Gettysburg

Chapter Two

JUNE 29,1863,11:00 PM

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OP THE POTOMAC NEAR FREDERICK, MARYLAND

Brig. Gen. Henry Hunt, Chief of Artillery, Army of the Potomac, wearily dismounted, barely acknowledging the salute of the headquarters orderly who took the reins of his horse.. Average in height at five and a half feet, showing the first signs of middle-age stoutness, with a full brown beard streaked with wisps of gray, Henry looked typical of the officers of the much battered Army of the Potomac. The hard week of forced marches from Virginia up to the border of Pennsylvania through debilitating heat, relieved only by the occasional thunderstorm, had left all of them dirty, exhausted, stinking of sweat-soaked wool, horse, and bad rations. Once dapper uniforms were now a universal dingy, mud-streaked blue. There seemed to be an infinite weariness to Henry, a hard-edged cynicism, like that of a barroom pugilist who has seen better days and now fights without hope of glory.

Henry walked stiffly; the long hours in the saddle, the grueling heat of the thirty-mile ride, even after the sun had set, had been exhausting. The roads he had traveled had been choked with begrimed, weary men, supply wagons, thousands of exhausted stragglers, and long columns of his artillery, cloaked in swirling clouds of powdery dust that clogged the nostrils and left one's eyes feeling as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper. All of them, near on to a hundred thousand men of the Army of the Potomac, tangled into a sweltering, cursing, tidal mass, were flowing northward and looking for a fight.

A subtle, electric-like sense now permeated the army, knowing that somewhere up ahead a battle was brewing, building like a summer storm concealed on the far side of the mountains but already felt and tasted in the air. It created a strange mix of feelings. The long-ago dreams of glory were dead. The men on the roads were the pragmatic survivors of a new type of warfare fed by factories and railroads. They knew there was precious little glory to be found when charging an entrenched foe. And yet, in spite of their knowledge of the horror that awaited them, there was a grim determination, a desire to be at it and to finish the job. Somewhere up ahead, perhaps just around the next bend, there might be an end to it all, the decisive fight that would decide the issue.

And so the long, swaying columns had flowed along roads stretching from Frederick clear down to the suburbs of Washington, the old Army of the Potomac, which he loved with all his soul and in spite of all its defeats, still they marched. No longer were they boys filled with a dream of some desperate glory… they were veterans heading to a fight

Tomorrow perhaps, the day after, there would be another battle, and more than one of them was walking to.his death. As Henry rode among them throughout the long, hot, dusty day, he was filled with a morbid curiosity, looking into faces, wondering how many of them, before the week was out, would never laugh again, would never again write home asking a sweetheart to wait promising to return, asking a mother to send a favorite treat and a new pair of socks, or manfully telling a father not to worry.

He had reined in and dismounted atop a low rise just before sunset awed by the panorama laid out before him. Far back to the southern horizon a long column, like a slow-moving serpent or giant prehistoric creature, was crawling toward him. It was a creature of fifty thousand legs, tens of thousands of wheels, flashes of evening light reflecting off steel, iron, and bronze gun barrels, crawling toward him, sweeping past, flowing down into the valley ahead, and the sight of it filled him with wonder.

This is the beating heart of the Republic, Henry thought, men rising up from a thousand hamlets, towns, farms, and cities, all coming to this place, moving now like some great horde from out of ancient history. Shadowy in the dust, he had watched them pass, tin cups and empty canteens clanging on hips, an occasional drum or fife playing in a vain effort to keep up the pace, then falling silent.

Conversations, as if rising from the throats of ghosts, drifted around him, someone talking about a new daughter, proudly showing an ambrotype, a snatch of laughter at the punch line to an obscene joke; a stanza of a song floated in the air counterpointed by a sergeant cursing.

A captain stepped out of the column, helping an exhausted boy to the side of the road, where he collapsed in a clatter of equipment and began to cry as his comrades continued on. The captain gave the boy his canteen before turning to rejoin the never-stopping column. The captain caught Henry's eye for a second. Nothing was said between them, just a sort of embarrassed acknowledgment of this small act of mercy for a boy who was played out and no longer of use to an army that needed men who could continue to march toward death. The boy lay back, features deathly pale, and passed out, canteen clutched in his hands.

