friend's brigade.'
He seemed to drift away for a moment, then sighed. 'I had to leave my men behind, Phil. I had the best mount. The boys even told me to ride for it and carry the news back to you. My boys, they're dead now or prisoners. They turned back to fight while I rode off.'
Phil knelt by his side, holding his hand, and shook him slightly.
'Look at me,' Phil said softly, and the lieutenant gazed up at him.
'Are you certain of this report? The entire army north of us is militia?'
'That's what the prisoners we took told us. They were scared. Hell, I hated to do it, but I had a cocked gun to the lieutenant's head and said I'd blow the man's brains out if the others lied. We kept them separated, then brought them up before the lieutenant one at a time, and they all said the same thing. One of 'em even identified the four corps marching with Grant-McPherson, then Burnside, then Ord, and finally Banks. That poor lieutenant soiled his britches, he was so frightened.'
'Wish you'd brought him back.'
'Couldn't. So we just told them to strip naked-they thought we were going to shoot them-and then we sent them running with a few shots over their heads.'
Syms chuckled at the memory.
He laid back, breathing hard.
Phil put a hand to his forehead. Syms was burning with fever. He looked down at Syms's right leg, hit the day before. The man had been riding with his boot off. Leaning over, Phil sniffed the bandage and suppressed a gag reflex.
Lucas was up by their side with a blanket, and the black servant was on the porch, bringing a pillow and blankets as well.
'Lieutenant, why don't you rest here awhile,' Phil said softly. He looked up at the servant.
'I'll take care of him, sir,' the servant said quietly. Syms didn't argue.
'I'm played out, Phil. Just played out.'
'Custer's boys will take care of you.'
'Hate to lose the leg. Damn me. Sally sure did like to dance. I can't picture her marrying a cripple.'
'You'll be dancing soon enough,' Phil lied. 'And besides, she loves you and will be honored to marry you.' This time he spoke the truth, his voice choking.
Syms forced a smile.
Phil stood back up, looking at his men.
Their mounts were blown, and in this region finding new horses would be impossible. It had been picked over clean the month before.
They'd have to ride with what they had.
'Let's go,' he said quietly. He'd have to find someone to push ahead, to get down to the nearest telegraph outpost and send the word of what was happening here. That might take hours.
Sadly, he looked back at his old comrade that he was leaving behind.
He pulled out his notebook, opened it, and scribbled out a quick message.
To General George Armstrong Custer,
As a favor to your old roommate. Please take care of my friend. Lieutenant Syms. He is an honorable soldier of the South. After the war he plans to marry my sister Sally. When all this is over, I look forward to a chance to see you again under less difficult circumstances.
Yours truly, Phil Duvall Class of 1861 He handed the note to the servant, then tore off another sheet, jotting down his report.
'Sergeant Lucas, find someone with the best horse. Have him ride to Westminster.'
'Sir?'
'The telegraph station there might still be open. If Custer is driving southwest toward Frederick, they might be bypassing that place. Tell the courier to ride like hell.'
Lucas took the note, walked down the line of mounted troopers, picked one out, handed up the note, and the man was off at a gallop.
There was a rattle of carbine fire at the north edge of town. He caught a glimpse of some Yankee troopers. A few rounds hummed overhead.
'Let's go,' Phil shouted, mounting up and turning to look back one last time at his old friend, who weakly raised a hand in salute.
The small column turned and rode off, heading toward Frederick.
Baltimore, Maryland
August 24 6:30 P.M.
General Lee rode alone through the early evening, long shadows descending on the camps that ringed the west side of the city. The days were getting shorter, a touch of a cooling breeze was a welcome relief after a day of heat. Campfires were flaring to life, men standing about them.
There were snatches of laughter, a banjo and hornpipe playing, a few of the more energetic men dancing to the tune. The air was rich with the scent of fresh roasting meat. Each regiment had been given a bullock or a couple of pigs for dinner, and the meat had been roasting throughout the afternoon.
Several of the regiments were planning evenings of entertainment, amateur skits, song and dance presentations, a minstrel show, and a theater group from Baltimore was appearing before the boys of Scales's Division with a presentation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, starring one of the Booth family, John Wilkes, as Brutus. He wished he could attend but was pressed by other matters.
As he wove his way through the camps, men who saw him approaching lined the road, cheering, taking off caps and holding them high, officers with a flourish drawing swords to salute. A young lady, visiting one of the camps, actually stepped in front of him, blocking his path, and offered up a bouquet of flowers, which, a bit embarrassed, he took and then, once out of her sight, handed to Walter Taylor, who trailed along behind him.
He was taking his ride for several reasons. One, of course, was to be seen by the men. The second was to see them, to evaluate their spirits after the grueling efforts of the previous weeks, and the third was just to have time to think.
He could see that though the men were tired the morale of his army was as good as ever. They had known nothing but victory since Fredericksburg. After but a single day of rest their spirits were returning, though in one sense that was deceiving. He had spent most of the day reviewing with his three corps commanders the muster returns. Dozens of regimental and brigade commanders again needed to be replaced. Promotions by the dozens would have to be written up. Many regiments were now commanded by captains, companies by sergeants. If given time, he would most likely break down Pickett's Division and reassign the remnants to beef up Scales, whose division he was now passing.
Scales had been out of the fight, shadowing Washington, but he had been ordered north to Baltimore. Lee sensed that every rifle would be needed and that division, the remnants of Pender and Pettigrew, having sat out the last fight, would now be his vanguard when the time came to move. Besides, the sham of threatening Washington was past.
It was Grant whom he wanted now. It all rested on that, one sharp action with Grant. Lure him into an action as decisive as Union Mills or Gunpowder River-break him, and in breaking him, break Lincoln as well. Finally, leave the stubborn Illinois lawyer with no choice but to accept that he could not coerce the South.
He stopped under a spread of elms canopying the road, loosening his reins, Traveler moving to the side of the road to nibble at some tall grass growing along the fencerow. A steady stream of traffic moved by in both directions, a company of troops marching by, a couple of supply wagons heading back into the city, a drover leading half a dozen cattle. Lee's staff kept a respectful distance, whispering for those passing to let the general have a few minutes alone, and all obeyed the request, the passing column of infantry silently coming to present arms as they marched by.
He dismounted, going over to lean on the fence, looking out over the encampment that spread out across the open fields outside of Baltimore. More fires — were flaring up, cheers erupting from where Scales was camped. Most likely the acting troupe had arrived, a circle of torches being ignited to illuminate the stage where the story of
