John Rumby closed his eyes and offered his God a prayer, reopening them just a short moment later.  He folded the letter in thirds, then sealed it with a stamp and pushed it to the end of the table.  "Stop for no one," he'd say to the negro standing nearby.

"Yessir," replied the servant, "as you wish, sir."  The coloured man nodded at his master and turned to exit the tent.

Brigadier General Rumby rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes.  He was nearing thirty-four but he felt like he was closer to sixty.  Maybe the war with the Mexicans threw him forward a few years.  He hoped this war would end soon, but he wasn't optimistic.  At times he considered sending his resignation to Confederate command, but digressed.  He had a duty.  South Carolina started this war, and as a proud resident of that fine state he was obligated to fight for it.  If not the his state, then for the South - and if not the South then for his family.  The Rumby's had lived in South Carolina ever since they ran the Cherokee out of the Upstate, just after the American Revolution.  Cotton grew by their servants ensured a healthy income, but the Rumby's were West Point graduates and proud American soldiers.

Everything John did was to keep the Federals out of South Carolina.  If not for him, he thought, then the Yankees might burn down his town, and worse - his home.  It bothered him to imagine his mother and sisters without a home.

One of the tent flaps swung open and Wadee poked his head in.  "Men are waitin'.  You should come."

Wadee was a Cherokee native living on the western stretch of the Appalachian Mountains.  Although he had a history of raiding plantations, he was an excellent candidate to lead Rumby's Cherokee riflemen - a mounted corp under John's command.  Wadee wasn't his real name, of course, but it's what the men called him for whatever reason.

"Alright, alright," the Brigadier General said, heaving himself up.  "Let's go."

John would follow the Cherokee man to the strategy tent just a short distance away.  Some minor officers sat nearby, nodding at their superior as he passed by.  When they finally arrived at their destination Wadee pulled a seat up for Rumby.

Charles, one of John's highest ranking officers, spoke first - as usual.  "The Yankees set up camp north of here, on the other side of the forest."

Wadee nodded, "reports say they're entrenched behind Cull's Creek."

John nodded and examined the map laid out over the table.  It would be fruitless to move an army through the forest.  It was to thick and to dangerous for any common soldier to march through.  If a battle erupted within it would be a chaotic mess that would only devolve into a massacre on both sides.

A road did run along the southeast edge of the woods, wrapping around towards the Union camp.  Alternatively it cut off eastward, crossing a river and heading for Miller's farm and then Harrisburg.  He ran the possibilities through his head.  The Federals might make for the bridge too, if not to secure the passage to Harrisburg then to check the advance of the rebels.  They could also make for the north train station, which might allow them to reach Harrisburg before the Confederates.

Honestly, he wasn't sure how to proceed at this moment.

"Wadee, take the Mounted Rifles northeast as the vanguard; waste no time and do not wait for us.  Charles, you'll advance in column with the infantry and artillery.  Put those Appalachian sharpshooters on the west flank, hugging the woods.  The rest of the cavalry will remain under my command, split evenly on either flank.  Our immediate task is to secure the bridge.  Get to it."

All of the staff officers nodded in agreement and stood up, pacing off to prepare the troop movements.