Where he had stopped, a dead Confederate trooper and a couple of dead horses lay. A pile of dirt marked where several Union troopers, killed in a skirmish, had been hastily buried by their comrades. Few in the passing column even noticed. Long ago this army had gotten used to fresh graves, dead men, and horses lying by the side of roads, acting as signposts for what was to come.

He casually looked over at the Reb. The heat was beginning to take effect so that his threadbare uniform, which the boy had undoubtedly once been so proud of, was now tight-fitting, bulging, a stir of wind bringing to him the sickly sweet smell as the boy began to return to the earth.

Henry backed away even as a couple of men in the column pointed out the corpse and urged a young lieutenant, obviously new to his job, to go over and take a look. The lieutenant grinned weakly and ignored the jibes, a sergeant threatening the two with a burial detail for the Reb if they said another word.

Having relieved himself by the side of the road, making sure to stand a respectful distance away from the corpse and the exhausted boy, Henry remounted and fell in with the river of men.

The long, flowing column dropped down from the crest of the hill, continuing northward, the land ahead cloaked in twilight All were disappearing into the darkness, fading from view.

There will come a day, Henry thought when we shall be no more. Whether we die tomorrow, or die abed fifty years hence, this moment will forever haunt us. We'll remember the sounds, the smells, the feel of this summer evening, and turn back to it in our memories as eagerly as we remember a first love. But even then the memory will fade, and finally it will be lost to the world forever. Perhaps 100, 150 years from now, as an army of ghosts, we might return to this place, to this road in Maryland, marching toward Pennsylvania and a dark rendezvous with death.

Henry looked again at the men around him and wondered how many of them saw it as well and thrilled to the wonder of it and how many of them would still be alive a week from now. Will I even be alive this time tomorrow? he wondered

Strange, there was no fear. He smiled at the thought and took a secret pride in it When he had charged the Mexican line at Chapultepec-a mad, insane dash with a single six-pound gun, galloping to within a hundred yards of their line, unlimbering and opening fire-everyone said he had been fearless. Little did they know the terror of that moment or again at First Bull Run when he'd deployed a battery at the bridge, keeping the line of retreat open for the last stragglers. Those had been terrifying moments; it was simply a question of not showing it

Something whispered to Henry that death was close, very close, a shadow waiting just on the other side of the next hill. And yet, to have this moment was worth everything. He knew he did not have the words to articulate it, — to express either to himself or to the rest the feelings of this instant; others could do that far more eloquently. But mere was a deep sense of acceptance; and falling in alongside a regiment from Maine, he pushed on.

The regiment's exhausted colonel, slumped in his saddle, nodded a greeting. They rode together in silence into the twilight until the regiment was ordered to break for the night Henry rode on alone to the outskirts of Frederick and a meeting with his new commander, George Meade.

He caught the eye of a staff officer and asked directions. A tent pitched at the edge of a peach orchard was pointed out Henry made his way through the mass of hangers-on, orderlies, staff officers, reporters, all the annoyances that always trailed a headquarters, and was surprised when, after showing the written summons from Meade, he was immediately led into the presence of the new commander.

He had never been close to George Meade, who until less than a day ago had commanded Fifth Corps, but then no one was close to Meade. It struck Henry as a hell of a way to run an army. Here they were heading into a fight and Washington decides to switch commanders yet again. Joe Hooker was out as commander of the Army of the Potomac; George Meade was in.

For a lot of reasons Henry was glad to see Hooker leave, especially because of the fiasco last month at Chancellorsville. But he should have been fired the day after that battle ended, not with the army on the march, a fight brewing just ahead. He could only hope that Meade would seize control quickly and firmly.

Outside of his previous command with Fifth Corps, Meade was not well-known by the rest of the. Army of the Potomac. And in an army that was fond of nicknames, the best Meade could rate was "Old Snapping Turtle" or "Goggle Eyes."

