bridge to break.
They were in high spirits, a jauntiness to their steps. Well rested, lean, arrogant, ready for a fight The last of Ord's infantry and artillery passed. Supply wagons, loaded on to trains, would snake north up above Marysville then come south, advancing as far as the track would allow, then unloading, keeping the bridge open for his faster moving infantry. Haupt's well-trained railroad men were already at the forefront of the advance, surveying the damage, a mobile telegraph station set up, sending back word for what needed to be sent forward to repair the rebel damage to the right-of-way down the valley. Hundreds of flatcars, numbered and loaded, were waiting to be sent up.
The head of Ninth Corps was now on the bridge, General Burnside in the lead, a tall man, strange, high-crown hat, mutton-chop whiskers freshly brushed, a grin on his face as he rode past Grant, saluting.
'Good day for a little march, isn't it?' Burnside cried, and Grant nodded, saying nothing.
Behind him came the new Third Division of the Ninth, the men eager, moving briskly, all of their regimental banners at the fore, brand-new flags denoting the regiments 'of the United States Colored Troops. Though they were new soldiers, he could sense their passion, for if any men in this army now had a reason to fight, it had to be them. They were coming on with a will. They already had been warned of the custom of this army, to not cheer the general, but still their enthusiasm could not be contained, and in silent salute they took off their hats and held them high as they passed, row upon row, filling the bridge and the road clear back into Harrisburg.
Grant, unmoving, astride his horse, cigar clenched firmly, took off his hat and returned the salutes.
The Army of the Susquehanna was on the march. It was his army and it would march, he realized, until either he was dead, along with all those passing before him, or the final victory was won.
