! Keep pushing!'

Men, yelling wildly, rode up to the edge of the ravine, pistols out, firing left and right. Men pitched out of saddles. Some rebs were up out of the ravine, pistols drawn, emptying cylinders, tossing revolvers away and drawing sabers, swinging wildly. A mad melee erupted.

A volley erupted from his left. The railroad depot. Puffs of smoke swirling from windows, mingling with the early morning fog. A blockhouse caught his attention. Aperture for a field piece.