Longstreet and Beauregard were reporting good marching on the roads, but were still a day away, and his artillery reserve, so dependent on the railroad, had not yet left Baltimore.
This was unlike any battle he had ever fought. He had hoped, when first he grasped Grant's maneuver, that he could catch him by surprise here, at the base of the Catoctins, tear apart one, perhaps two, of his corps, and then chase him down and finish him. He had placed too much reliance on the railroads, and now it was telling.
He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and walked over to his staff, who were hurriedly eating while standing about the smoking ruins of the depot, watching the work crews scrambling about the wreckage of the bridge.
'Gentlemen, I think we should go into the fight,' Lee said.
Several looked at him with surprise. It was obvious they had assumed that after the long day he would establish his headquarters here for the night.
'General, let me go forward,' Stuart said. 'My boys are blocking that Yankee brigade on the south side of town. I can manage things.'
'No, I want to see how Robertson is doing,' Lee announced.
Everyone knew better than to argue with him. An orderly brought up Traveler. He mounted and headed into the cauldron, staff following anxiously.
The White House
6:00 P.M.
Lincoln ate alone; his servant Jim Bartlett had delivered a tray with a few slices of fried ham, some potatoes, and coffee to his office. Finishing his meal he stood up to stretch, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor amounting to a signal. Jim politely tapped x›n the door. 'Come on in.'
'Sir, should I clear your tray?' Jim asked. 'Thank you,' Lincoln replied.
Lincoln had gone to the window. Crowds had gathered in Lafayette Park, with troops ringing the White House. Lincoln suddenly turned. 'Jim, a question.' 'Anything, sir.'
'The colored of Washington. I know this might sound like a strange question. But with all the news of the last few days, what do you hear?'
'Well, sir, I've spent most of my time here in the White House, but I do hear talk with the staff.'
'And that is?'
'Frustration, sir.'
'Frustration? Over what?'
Jim stood holding the tray and Lincoln motioned for him to put it down.
'Jim, let's talk frankly. I need to hear what you have to say. This war is your war, too.'
'Precisely why so many are frustrated. They want to be in on it.'
'What about volunteering for the Colored Troops.'
'Sir, both my son and grandson are already with them.'
Lincoln sensed the slightest of defensive notes in Jim's voice, as if the president had implied that those who were frustrated should join the army.
'I meant no insult, Jim, and yes, I am proud of the service of your son and grandson.'
'Sir, so many men here are working folk with large families to support. Day laborers, men who work the rail yards, the canal docks. They can't afford to go off for twelve dollars a month the way some can like my son. But still they feel it's their war.'
Lincoln took this in and nodded.
'Perhaps a way can be found for them to volunteer for short-term service,' Lincoln said offhandedly. Jim suddenly smiled.
'Can I take that as a request, sir?' Jim asked. 'To talk with folks and see if there'd be some interest in that.'
'By all means,' Lincoln said absently, and then, lost in thought, he returned to looking out the window.
Frederick
6:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner ducked down as a spray of shot slammed through the window. It had been fired from across the street. He leaned back up, drew a quick bead on the half dozen Yankees leaning out of the windows on the opposite side of the street, fired, and saw one drop.
He ducked down, motioning for one of his men to hand over a loaded musket. The photographer, long since giving up his quest for a photograph, was on the floor moaning with fear.
The stench in the room was dizzying, the air thick with ether. Bottles of chemicals had been shattered, and to the photographer's horror, several of the glass plates, including the precious one of Lee astride Traveler, watching the fight, had been blown apart, bits of glass sprayed across the room.
'Want a picture now?' Hazner shouted.
The photographer simply shook his head.
Hazner peeked up, caught a glimpse of several Yankees running across the street toward his building, fired, but wasn't sure if he'd hit one.
Below, he heard the door slam open, shouts.
'Come on, boys,' Hazner shouted, standing up and running for the doorway. Of the six he had led in, only three were still standing. They followed him out. He hit the staircase, ducking as the two men below aimed and fired, plaster flying.
Hazner leapt down the stairs, bayonet poised. One man parried the strike, another edging around to swing a clubbed musket at him.
He countered the parry, bayoneting the man before him, ducking under the blow. One of his own men behind him shot the man with the clubbed musket, shattering his skull. The two others fell back, running out the doorway.
Panting, Hazner looked down at the man he had just killed. Damn, just a boy. Rawboned, uniform of dark blue, weather-stained, threadbare, patches on his knees, shoes in tatters.
Damn near look like us, he thought sadly.
He grabbed one of his men.
'Sit at the top of the stairs, shoot anyone who comes through that door.'
The man nodded and Hazner went upstairs, ducking low, crawling to the window.
Frederick
7:00 P.M.
'Sir, I think we must pull back!' McPherson ignored his staff officer. The entire west end of the town was ablaze. In places Union and Confederate wounded were helping each other to get out of buildings. Hundreds of his men were streaming to the rear, limping, cradling broken arms, slowly carrying makeshift litters with wounded comrades curled up on them. A hysterical officer staggered past him, crying about losing his flag.
From the north side of town a steady shower of shot was raining down. Looking up a side street he saw men of his Second Division giving back, running down the street, shouting that the rebs were right behind them.
He had never fought a battle like this. Always it had been in open fields or a tangle of woods and bayous. Here it was impossible to tell anymore who was winning or losing. If he had been sent down here by Grant to be the bait, he had most certainly succeeded in his task. He was being hammered from three directions by two full Confederate divisions and at least a brigade or more of cavalry.
Down the street, several hundred yards away, a fireball went up, brilliant in the early evening sky. Across the street a pillared building was burning, dozens of men coming out of it, carrying wounded, and he shouted for his staff officers to find some additional men to help evacuate the wounded.
For a moment he was tempted to somehow try to arrange a cease-fire, to ask Lee to stop fighting for one hour. The town was burning; thousands of wounded were trapped in buildings, and they needed to be taken