Meade looked up from his field desk, and Henry thought that at this moment he did indeed look like a snapping turtle, balding head a bit too big for his long, skinny neck, eyes bulging, scraggly beard not trimmed in weeks, a decidedly unattractive man who at first glance did not do much to inspire confidence the way George McClellan, first commander of the Army of the Potomac, could. But then again, what had McClellan accomplished with all his good looks, bravado, and gold lace except one defeat after another?

Maybe, just maybe, Meade would be the kind of snapping turtle who would bite onto Lee and hang on. If only we had done that at Chancellorsville when it was realized that Lee had split his army into two separate wings. Rather than stay on the defensive and let Lee control things, it could have ended right there, rather than turn into yet another debacle of confusion and defeat

Meade shifted the cigar in his mouth, and with a grunt motioned for Henry to sit in a camp chair, while at the same time sliding over a bottle of bourbon and two glasses with his left hand. As Henry poured the drinks, Meade finished scanning the report in his other hand and then wearily tossed it on the table and with the stub of a pencil wrote a comment on the back.

"The good citizens of Frederick filed a complaint that some of our boys got drunk, broke some windows, and stole a case of whiskey from a tavern," and he motioned to the paper. "I'm to initiate an investigation by order of the War Department"

Henry said nothing.

"Damn War Department all it knows how to do is needle' and harass, and in the middle of all of this I'm supposed to take the time to track down a couple of drunk cavalrymen. Then, in the next breath, they're screaming for me to tackle Lee and finish him. Hell, I'm not even sure where he is."

"Newspapers I saw this morning say he's outside of Harrisburg," Henry offered.

"To hell with the damn newspapers. I got a lost cavalry lieutenant who wandered in a couple of hours ago claiming that Early, with a corps of Confederate infantry, is in York; and a drunk preacher came in here saying that Harrisburg was burned to the ground last night, Lee's across the Susquehanna, and he seen it"

Meade waved his glass of bourbon vaguely toward the north. "All I know is the Rebs are in Pennsylvania, and we are scattered out across a front of damn near fifty miles trying to find them. By God, if Lee should close on us tomorrow we'll get a hell of a drubbing the way we're spread out Hunt I've been in command of this army less than a day, and it's taking time to grab hold of the reins."

Meade nodded toward the half-open tent flap and the crowd standing back at a respectful distance. "Nearly all of them are Joe Hooker's old staff."

Henry grunted and shook his head.

"I'm keeping them on for now. There'll be time enough later to switch things around."

"Where are you planning to concentrate?" Henry asked, trying to read the map that was spread out on Meade's desk.

Meade pointed to a penciled-in line he had traced just south of the Maryland-Pennsylvania border.

"I'm ordering the army to concentrate just east and norm of here, on a line from Westminster to Taneytown.

"John Reynolds is on the left here at Frederick with his First Corps, supported by Howard and the Eleventh Corps. Tomorrow they'll push up toward Emmitsburg, while I move headquarters to Taneytown," and as he spoke Meade traced out the movement on the map with a dirty forefinger.

"Reynolds is a good man," Henry interjected. "He'll find them if they're there."

Henry didn't feel it was in any way proper to add that everyone knew that when Joe Hooker had been relieved of command of the army just yesterday morning, word was that Lincoln had wanted Reynolds to take command. Reynolds had refused, and Meade was the second choice.

Meade looked at Henry with a cool gaze, but Henry said nothing more.

"Reynolds has John Buford with a division of cavalry in front of him that has orders to cross into Pennsylvania and take a look up toward Gettysburg."

"Gettysburg, lot of roads junction there," Henry interjected. "It might be worth taking and holding."

"I have a report that some Rebs, Jubal Early's division, passed through there two days ago but then continued on toward Harrisburg."-

"And where's our cavalry?"

Meade snorted. "Useless as ever. No solid reports. They're trailing after Stuart, but they've had no hard contact with Lee's main body."

Henry pointed to the mountain range that arced up through southern Pennsylvania, turning in a great curve from north to east, the Cumberland Valley beyond. Meade nodded.

"I suspect Lee is indeed on the other side of the South Mountain Range, over here at Chambersburg, moving up toward Harrisburg. Buford moving into Gettysburg just might trigger something, cause Lee to feel his rear is threatened and turn back around toward us.

