dance to our tune. He will learn that the East is a more dangerous place than his Western campaigns prepared him for.'
Two Miles East of Monocacy Junction
4.25P.M.
Cursing soundly at the engineer of his train General Robertson rode past the hissing engine. It had taken them six hours to come up from Baltimore, rather than the two promised to them back in the rail yard. Two locomotives had broken down, one of them obviously sabotaged with a hole punched into a cylinder and then plugged with tallow and hemp that had finally blown out. It had forced his entire convoy to shift tracks, then shift back again, to get around the stalled engine, leaving two regiments behind. The scene just east of the river was chaos. Dozens of trains were backed up, the ones that had brought up Scales waiting to begin a backward shuttle all the way to Relay Junction before being able to turn around. The pontoon bridges were parked to one side, blocking the westbound track, and straight ahead was the wreck that he had heard almost killed General Lee.
On the way up they had passed Longstreet's Corps, marching on the National Road, fifteen miles out of Baltimore but still a good day and a half away from the spreading battle at Frederick.
He turned and looked back. His men were piling off the boxcars, passenger cars, flatcars, and even coal hoppers pressed into service for this troop movement. The men were forming up into columns of march, beginning to surge forward on either side of the tracks.
'Keep 'em moving!' Robertson shouted. 'Boys, General Lee needs us. Now keep moving!'
Braddock Heights
4:30 P.M.
General McPherson spared a final glance back at the South Mountain range, five miles away. The valley between him and the distant ridge was empty. No troops were coming up.
Where in heavens name was Ninth Corps? They should already be over the crest, flooding in to support him.
But orders were orders and he knew what Grant wanted-to hold Lee in place here' while he cast his net wide. If only the rebs had come on again. Holding this ridge he could have pounded away at them all day. His reserve ammunition trains were coming up the slope, along with a battery of three-inch rifles, the only battery Grant had allotted to him. But he understood his orders, the mission Grant wanted, and that he was now a pawn, or perhaps a knight, ventured out into the middle of the board.
Downslope, a mile away, skirmish fire was erupting, reb infantry and cavalry falling back into the town. He looked around at his staff.
'A moment of prayer, gentlemen,' he said softly, and removed his hat.
Lowering his head he silently commended his soul to God, asking for a blessing upon his men who this day might fall. All were silent.
'Let's go,' he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if they were out for an afternoon's ride down into a friendly village to visit old friends.
He raised his field glasses one last time, looking to the far horizon. It should be possible on a clear day to see the church spires of Baltimore. So close to Emily, and yet so far. Battle smoke obscured the view. He lowered his glasses and cased them.
General McPherson and his staff set off down the road to Frederick.
Frederick
4:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner raced up the steps to the top floor of the building and flung a door open. He stopped for a few seconds in amazement. It was a photographer's studio, the owner, a dyspeptic-looking frail gentleman gazing at him with surprise, the air thick with the odor of ether and other chemicals.
'Sir, might I suggest you go to the basement,' Hazner said, stepping back from the doorway and then directing the half dozen men with him to take positions by the windows.
One of the men started to smash the window panes with the butt of his rifle and the photographer shouted a protest.
'Please just open them,' Hazner said. 'Let's not get carried away.'
He had to laugh inside at this little point of etiquette. If what was about to happen, did happen, this place would be a shambles in fairly short order.
The men did as ordered and Hazner walked over to the table the photographer had set up in one side of the room. A number of wet collodion plates were lying on black felt, others were hanging up, drying. Hazner studied them for a few seconds. Some were just blurs, but a few were really quite remarkable, a blurred column of men moving up the road just below, but there, in a different picture, remaining stock-still at the main intersection of the town, was General Lee on Traveler, General Scales by his side. Another photograph showed the Catoctin Heights wreathed in smoke, blurred columns moving up the National Road, and in the foreground General Lee with field glasses raised, looking up at the battle.
'So you've been busy today?' Hazner asked.
'Quite so! A dozen images, many of the battle itself. Quite extraordinary. I hope to get more,' and he pointed to the camera on the far side of the room.
'Could I convince you gentlemen to pose for me right now?'
Several of Hazner's men looked at him, grinning. He was almost tempted, but then shook his head.
'Sir, I don't think you realize how dangerous it will be here in a few minutes. Please go to your basement.'
'You can't force me,' the photographer said loudly. 'Good heavens, man, no one has ever photographed a battle before, and I plan to do so today.'
Hazner shook his head.
'Just be careful, sir,' he said, nodded to his men, and then ran down the stairs and out into the main street.
The last of the Confederate infantry were disappearing into buildings, men running. A block to the west a two-gun section was set up, both pieces firing at the same instant, recoiling, filing the street with roiling clouds of smoke. The guns were hooked to their caissons by trail ropes, the guns being dragged down the street even as their crews worked to reload. They stopped at the main intersection.
'Fire!'
Both guns kicked back, several windowpanes shattering from the blast, the solid shot of the twin Napoleons screaming down the street.
Still hooked to the caissons by twenty feet of rope, the team started to move again.
'Better get off the street there, Sergeant,' the section commander shouted. 'They're coming on fast!'
Hazner looked up the road, and sure enough, he could see them a half dozen blocks 'away, Yankee infantry, running hard, dodging into buildings, rifle fire already erupting from upper-floor windows. A minie ball hummed past him, and then another; a gunner collapsed, holding his arm and cursing, his comrades quickly picking him up and helping him to get up on the caisson.
The crew moved another block. Hazner pressed himself inside the doorway as they fired again, the scream of the shot tearing down the street and slapping him with a shock wave. He peeked out and saw it slash through a file of troops on the street, knockifig them over. More shots came down the street. From the window overhead his men were opening up, leaning out, shooting, ducking back in. It was time to get inside.
He dashed back into the building and up the stairs. The photographer was in the corner of the room, head under a black hood behind the camera, asking if the men would stand still for a moment, but they ignored him. Two of the best shooters were at the windows, the others passing up loaded rifles. Glass was shattering, the room filling with smoke.
Strange, all their other fights had been out in the open. Usually towns were bypassed in a fight. Why Scales
