And Bret Harte’s parody on “Maryland, My Maryland,” was sung derisively throughout the North; a parody beginning:
In battle thou art strangely meek,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Thy politics are changed each week,
Maryland, my Maryland!
The Army of the Potomac dashed to the defense of the invaded State.
As Lee marched out of Frederick, McClellan marched into the town. The hour for the decisive clash drew near; the clash that should once and for all decide the invasion’s fate.
In Washington—where the fear of the Union capital’s falling into Lee’s hands was monstrously acute—Abraham Lincoln’s rugged face grew paler and more haggard.
To his advisers he announced that he had taken a solemn vow. A vow that, should the invasion be repelled, he would at once issue a proclamation freeing the slaves.
Word of this pledge reached Lee through underground channels. And the Southern leader knew the promise would be kept; moreover, that, on the heels of such a repulse, the Emancipation Proclamation would prove well-nigh a death-blow to all hope of the South’s ultimate success.
The die was cast. The death duel was at hand.
Thus stood the situation on the September day that Dad and Battle Jimmie, on borrowed horses, cantered forth from camp and on to the Frederick road.
Behind them the far-spread Union camps buzzed and hummed and fermented. Excitement was in every breath of air; excitement and the suspense of stark expectancy.