"Lee must have heard by now that we are coming up. He can't leave his rear open," Meade continued. "We'll brush up against his flank. Perhaps I can lure him back down this way to where I want him."

Meade continued to trace out movements on the map, Henry craning his neck to look as Meade pointed out his proposed position along the south bank of Pipe Creek.

"I think it might be good ground," Meade announced. "The south bank of the stream is high, open fields of fire, perfect for artillery."

"It looks like damn good ground," Henry offered. "The question is, will Lee bite once he's got a look at it? Usually we wind up fighting on in places he picks."

"Can you suggest anything better?" Meade asked testily.

"No, sir."

Henry nodded. The position Meade had chosen was good. It covered Washington, which would keep the politicians happy, while at the same time forcing Lee to turn away from Harrisburg. But the question lingered: Would Lee accept battle on land chosen by Meade? In every action fought against the Army of Northern Virginia it had always been the Rebs who ultimately selected when or where a battle would be joined.

"We don't know each other very well, Hunt," Meade finally announced after a long, awkward silence, "but I know your work. Last year, at Malvern Hill, you were masterful in the way you placed your guns."

Henry nodded his thanks.

Malvern Hill. The mere mention of those two words triggered the memory of that July 1st, a year ago this week, he realized.

Six days of bitter fighting, retreating from the gates of Richmond, crawling and stumbling through the tangle of woods and marshes, McClellan fumbling the battle every step of the way. But at last McClellan had turned and given Henry the ground of an artilleryman's dreams… open fields, a broad crest of a hill, clear fields of interlocking fire. And he had seized the moment, arraying over a hundred guns, bronze twelve-pound smoothbores, three-inch rifles, even a couple of batteries of heavy twenty-pound rifles for counterbattery work.

Lee had walked straight into it

That battle had revealed what Henry knew was perhaps the one weakness of Lee, an aggressiveness that bordered on pure recklessness if his blood was up and he smelled victory.

For a commander who normally planned his actions, Lee had allowed the battle to unfold haphazardly, throwing troops in piecemeal rather than slamming them forward all at once. But even if he had sent a full corps up that hill, rather than a brigade at a time, the result would have been the same, and just as ghastly.

Throughout that long afternoon Henry had worked his guns with finesse, sweeping the open fields, solid shot tearing through the columns as they deployed, canisters tumbling over lines of men who fell like broken toys.

The screams still haunted him; five thousand Confederate infantry, damn fine troops, had gone down in mangled, bloodied heaps. He had been awed by the Rebs' audacity, their relentless will, and the sheer madness of their charge. Though he was a professional, the sight of what his guns could do to packed lines of infantry had stunned him. It was, Henry knew, the finest and most terrifying example of the power of artillery yet seen in this war.

"It's how I want to see artillery used in the next fight," Meade continued, interrupting Henry's memories.

Henry leaned forward slightly. He was called Chief of Artillery for the Army of the Potomac, but that was a title he had held in name only for the last six months. Hooker had always suspected that Henry was a "McClellan man"; and in an army torn by political factionalism, such a suspicion, justified or not, had been a kiss of death when Hooker took over. Though he'd managed to hang onto his title, Hooker had relegated him to a desk-and paperwork.

Damned madness. At Chancellorsville, if he had been given a hundred guns to array around the Fairview clearing, he'd have cut the guts out of Stonewall Jackson's charge. But Hooker hadn't listened. He'd panicked and lost the battle.

It's this damn political infighting that is as much the enemy as the Rebs, Henry thought If only we could get as united as the Army of Northern Virginia was, united with a belief in a single, capable leader, with a single purpose, we could win this war in a month.

"You and Joe Hooker," Meade said, gaze still fixed on his empty glass, "I know what happened between the two of you when Hooker took command of this army back in January."

He stared up at Henry for emphasis. There was no need, Henry thought, for Meade to play this point too hard. There was a lot of grumbling from some about Meade's ascension, especially at this moment. But for Henry the removal of Hooker could only mean the chance to get back his real job as artillery commander in the field, and it was obvious Meade was offering just that

"I'm putting you back in charge of the Artillery Reserve, active field command."

