Braddock Heights 1:00 A.M.

In spite of the rain, Frederick continued to burn. The moon was out, its light reflecting off the thick haze of smoke that cloaked the valley below. Word had just come back to Grant that McPherson was wounded, perhaps already dead, and now a prisoner. His corps was a shambles, according to Sheridan, at best six thousand troops still effective.

A bloody first day, upward of nine thousand men killed, wounded, or captured between McPherson and Custer. The damage to Lee, Grant wasn't sure about, though hundreds of rebel wounded were now in the hospitals behind the heights or being tended to in the town, what was left of it.

Ely came up to him with a dispatch to sign, a request to be carried through the Confederate lines to Lee, asking for information on McPherson. Lee's nephew, Fitz Lee, had been taken prisoner, his horse shot out from under him. His leg was badly broken in the fall and might need to be amputated and he wished to inform his uncle, as well, that his kin was being well taken care of and would receive the best treatment possible.

Grant signed the note, and Ely went off to find a courier willing to brave approaching the Confederate side, under flag of truce, at night.

The clattering echo in the valley behind him was building. Coming up the road he saw a band of officers, one of them carrying a sputtering torch. It was Henry Hunt.

Hunt spotted Grant and came over.

"Damn, sir, wish I could have gotten here sooner," Hunt gasped. "Just the road was clogged with infantry, that damn Ninth Corps."

"That damn Ninth Corps, as you put it," Grant replied, "has come through now, under Sheridan. They're down in the town."

Grant pointed to the smoldering nightmare below, and Hunt nodded, whistling softly.

"Looks like it was one helluva fight."

"It was, and it will be. Where are your guns, sir?"

Hunt proudly pointed down the road. Already visible by the light of the torches and lanterns around the hospital area, the first team was pulling hard, coming up the slope. As they rounded the final curve the dismounted gunners were leaning into the wheels of the lead piece, horses panting and slipping on the macadamized road, which had turned soft and greasy after the heavy thunderstorms. The driver was shouting, cursing, trace riders spurring their mounts, and the piece lunged forward, gaining the crest. Behind it was a double caisson pulled by six more horses, behind that another gun, and then another double caisson, all of them struggling and lunging forward to gain the final slope.

"We've been on the road eighteen hours, sir. Getting down the road over South Mountains was tough going since the rain had just passed. I lost several pieces upended, teams killed, and several men when the guns went out of control. I'll send horses back in the morning to get them. My men are beat, but where do you want us?"

"That's the spirit, Hunt," Grant said approvingly. "That's the drive I want. Take them down the slope. You'll find General Sheridan has set up headquarters, I'm told, in what's left of the railroad depot in the center of town. Report to him."

"Sheridan, sir?"

"McPherson's down," Grant said quietly. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know."

"Sheridan's in command down on the field at the moment. I'm waiting up. here. Don't worry, Hunt, you'll get your chance at your grand battery; I'm not splitting you up. Phil has the lay of the land down there and will tell you where you should set up for the moment. Report to me down in the town at dawn."

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Ord? Have you heard from him?"

"He's right behind my column, sir. Cursing at me all the way, says I'm slowing his march."

"That's Ord," Grant said with a smile.

"He should be along once the last of my guns has passed. I'd say he's about three miles back."

"You've done good today, Hunt. Now get to work."

Henry looked at him and then grinned, saluted, and rode off, yelling at his men to move faster regardless of the downslope ahead.

"Sir?"

It was Ely.

'The dispatch is going off now. May I suggest you grab a little sleep. It's been a long day."

At the mere mention of sleep, tiredness overcome him. He'd ridden nearly thirty miles, been in the thick of it, and for the first time directly matched wits with Lee. He had also sent a good friend to his death or captivity.

Ely pointed to a house, a small clapboard affair on the other side of the road.

Grant walked over, dodging around a gun team pushing by him, the trace-horse driver swearing at him to "get the hell out of our way," the driver not realizing whom he was yelling at.

Lights glowed within the house.

"Hospital inside, sir," Ely said, "but a couple of the boys arranged a spot for you on the porch."

A bed was made up, an actual mattress under a couple of blankets.

Wearily he sat down, not turning aside the offer when Ely knelt to help pull off his boots. The migraine which had bedeviled him all day still held on, and he suddenly felt nauseous, as if the awareness of his affliction intensified it.

He lay back with a sigh. Migraine or not, within a few minutes he was fast asleep. Guards quietly circled the porch with orders from Ely to maintain a silent vigil. Ely sat down on the porch, leaning against the railing, struggling to stay awake to intercept any dispatches that might come in, but even he succumbed, falling asleep with his head resting on his drawn-up knees.

Out on the road the guns continued to pass, Napoleons, Parrotts, three-inch ordnance rifles, caissons, forge wagons, teams panting and struggling, crews cursing, moving woodenly in their exhaustion. They responded to Grant's orders for speed as he slipped into a dream wracked by nightmares of McPherson, of so many dead, all looking at him as if to ask whether it was indeed worth it, whether he was worthy of them.

Baltimore 2:15 A.M.

"Emily. Wake up, dear. Wake up." Starded, Emily Hoffman sat up in her bed, her mother by her side, holding a lit candle. "What is it?" she asked.

"Dear, there's a soldier downstairs. A captain, he insists on seeing you."

"A Confederate?" she asked, still half asleep and confused.

"Yes, dear," Her mother stifled a sob.

"James!"

She was out of her bed, snatching up her dressing gown, slipping into it, and half-lacing the top as she raced barefoot down the stairs. A light was glowing in the parlor, and as she stepped into the room, the soldier, who had been talking with her father, turned and stiffened.

"What is it?" she gasped.

"Miss Emily Hoffman?" the captain asked nervously. "Yes."

"Ma'am. I bear a telegram from General Lee, addressed to you, ma'am."

He held out the envelope, and she stood frozen, fearing to accept it.

The captain just stood there, red-faced, unable to speak, hand still extended with the envelope.

Her mother stepped forward, and the captain bowed slightly as she took the envelope and tore it open, her father holding a lantern up so she could read it.

Her mother began to shake, lowering her head.

"It's James," her mother gasped.

"Papa?" Emily looked at her father imploringly.

Her father took the telegram.

"It's addressed to you, sweetheart, from General Lee." He began to read:

"It is with a heavy heart I must-inform you that your fiance" has been severely wounded. I regret to tell you he is not expected to live. He was a beloved student of mine, and this tragedy touches me deeply. If you wish, you may take the next train out of Baltimore to come to his side at Frederick, where even now my physician attends him. The officer bearing this letter will escort you and your family."

Her father stepped forward, as if to hand her the letter, but she backed up, collapsing on to the sofa, sobbing.

"It's not safe," her mother said. "I think she should stay here. There's fighting up there."