'Did anyone send you?'
'No, sir, came on my own.'
Grant looked at him. The boy was obviously frightened and had experienced a hard ride, his mount blown.
Grant said nothing and turned away, Ely following him.
'Boy's in a panic,' Grant said. 'Could just be a raid?' Ely offered. 'Or more,' Grant replied.
He had long ago memorized the maps and knew every detail.
'About six miles down to there. One of several things. It just might be a raid, perhaps to secure the road south, make us nervous. Second, it might really be Jeb, though I won't take that boy's word for it. Third…'
He paused and looked back to the east, where all was still.
'Lee is flanking us.'
He whispered the last words, but with so many at headquarters, several overheard, and within seconds the entire headquarters area was buzzing.
Angrily, Grant turned.
'Silence!'
All the men turned toward him, some coming to rigid attention.
He gazed at his staff, ice glittering from his eyes.
'No panic, no running about like chickens with your heads cut off. We know Lee is a good foe, better than Pemberton or old Joe Johnston. If he's flanked us, he's flanked us. But that also means he is where I want him, out in the open. Now go about your business. And not a word to anyone outside of this headquarters. If but one of you starts spreading a panic, by heavens I'll have you court-martialed.'
He was a bit embarrassed by the outburst but knew it had to be done. In spite of their confidence, the boasting of so many of his men about what would happen, how they would show Easterners how men from the West could tame Lee, he knew that down deep for many that was a lot of bluster. Lee was indeed a legend. Lee was famous for the surprise flank march, and now he was testing Grant with one.
Inwardly, he cursed himself for a moment. He should have detached a brigade to the ford, but he wanted every man available into this fight.
Too late now to change that. I have to find out more.
Directly to his front a scattering of distant rifle fire began to open up, — and within minutes started to build. This time it was Lee who had opened the day's match. Up and down the length of the creek his men began to blaze away. His own boys, many of whom but minutes before were out behind their trenches, cooking breakfast or relieving themselves, dashed back into the trenches and began to return fire, the volume building.
Henry Hunt began to open up, this time engaging in a measured and very long distance duel with Confederate guns in the center of their position.
Was this a mask in itself? Grant wondered. Of course Lee would open up, threaten perhaps a local attack to keep me focused as long as possible on this place.
'Ely, get a couple of men, our best mounts. Men with good eyes and brains who won't get carried away or exaggerate. Send them down toward Buckeystown to scout things out, then have them report back here.'
Ely nodded.
'Sir, any other orders.'
Grant looked back to the east.
I will not dance to his tune, he thought. Not based on the report of one frightened lieutenant. Besides, if he is flanking me, it'll be several hours before he really hits.
'No,' Grant said. 'Everyone is to stay in place until I say different.'
He turned and walked over to the fire where the enlisted cook looked up and grinned, offering up a plate of fried salt pork, mixed in with crumbs of smashed-up hardtack.
Stoically, Grant tried to eat the meal, if only to set an example, but knew that within minutes he would be down by the latrine, bringing it up again, his head still throbbing.
Buckeystown 6:00 A.M.
Come on boys, move it, keep it moving!' General Beauregard was at the crossroads leading up from the ford that intersected the road that headed up to Frederick.
Regiment after regiment marched by at the quick step. Some were beginning to flag after the sharp two-mile climb up from the river bottom. They'd been up all night but there was definitely a fire in their eyes, more than one shouting good-natured gibes to their general as they flowed past.
These were tough men and he was proud of them. Men who had defended Charleston for over a year in boiling heat, clouds of mosquitoes day and night, many ridden with ague and living on bad rations.
Up here in the North they had lived off the fat of a rich land, had seen victory against the vaunted Army of the Potomac at Union Mills, having delivered the crucial flanking blow, and it looked like they were about to do it again.
Staff officers at the intersection were directing each regiment as it approached. First Division was to file off to the left of the road and form line of battle. Second Division, which was a half mile down the ford road but coming on fast, would break out and form to the right. Behind them was the battalion of artillery, twenty-two guns, and they would form up in the center, still mounted and ready to move forward.
Beauregard pulled out his watch. Six in the morning. At this rate, on this road, it'd be at least three more hours before every last man was up. Too long.
Anxiously, he looked to the north. Jeb's mounted skirmishers were already forward by a half mile, occasional pops indicating that the Yankees were out there and by now had to know what was up.
'Keep moving, boys! Keep moving! In one hour we go in!'
Buckeystown Ford
6:20 A.M.
Sgt. Lee Robinson waded across the stream, marching with his Texans at the head of Robertson's Division, the general just ahead of him on horseback.
The going had been frustratingly slow throughout the night. Move a few hundred yards, halt for ten minutes, double-time for a minute, back to marching pace, then halt again.
It was typical of a night march and had left him and his men exhausted. The road they had been on was open, and some of the regiments had actually departed the road and simply moved across the fields, paralleling it until stopped to wait until first light.
First, though, Beauregard's two divisions had to cross, followed by the battalion of artillery, which clogged the road ahead.
On the far side of the creek he could see the narrow lane that all of them were trying to funnel into. Artillery clogging the road.
Robertson looked at them in frustration. 'It'll take hours,' he hissed. He turned to his staff.
'Go straight up this slope. To hell with the road,' Robertson exclaimed. 'Find farm lanes, anything. If need be, just cut across open fields. I want my boys into this fight!'
Minutes later Lee Robinson was given the word.
'First Texans! Right up the hill, now move it!'
They'd done this before. It meant hard marching and climbing, but if it got them in quicker, then that was part of war.
Without complaint, he led his men forward, through the yard of the mill, and then straight up a narrow farm lane and into the woods above.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:50 A.M.
Lee paced back and forth, unable to contain his nervousness. Pete sat silent by the morning campfire, sipping a cup of coffee. Down below the entire valley was again cloaked in the fog of battle. The day was very still, the air heavy, damp, which held the smoke in place, so that it was impossible to see more than three or four hundred yards. Lee went over to the campfire and sat down. 'It should be starting by now,' Longstreet offered, breaking the silence.
'Yes, it should be,' Lee replied, trying not to sound cross. If Jackson was in charge, as he was at