Good enough. Henry nodded his thanks. But if there was any chance for what he truly wanted it was now, and he had to go for it

"Sir, am I to be retained as commander of all artillery," he asked cautiously, "or just the reserve artillery attached directly to army headquarters?"

Meade said nothing for a moment

"What are you pushing for, Hunt?" Meade finally asked.

"Sir, half of our artillery is assigned to the direct command of headquarters as the Artillery Reserve, which means me. But what about the other half, nearly a hundred and fifty guns divided up into small units and assigned to various corps commanders? Do I have control of those batteries as well."

"Don't push it Hunt I was a corps commander until yesterday morning. I didn't take kindly to units being taken from me. Corps commanders like to have a couple of batteries under their direct control."

"In a crisis you need a unified command for artillery" Henry replied. "Allow me to put two hundred, three hundred guns into a unified command, and I'll sweep the field clean. It's concentrated artillery that will decide the next fight sir. The land up here is open, Better fields of fire than in central Virginia."

Henry looked into Meade's eyes, saw the coldness, and fell silent He knew his enthusiasm, his near fanatical belief, had again run into the politics of command.

Meade replied, his voice cold and threatening, "Yesterday you were nothing but a glorified inspector. Hooker wouldn't have given you a pinch of owl shit to command. I've given you back half the artillery of this army. Be satisfied with that"

"Then why the hell have an artillery commander if half his strength is frittered away?" Henry replied, and he instantly regretted his brashness. But it was exactly what was wrong with this damned army; everything was always a compromise, done in half measures, and the men they commanded suffered as a result

Meade bristled and leaned forward menacingly. "Do you want the job or hot, General? You want it, you take it on my terms. If not, I've got fifty men outside this tent who will jump at the chance."

Henry nodded, saying nothing.

"Do we understand each other, General? Corps artillery stays where it is. You may advise in regard to those units, but corps commanders still control their own guns. Take it or leave it"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"That's settled then. There's something else, though, that I want to ask you."

Frustrated that his hopes had been dashed, Henry lowered his gaze for a moment while pouring another drink for himself. He tried to reason that he was a damn sight better off than he had been twenty-four hours ago; but if ever there had been a chance to create a true unified command it was now, and the chance had slipped away.

'It's the real reason I asked you to come here."

"Sir?" Henry looked back at Meade, wondering what else he wanted.

"You served under Lee before the war in Mexico, didn't you?'

Surprised, Henry nodded. "Yes, we were stationed together at Fort Hamilton in New York City."

"I never knew him that well. I understand the two of you were close."

Henry hesitated for a second. "Professionally, yes."

'Tell me about him."

"Sir?"

"Just that, Hunt. Tell me about him."

Henry looked down at his glass. Lee, in his fatherly way, had chided him on his drinking more than once.

What can I tell him? Henry wondered. If ever an army held an opposing general in awe, it was the Army of the Potomac and Robert E. Lee. He was an endless source of speculation, comment, damning, and grudging praise.

Lee was a hard man to get close to. He had many acquaintances but few true friends. Was I that, Henry wondered, just another acquaintance?

No, it was different, a sense in a way of being a younger brother to an elder, or a favored student to a mentor. They shared a love of the precision of engineering, the bringing of order out of chaos, and a love for gunnery, its history and practice.

Curious, for both of them saw it as an abstraction, an intellectual exercise of trajectories, rates of fire, and the beautiful ritual of drill. Neither of them wanted to think about the end result when it was done for real, the shredded human flesh blasted and burned, the way both of them would see it done a few years later at Chapultepec.

They had spent many an afternoon together on the parade ground, training new recruits. And afterward, when drill was done, the two of them leaning on a gun, admiring the beauty of the harbor and bustling traffic of hundreds of ships, talking about the army, engineering, history, but never quite about themselves. That was something Lee always kept reserved.

"I'm waiting, General," Meade interjected, breaking into Henry's thoughts.

"I doubt if there is anything more I can add to what has already been said," Henry finally replied, a bit selfconsciously.

"A lot of men in this army served with him," Meade replied coolly, "but all of them say the same thing, 'He never talked about himself.'"

