Though obscenities were rare for him, one spilled forth now, and turning, he rode on, staff glaring coldly at the photographer who stood there, mystified by the response. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he moved on, setting up his camera for another shot of the troops when they paused for a break.

He pushed on, past a house where a tattered Confederate regimental flag dangled from a third-floor window. He saw a column of exhausted rebel prisoners, fifty or more, being escorted by several equally exhausted guards, a minister saying a prayer over a dozen blanketed bodies, a Catholic priest giving communion to several men who had stopped for his blessing, and then to his amazement, an embalmer who was selling policies.

Men like him always trailed the armies. They'd sell an "embalming policy" for fifty dollars to any soldier and issue him a receipt. If a comrade brought the body in with the receipt, the deliverer received five dollars, the body was supposedly embalmed, usually poorly done, and then shipped to the family.

Some of Mcpherson's men were negotiating with him, dead bodies lying around his wagon.

"Drive that scoundrel off," Grant snapped, and several of the men of Grant's headquarters detail were more than happy to comply, one of them deliberately smashing the embalmer's bottles of fluids with his sword, then drawing a pistol on him and telling him, "Get the hell out of this town, you son of a bitch."

Grant did not look back, but rode on. At last he saw it, the rail depot. It was a wreck, a small roundhouse burned to the ground, several cars still flickering with flames, a warehouse all but flattened by fire except for the skeleton-like eyes of its windows.

He spotted Sheridan out front, Ord by his side, and Hunt leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar. At his approach the three came to attention.

"Quite a mess here in town," Sheridan announced, as Grant rode up.

"I can see that."

"No fighting to report, sir. The rebels gave back during the night and retreated across the Monocacy."

Grant nodded. No news there. At dawn he had seen it clearly enough. Frankly, he did not expect Lee to try to fight him on this side of the creek. There was no good tactical ground for him to hold, other than to try to maintain his grip on the town and block the one road.

Grant dismounted, tossed his cigar aside, and walked over to a table where Phil had a map spread out, pencil marks indicating troop movements. The other officers fell in around him.

Grant puffed on his cigar as he leaned over the map and studied it intently, examining where Sheridan had sketched in the rebel positions.

"We fight hira here," Grant said.

"But he has chosen this ground," Hunt replied. "Sir, I know you said we should stop trying to worry about what Lee wants, but still, from experience, sir, when that man chooses ground, it means a tough fight."

"And that is precisely why I will fight him here," Grant replied sharply. "He wants this fight, and so do I. Let him choose this ground, this particular place. It will fix him in place the way I want it."

He leaned back, rubbing his brow again.

Ord grinned and said nothing.

Grant leaned over the map again.

"We just had a report come up from the depot," Sheridan said, "that General Longstreet was spotted."

"Is Beauregard up yet?"

"No indication of that, sir," Sheridan replied. "We've accounted for two divisions of Hood's. About a hundred guns are deploying along the heights above the depot and also over on our right flank here."

He pointed to where the creek took a turn to the southwest for a mile or so before bending back to the south.

"It's called the McCausland Farm. A good open hill. Guns there can enfilade the depot area."

"Sir," Ord interjected, "we have two intact corps up. Hunt has his batteries up. Why don't we go for them here?"

He pointed toward the McCausland Farm.

"There's a ford below the farm. My boys could force it."

Grant nodded, looking at the map, remembering the lay of the terrain he had spent hours studying yesterday.

"Your boys have marched for nearly twenty-four hours," Grant said.

"My command, then," Sheridan offered. 'They've had several hours' rest."

"I want you to hold the center of the line and the left flank," Grant said. "You're already in position for that."

He contemplated the move and then finally nodded.

"I want to keep the pressure on Lee, but Banks is not yet up. General Ord, a limited attack, later in the day. Do not bring on a general engagement, though."

"Sir?"

"The last thing I want now is to push Lee out of this position, but I do not want him to think we are suffering from temerity. Commit as if we are about to try a serious lunge, but conserve your boys."

"If I gain the ford?" Ord asked.

"Hold it, of course. That will force him to want to take it back, but do not bring on a general engagement." "I understand, sir."

Grant sat down on, of all things, a church pew that had been carried out of the church across the street and his staff gathered round as Sheridan held a map up, Grant behind him, tracing out the move.

He hated giving orders like this for a limited attack. A "demonstration" they use to call it at the Point. Still, such a demonstration might cost a thousand lives before it was done.

One Mile Southeast ofMonocacy Junction 2:00 P.M.

The train drifted to a halt. Emily Hoffman gazed out the window, the spectacle around her not registering, for at such a moment the world collapses into itself, and the struggle, the anguish, the drama of a hundred thousand others become meaningless.

For the last six miles they had passed train after train stalled on the other track, locomotives puffing, backing up slowly, foot by foot. Troops lined the tracks, marching westward, battle flags at the fore of each regiment. "Miss Hoffman?".

She looked up. It was the kindly Captain Cain, and she forced a smile. "Miss Hoffman?" "Yes, Bill?" "We're here, ma'am." "Thank you."

She stood up. Her parents, sitting across from her, stood as well, her mother reaching out to take her hand, which she refused. She took a deep breath and followed Cain to the back of the single car, empty except for the four of them.Troops piled off the other cars in the train and she realized this was one more part of the war she hated. As she stepped out onto the rear platform, she found a detachment was waiting for her, Confederate cavalry and a small carriage, a battered country type of carriage, barely able to hold four, its top gone, a single aging horse in the traces.

"Sorry about the carriage, ma'am," a major said as she stepped down, taking.Cain's hand. "It's all General Lee could find for you."

She forced a smile as she stepped into the carriage, Cain taking the reins, her mother and father squeezing in on the seat behind her.

The major rode out front, escorts flanking the carriage, and they set off. The road they were on, heading south, was packed with troops, the major riding ahead, shouting for them to clear the way.

The men, grumbling, stepped aside but, at the sight of her, many removed their hats. "That's her," she heard one of them announce as they passed.

The road turned off to the west, and after another turn to the south, they pulled into the drive of a modest two-story frame house.

She recoiled at the sight confronting her. Several hundred men lay in the yard, under the trees of a small orchard, some out in the glaring sun, others under quickly erected awnings of shelter halves and tarps. A tent was set lip outside the building, and to her horror a pile of bloody limbs rested outside the tent.

The major barked a sharp command, and one of his troopers dismounted, grabbed a blanket from behind his saddle, ran up, and threw the blanket over the grisly sight, but it was too late; she had already seen it.