On a porch near Saratoga Springs, he gathers his forces from a rattan chair. The Great Captain, bundled in blankets against the summer air. Death is close, tasting like a damp cigar. “Grant’s Last Campaign,” the newspapers call it. He scratches away. Shiloh, The Wilderness, Cold Harbor. Has he said enough? Too much?

Blue lines sway along a sandy Virginia road. They serenade him with “John Brown’s Body.” Ahead, fast columns block the retreating army. More blood. More bodies to molder in the grave. Word comes from Lee. He will meet.

It’s all there, complete.

Victory is the only justification.