"Granddaddy is proud of you, I'm proud."

"I'm proud of you, too," William said, and then with a loving gesture reached up and buttoned the top button of his father's uniform.

"You gotta look right for the men today."

The sergeant major laughed. The darn collar was too tight, but the boy was right.

"I will and so will you."

"Sergeant?"

He looked up. It was Sergeant Miller, company sergeant of A Company, approaching. The man was tall, massive expanse of shoulders, at first look a tough roustabout, but he was always soft-spoken, almost to the point of gentleness, in a tough sort of way. He sensed that Miller had been watching the two and Washington suddenly felt embarrassed.

"Go along now, Son, make sure the drummer boys are up and ready for business."

"Yes, Father… I mean, Sergeant."

He turned and ran off.

"I just wanted to report, Sergeant, that Company A is formed and ready to go." "Thank you, Miller."

Miller hesitated, then nodded in the direction of young William..

"How old is your boy?" "Fourteen."

"Doesn't it make you nervous, him being here like this?"

"Do you mean, could I leave him behind?" Washington said and then shook his head. "No, Sergeant. When he said he had to come, too, the way he looked in my eyes, I couldn't say no. It's his future even more than mine that we're fighting for now."

Bartlett chuckled and shook his head.

"Now his mama, now there was the fight, but I told her, 'Woman, if he's old enough to say he wants to fight for freedom, I will not stop him, nor will you.'"

"Still, a son," Miller whispered.

"You have any boys?" Bartlett asked.

Miller stiffened and looked away.

"I did."

There was a moment of silence, and then Miller, voice almost breaking, told about the mob fighting in Baltimore, how his son was gunned down before him as they tried to escape the city.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to go into your personal business," Bartlett offered.

"No, Sergeant. No, it's why I'm here today."

"The name is Washington."

"John here," and the two shook hands.

"I guess if my boy had been given the chance to reach fourteen he'd want to be here, too," Miller finally said.

"That's why mine is."

He paused.

"He'll be safe back with the drummer boys. At least I hope so." 'Think today will make a difference?" Miller asked.

"If we get into this fight, it will," he said sharply.

The two said no more, standing side by side, the regiment finishing its breakfast and lining up, the eastern light brightening.

The White House 5:15 A.M.

He arose early. Dressing, he slipped out of the bedroom, walked down the hall, and quietly opened the door to Taddie's bedroom. The boy was asleep, sheet kicked off, a toy stuffed dog on the floor. Lincoln tiptoed in, pulled the sheet up over his boy, picked up the stuffed dog, and set it beside him. It used to be Taddie's favorite, in fact, still was, though he would no longer admit it, saying such things were for little boys, but when it came time for bed he still had to have "Scruffie" by his side.

He kissed Tad lightly on the forehead, slipped out of the room and down the corridor to his office. His secretary, John Hay, as was so often the case, was within, asleep on the sofa, a scattering of newspapers and dispatches on the floor by his side.

Lincoln walked over to the window and opened it slowly so as not to disturb John. Down on the White House lawn below, troops were still camped, some of the very few still left in this city. A couple of sentries walked their beat on Pennsylvania Avenue, the two stopping for a moment, leaning on their rifles to chat. Then an officer approached, and they quickly resumed their monotonous pacing, the officer turning away. The man paused, looked up, saw Lincoln in the window, and saluted. Lincoln nodded, gave a friendly wave, and the officer disappeared into the morning mist rising off of the Potomac and the marshland behind the White House.

Lincoln went over to his desk, sat down, and, striking a match, lit the lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced the glass chimney. It was an ugly, elaborate thing, with three insipid brass angels holding up the base, that Mary had picked out at Tiffany's on one of her "decorating sprees" that cost so much it was still causing him headaches with Congress.

He looked at his desk. Nothing new had come in since he had retired at midnight. But it would start coming in, and quite soon. He put his feet up on the desk, tilted his chair back, and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep.

Frederick 5:20 A.M.

Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, rubbing his brow, walked out of his tent and his staff came to attention. Ely came up, offering him a cup of coffee. Ord, Sheridan, and Banks were waiting.

"Anything new?" Grant asked.

"Quiet on the other side except for digging," Phil reported.

Grant nodded. That had been a lingering concern, that Lee just might try to pull the first move, but he was not noted for night attacks. If roles were reversed, he would have ordered his men to stand down, to rest, just as Lee had done, other than for the front line of troops, who had commenced digging once darkness fell.

Campfires were flickering up, men cooking their morning rations, something he Jiad ordered the afternoon before. He wanted these men well fed, with full canteens, before the day started.

A few drums rattled, a distant bugle called. On the slope below him Phil's reserve division, the colored troops, were already up, beginning to form ranks. Backpacks, any unnecessary baggage was left behind; each man was to carry just rifle, haversack, canteen, and eighty rounds of ammunition. A surgeon was. already preparing for the day under an awning, his staff unloading boxes of bandages from a wagon, a stack of crutches piled up behind the awning, and two men were digging a pit to receive the severed limbs.

Out in the fields beyond, regiments were forming up, the reserve units, just beyond gunnery range. The forward edge of this fight was already down on the line, hidden within the bank of fog filling the Monocacy Valley. There was a slight temptation to order them in right now, under cover of the fog, but it would take a half hour or more for the orders to be sent, and in that half hour the fog would undoubtedly burn off. No, the plan has been set, don't change it now.

"You better get back to your commands," Grant said. "I'll come along later to check. Just remember your orders, our mission this day."

The three corps commanders saluted, mounted up, and rode off, Phil with a bit of a wild dash, saber drawn while standing in his stirrups. Yes, he was something of a showman, but every army needed at least one like that, just as long as he didn't go off and do something reckless.

Grant took the cup of coffee offered by Ely and walked back to where he had sat the night before, camp chair set up, the open plateau, the sloping plain down to the creek, all wide-open ground, except for the squared-off farmers' woodlots. It was getting brighter by the minute, the stars of Orion's shoulder fading, washed out, the horizon now a brilliant gold.

He sipped his coffee and waited, Ely standing by his side, silent. The sun broke the horizon, a brilliant shaft of light marking the start of the day, of August 27.