"Well, they're right"

"Damn it man, within the week, maybe as early as tomorrow, I'll have to face him on the battlefield. I want something, anything. He sure as hell knows how to read us. I want the same."

Henry was startled. He could see it in Meade's eyes, hear it in his voice, a terrible loneliness, a certain desperation that made Henry uncomfortable. In a way he couldn't blame him. Everyone talked about how a general who brought victory against Lee would save the Republic. Few added the observation that losing a battle might mean the end of the Union. He would not want to be in Meade's shoes right now.

Henry nodded and took another sip of his bourbon.

"He has a gentle soul," Henry finally offered.

"What?" and mere was an incredulous look on Meade's face.

Henry leaned back in his chair, looking out the half-opened tent flap, feeling the cool breeze that stirred, causing the canvas to softly crack and flutter. The hint of cool air after the heat of the day was refreshing.

Strange, it reminded him of the night before Chapultepec, the staff meeting with old Winfield Scott, the cool breeze that finally stirred to kill the heat of day. Maj. Robert Lee sitting in the corner throughout the meeting, taking notes. At the end of the meeting, it had been Lee who'd suggested that they all pray. Lee had led them and not once had he called for victory; in fact, he had asked for God's mercy to be shown on their foe and that the Will of the Lord be fulfilled.

"A gentle soul," Henry continued. "He is devout; we all know that. Yet beyond that there is a profound gentleness. I saw him chew out a teamster for lashing a mule, telling him that cursing would motivate neither man nor beast. From anyone else mere would have been derision once he'd walked away; but that teamster lowered his head, ashamed, and once Lee left the teamster patted the mule and led him by the bridle.

"I know that when he was superintendent of West Point" Henry added, "he chided many an upperclassman for hazing a plebe. In fact personally he hated the tradition of hazing and tried to stop it"

"I heard about that" Meade replied. "Hell, we all survived it. Hazing at the Point toughens a boy into becoming a man."

"He didn't see it that way," Henry replied, and even as he spoke he felt a touch of shame, remembering his own tears at the end of his first day at the Point and how only a year later he, too, had harassed new cadets without mercy.

"I'll never forget him coming out to the practice field one day and pulling a young soldier from my gun crew, taking him aside. A letter had just come in with news for the boy that his mother was dead. Lee decided to tell him personally. The boy broke down and Lee held him the way a father would hold a child. I saw the two of them kneeling side by side, Lee's arm around the boy's shoulders."

Even as he described it, Henry fought to control the tightness in his throat

"He knew every soldier in our command by name. The boys loved it. I can't say that they were close to him the way some commanders allow those under them to be close. Rather, it was a reverent awe. A few saw him as an old granny, especially when he took to praying, but even those would not deny his courage and honesty.

"I think," Henry continued, "that must be paining him now. That boy who lost his mother was killed at Fredericksburg leading his regiment Lee would remember and pray for him. He remembers all those who've served under him."

"Damn well he should," Meade growled. "He put enough of them in their graves."

"I know he prays for me," Henry added slowly. "In fact sir, he'll even pray for you."

Meade looked at him with his cold stare. "If he's so holy, then why the hell didn't he become a preacher?"

"There's the other side," Henry replied, trying not to let a touch of hostility slip into his voice. "He's a fighter. Something comes over him in battle, a sense that it is God's Will, and he must be the instrument of that Will. That is why he is dangerous."

"Why?"

"Because he believes he is right, There are no self-doubts once action is joined. He gives himself over and then unflinchingly flings everything he has into the fight. Only when it is done does he come out of the fog of battle, cover his face, and mourn those whom he has slain.

"When he comes at you in this next fight he will not hesitate. He wants this war to end, and the only way he sees how is to break our will to resist Sir, remember, he will seek the battle of decision the same way Napoleon would. Napoleon was someone he admired." "Lee admires the Corsican!’

"Not for his politics, but yes, for his method of battle. Napoleon was a master at breaking the will to resist, the climax of the grand charge that sends the enemy fleeing the way he did at Marengo and Austerlitz. Lee cannot afford another half victory like the last several fights. It goes against his nature, and it tears at his soul."

