"Three days ago I was sitting in Baltimore, just waiting for that dispatch ship flying a French flag to come in with word that the emperor, that mad emperor, had thrown in with us. Baltimore would have, after the war, quickly rivaled New York as a place of industry and commerce, which we desperately need. Chances are Washington would have wound up as our new capital."

"It will still happen," Lee said with a smile. "As my boys say, 'We ain't licked yet, not by a long shot.'"

"I wish I carried your confidence," Judah replied.

"You have to think back on our history, sir. Perhaps because you were not born here, and no offense intended, you don't fully sense that."

"How so?"

"My father fought with Washington. Many in our ranks had sat at the knee of a grandfather and heard tales of Valley Forge, that terrible retreat across New Jersey the year before, the bitter fighting in the Carolinas. Half a dozen times our cause seemed all but lost, and yet each time a kindly Providence saw fit to save us. Our situation at this moment is no different. We endured then, we shall endure now. Of that I am still confident."

Judah held up his hand.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Lee sighed and nodded.

"Not your fault. I am tired, just so very tired as well."

"General, I think you need to get some rest."

"Yes, sir, I do," Lee replied. "Again, no offense taken by your comments."

Judah stood up, bowed slightly, and left.

Lee looked over to his tent, the flap open. He went in, his servant having set a candle and his Bible on a table by the cot. Lee sat down, struggled to take his boots off, and then picked up his Bible and thumbed through it, turning to the One Hundred Forty-fourth Psalm.

"Blessed be the Lord, my strength, which teacheth my hands to war…"

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:00 P.M.

A hard day for Edward," Phil Sheridan said, pouring another cup of coffee and offering it to Grant. Grant watched Ord walk over to his horse, mount, and ride off.

"Yes, a hard day," Grant replied, sipping at the coffee, then setting it down to pick up a stick and resume the whittling that had taken it from a couple of feet in length to a last few inches. Shavings piled up around his feet.

"How's the headache, sir?"

Grant raised his gaze and stared at Phil without responding, at that moment teaching Sheridan one of the taboos of this headquarters: when the general had a migraine, no one, except for Ely, should ever dare ask about it.

Grant resumed whittling and Phil was silent, staring into the campfire. A mild breeze stirred. To the south, there were lightning flashes but it looked as if the storm would skirt by them, perhaps soaking the boys down along the Potomac.

'Tomorrow, I want you to shift one of your divisions down in support of Ord. He has no reserve left."

"Which one."

"The colored one. That's your reserve, isn't it?" "Yes, sir."

"And they sat the day out, so they're fresh." "Yes, sir, but they've never seen battle." "Time they did."

He finished whittling, tossing the fragment of stick into the fire, hesitated, then drew out another cigar and lit it, offering the case over to Phil, who gladly took one of the fine Havanas.

Grant offered him his half-burned match, and Phil leaned over, puffing his cigar to life.

Grant studied him intently as Phil lit his cigar, sat back, and exhaled.

He missed Sherman. There was a man he did indeed confide in. Many was the night the two sat up and talked. Talk of plans, talk of what had been and what they still intended to do.

McPherson had filled a bit of that role since coming east, but poor James was dead. An hour ago, under flag of truce so that wounded from both sides could be pulled back from the riverbank, a message had come through the lines informing him of that fate, and also that before he died James had married his beloved Emily.

"Wish I'd given him that furlough back in the spring," Grant sighed. "Perhaps now there might at least be a child on the way."

"What, sir?"

"Nothing. Nothing, Phil."

He was silent again and grateful that Phil understood the need. When he was silent, he was in no mood to-talk, and idle chatter to fill the dead air was an annoyance.

The stars were not out as brightly tonight, a thin high haze moving in. Rain in a day or so, he sensed, perhaps a lot. Can't change that, though, so don't worry about it.

The day had been a hard one. Phil was right, especially for Ord.

His entire corps was a hollowed-out wreck. He had lost more men in this one assault than during the entire siege of Vicksburg. Where an entire corps had been this morning, barely a division could be mustered now, and those men were beat to hell, disorganized, brigades down to regiments, and regiments to companies. It had been the bloodiest assault he had ever launched.

And he did not regret it, though Ord was all but shattered by the experience.

He had seen it himself when he rode across the river late in the afternoon to watch the fight up close. Yes, he had lost ten thousand or more, but Lee had been forced to match him, and from all accounts the dreaded Jubal Early Division was smashed beyond any hope of repair, along with a couple of brigades from one of one of Beauregard's divisions.

He had presented to Lee a different kind of fight today, one of sustained firepower on the rest of the front. No mad charges, no standing out in the open in volley lines while Lee's own men were dug in, as at Fredericksburg. Instead, just a continual grinding down of fire.

Lee's men had most likely fired off nearly as much ammunition as they had at Union Mills, but with only one-tenth the impact along the rest of the line. His own supply officers were already sending in reports that two million more rounds of small-arms ammunition would have to be sent up during the night, and the wagons crossing over the pass were indeed hauling that and more.

How many millions did Lee have?

Hunt reported firing nearly eleven thousand rounds of bolt and case shot. One of his staff, earlier in the day, had laughed while reporting to Grant that he had overheard Hunt shouting, "Make every shot count, boys; it's costing the taxpayers two dollars and sixty-seven cents a round."

He stirred, looking back at the fire.

"Yes, the colored division," Grant said, and Phil did not respond, still puffing on his cigar.

"Move them down to support on this side of the Monocacy before dawn. I think our General Lee over there will counterstrike us, and it will come straight in at Ord, to try and push him back across the river and then break our right flank."

"Yes, sir."

"I want your blackbirds to be ready to go in. They claim they have something to prove. Now's their chance." "I'll see to it personally." "Phil." "Yes, sir?"

"I spotted you today down in the railroad cut, right in the middle of it. I thought I told you to avoid recklessly exposing yourself."

Phil smiled, but then shook his head.

"Sir, I'm sorry. Three days ago those boys were under Burnside, and they still are fiercely loyal to him. I needed them to see I was different somehow, and that meant getting up into the thick of it. I figured the risk was worth it."

"I know, we all do it at times. But I lost James. Ord, well, I think poor Edward is a bit shattered at the moment. Banks, he's an amateur, the same as Sickles, a political appointee I find myself saddled with, and come a crisis I'll personally see to the running of his corps. So I need to count on one of my corps commanders, and it seems that's falling on your shoulders. Don't do the same tomorrow. Keep back a bit."

Phil smiled.

"Of course not, sir."

Three Miles East of Monocacy function 11:45 P.M.

God damn it, I can't believe these damn things are still here," Cruickshank groaned. He walked the length of three trains still loaded with the pontoon bridges, cursing and swearing every inch of the way, his staff and old teamster crews following behind.