"Weeks before they can crawl out and do anything. Let them howl. Let them try and fiddle while Rome burns. I don't care, I tell you." His voice was filled with a cold anger. "My concern is of the moment, here, now, what we can do within the next two weeks before those howlers have any chance to act."

"Still, sir, eventually it will happen, and they'll come for your blood," Elihu said.

"I don't care now," Lincoln snapped angrily. "Let them impeach me. If we win, I don't care what comes next. I'll have done my job as I believe the Founding Fathers would have wanted it done.

"And if we lose"-he sighed deeply-"it won't matter."

He lowered his head, and his two companions were silent.

Lincoln walked over to a map pegged to the wall, motioning for the two to follow him.

He studied it intently for a moment, then turned to Hancock and smiled.

"General Hancock. You are my man. You are to take command of the garrison of Washington. I am relieving Heintzelman today. He's a good officer but not up to what General Grant and I want done. We both agreed that you, sir, were the man to see it through."

"Sir?" There was obviously a tone of disappointment in Hancock's voice.

"Is anything wrong?"

"A garrison command, sir. I hoped I'd be returning to the field."

Lincoln smiled.

Near Boonesborough, Maryland

August 25 Noon General Burnside, why are these men resting?" Grant snapped, riding up to where Burnside and his staff were gathered against the side of a church in the center of town. Several were sipping tin cups of coffee, others standing about as enlisted men worked a cooking fire, frying up some fresh cuts of pork, the slaughtered animal hanging from a nearby tree.

Burnside, obviously flustered by this sudden appearance of the commanding general, came to attention.

Grant glared down at him, breathing hard, his mount snorting and blowing. More of his staff were coming up behind him.

"Sir, it is noonday. I thought I could get better marching out of them this afternoon if they were fed a good meal."

"Did you not receive the dispatch from General McPherson?" Grant asked sharply. "I most certainly did, and it requested that you press forward with all possible speed."

"Sir, I am indeed doing that," Burnside said quietly, "but you can only ask so much of men's legs when their stomachs are empty."

"How far ahead is McPherson?"

"Sir, I'm not sure."

Grant lowered his head, an obscenity about to break out of him. He held back, drawing his mount closer to Burnside.

"The front man in your column should have been ten feet behind the last man with McPherson. Now you tell me you don't know how far ahead he is?"

"Sir, an hour or so ago I could see them cresting over those mountains," and Burnside pointed toward the South Mountain range.

"Then by heaven's, man, I expect to see your men cresting those same mountains and catching up! I'm going ahead to join McPherson. I expect you up to Frederick with all possible speed. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, sir," Burnside said icily.

Grant jerked the reins of his mount, turned back on to the National Road, and was quickly up to a gallop, heading east.

Burnside and his staff watched him ride off.

"Westerners," one of his men sighed. "Wait until he comes face-to-face with Bobbie Lee and the men are exhausted."

As Grant reached the east side of the village, he saw thousands of the colored troops, in the fields on either side, building fires, rifles stacked, backpacks off, the men milling about. It'd take a half hour or more, Grant knew, to get these men formed up, out on the road, and marching again.

Uttering a whispered curse and a frustrated "What does Burnside think he is doing?" he pressed on.

Monocacy Junction 12:50 P.M.

"General Lee, thank heavens, we were worried sick about you!" Jeb Stuart rode up to Lee's side, saluted, and then reached over in an uncharacteristic gesture and took his hand.

"I'm just fine, General Stuart."

"We heard about the wreck of your train. First reports were that you were trapped in it."

"Foolishness," Lee said, even as he thought of the fireman's scalded and mangled body. "I'm just fine."

Lee looked away from Jeb for a moment to take in the scene of destruction. The depot was burning, the water tower, punctured by a shell, was trickling water. Behind him the bridge was burning, teams of troopers were working around the edge of the fires, trying to beat them out with blankets, a few buckets of water hauled up from the river, shovelfuls of dirt.

One entire side of the bridge was completely destroyed. The smoldering remnants of two locomotives and what appeared to be a passenger car now lay in the river. The north side of the bridge was still tenuously holding together, a few stringers connecting the piers, but all planking and track gone.

Lee turned to Jed Hotchkiss.

"That's the bridge we needed?"

"Yes, sir?"

"No other crossings for rail?" "No, sir." Lee sighed.

"How long do you think it will take to get a track laid back across it?" Jed shook his head.

"Not my department, sir. We don't have the railroad men the way the Yankees do. But it looks like the stringers are still intact on one side. Put three, four hundred men on it, and maybe in a day or two we can have it back for at least one side with lighdy loaded trains."

Lee looked back at Jeb.

"Situation here?"

"We took out most of Custer's Brigade. Sir, he put up a darn good fight. That's him over there."

Lee looked to where a small knot of captured Union soldiers sat around a blanket-covered body, a lone Confederate officer sitting among them. As he looked at them, the Confederate officer stood up and saluted, most of the Yankees standing and doing the same.

"That's Captain Duvall, sir," Stuart whispered. "He and Custer were close friends back at the Point. Duvall was the one who sent the warnings from Taneytown and first tried to hold this side of the river. I think he should get a regiment, sir. He's ready for it, and he's earned it."

Lee edged Traveler over to the group, the last of the Yankees still sitting coming to their feet as he approached.

"My compliments, gentlemen, on your stand here," Lee said, returning the salute of a begrimed Union captain whose arm was in a sling. "I understand you fought with honor and bravery. My thanks to you for that flag of truce so our wounded could be taken off the burning bridge."

"You'd have done the same, General," the captain replied.

"I'll see that you and your men are paroled as quickly as possible," Lee said. "Men such as you should be allowed to return safely to your families."

The captain looked up at him.

"Thank you, sir."

"Captain Duvall, my sympathies on the loss of your friend. Sadly, such is the nature of this war. I shall pray for you and for his family this evening."

"Thank you, sir," and there was a catch in Duvall's voice.

Lee motioned for Jeb to join him. Together they rode around the blockhouse, which was now serving as a field hospital, and up a gentle slope to the edge of the railroad cut, which was littered with bodies from both sides. Behind him, remnants of the covered bridge, sticking out of the water, still burned.

Uncasing his field glasses, Lee quickly scanned the town. He remembered it well, having ridden through it the year before during the Sharpsburg campaign. Well-ordered, neat homes, the citizens not necessarily pro-Confederate but at least respectful of him and his men.

Beyond, he could see where the National Road rose up, curving back and forth to the crest of the Catoctin Mountains. He could see puffs of smoke, hear a distant echo of gunfire.

"Do we have the heights yet?" Lee asked.

"No, sir. My first concern was to try and envelop Custer and at the same time seize the railroad bridge intact. I've detailed off Jenkins to push the heights, Jones to secure the town. Fitz Lee is bringing his brigade across the National Road bridge even now, and I've ordered them up to the heights."