"What do you mean, 'tears at his soul'?'

"He wants to believe there is purpose in this world, 'a logic and reason, God's higher plan, if you will. War, in contrast, represents chaos to him. If he justifies his own actions, it is that he seeks to end the chaos on God's terms, which means a swift victory, brutal in the Old Testament sense if necessary, but a finish."

Meade snorted derisively and poured another drink.

"Fight and the devil take the hindmost" Meade growled. "If you want a purpose, there it is. I never had any use for worrying beyond that. When you are dead, that's it"

"You asked for my opinion on the old man," Henry replied coolly. "Every battle where men are killed-both his and ours-with no conclusive result gnaws at him. It represents chaos to him. He'll want to close it off. The irony is that in so doing he'll create a bloodbath. I expect that when we finally collide, he'll come at us like a wolf at the scent of his prey."

If we can choose our ground and dig in, then let him come at us."

"Make sure that it's him coming at us and not the other way around," Henry offered.

Meade looked up at him coldly, the glance a signal that Henry was offering advice where it wasn't wanted, but he pushed ahead anyhow.

"He'll come straight at us, but if he can see a chance to flank, he'll do it He lost Jackson, who was the master of that game. There's a hole now in his command, which I doubt either Dick Ewell or Ambrose Hill can fill. This change in his high command might put him off balance. As a result there's a chance Lee might take the reins himself rather than let his subordinates run things once battle is joined. I heard from a prisoner that he fought the ending of Chancellorsville that way, right down to taking charge of individual brigades. He might do that again next time, and if so, be careful, sir. He'll come in hard then. If blunted, look for a flank. Keep a sharp eye on the flank, sir."

"I appreciate the advice," Meade said coldly, "but it's Lee I want to know about, not your analysis of how I should fight"

"That's about it" Henry replied quietly. "You liked him, didn't you?"

Henry nodded reluctantly. "I trusted him. At times he seemed a little too perfect In peacetime that could put some men off; but in war, a man like that who can inspire perfect trust…" and his voice trailed off.

He realized he had just insulted Meade and, fumbling, he poured another drink for himself, nearly finishing the bottle.

"We probe farther north tomorrow. I want the Artillery Reserve up in support position by Wednesday the first" Meade leaned back over the table and pointed at the map. "As soon as you arrange that then I want you to go survey the land along the creek up by Westminster. I want you to accompany General Warren. He's my chief topographical engineer, but I want an artilleryman's eyes looking at it as well. See if this could be your next Malvern Hill. We want good ground."

His tone indicated dismissal and, standing, Henry saluted and left the tent

The camp was quiet It was past midnight; a mist was rising, cool, pleasant after the heat of the long day. Campfires had burned down to smoldering embers, more than one staff officer curled up on the ground, a few sitting in camp chairs, talking softly. A couple looked up, curious, then returned to their private conversations, ignoring him.

Henry walked back to where he had dismounted, spotted his horse tied to a peach tree, saddle taken off. The orderly had even rubbed him down. Caesar was cropping the rich grass. He looked up at Henry's approach, snorted, and accepted the scratch behind the ears.

Henry had named all his mounts after generals of classical history. Hannibal, the last, had broken a leg at Fredericksburg. Before him there had been Hasdrubal, Pompey, and Vespasian. He sadly wondered how long Caesar would survive.

Never get attached to them, he thought, and never get attached to the men either.

That must be eating Lee alive. He was attached more than any of them to those he commanded. He wanted the killing to end, but he knew as well that in order for it to end he had to be absolutely ruthless. The strain might very well destroy him, but even that he would see as the Will of God

Henry suddenly felt a terrible wave of sadness, of remorse and pain for the old man.

Damn, he's a traitor, he tried to reason, but at least for this moment he allowed himself a moment of pity.

Leaning against Caesar, Henry watched the moon hanging low in the western sky, wondering where Lee was, what he was thinking, and wondering as well if he could kill Lee if given the chance.

The chilling thought was there as well that Lee, the gentle, the soft-spoken and kind, would kill him without a moment's hesitation if that was necessary for victory, and Henry knew he had to brace himself to do the same.