In Jackson’s place as the third corps commander was General Ewell. With his wooden leg replacing the one of flesh that he’d lost at the Battle of Second Bull Run. His men called him Old Bald Head and would follow him anywhere. An excellent division commander, but now he had a corps, and Lee knew some men had their levels where they excelled and when moved from their comfort zone, they floundered. Ewell worried Lee, who missed Stonewall Jackson more than he would ever let on, particularly to the man who had replaced him.
Jackson had been the one of his three corps commanders willing to take calculated chances, and Lee knew how important that was in the ebb and flow of battle. Following orders was fine, but once the first shots were fired, orders had a tendency to be outdated. Hill would act and take chances, but he did so blindly with little calculation, which was as dangerous sometimes as doing nothing.
Lee stopped his hand from shaking by placing a blunt finger on their current position on the south side of the Rappahannock in Virginia. Without saying a word he slid the finger to the west and then north, up the Shenandoah Valley, through Harpers Ferry, into Pennsylvania and then eastward toward Philadelphia and southward to Baltimore and then Washington.
“Gentlemen, I propose we bring the war to the Union.”
Lee saw Ewell and Hill glance at Longstreet, a subtle acknowledgment that the senior corps commander should be the first to comment on the proposal.
“And Richmond?” Longstreet asked. They all knew that Jefferson Davis and the pack of politicians who ran the Southern government would complain if Lee moved the army too far away from the capital and left the Army of the Potomac sitting in Virginia.
“Hooker is beaten for now,” Lee said. He’d known · Hooker at the Military Academy and he did not fear decisive action from the man. “It would take something very great to get him to move. Leaving a proper feinting force in place along the river, I believe we could be in Pennsylvania before he even knows we’re gone. And then he would not advance on Richmond, but rather turn to the North after us. He has no daring, and the newspapers of the North and their politicians would not allow him that daring even if he had it.”
Longstreet nodded while stroking his gray beard. “True. But Philadelphia is fortified. As are Baltimore and Washington.”
“Philadelphia might or might not be our objective,” Lee said with a shrug. “My main goal is to draw the Union Anny out into the open. Destroy it. And then our options are open. Perhaps the Union will sue for peace.” Unsaid was the acknowledgment that European support was no longer a possibility. Not since Lincoln had issued that blasphemous proclamation. For Lee, the war was not at all about the issue of slavery. It was about state’s rights. But not everyone saw it that way.
“The Union might want to sue for peace,” Longstreet said, “but not Lincoln. That’s a hard man.”
Lee had met Lincoln and he would never admit out loud that he admired the Union president. The man had an air about him that Lee, who had the same air, understood. Lincoln was a leader. A man who would do whatever it took to achieve his goals. Fortunately for Lee, Lincoln had yet to find a general in the same mold.
“They have a congress in the North,” lee said. “Lincoln may be president but he is not all powerful. They’ve had draft riots in New York City. There are many in the North who grow weary of the war and the casualty rolls.”
Lee felt a spasm of discomfort and pain ripple from his stomach to his lower intestines. He had been ill now for several days and it was not getting any better. The soldier’s curse. “Gentlemen, we don’t have much time. Prepare your corps for movement.”
The abrupt order startled all three commanders. “Sir” — Longstreet protested — “this is a bold and — ”
He was cut off as lee headed for the door. “Gentlemen, please do as I requested.” And then Lee was gone.
Within six hours, the Army of Virginia began to move North.
“I am Shakan, daughter of Shaka Zulu.”
King Cetewayo, ruler of the Zulu people and their allies, stared at the tall old woman who stood in front of his throne, so proudly proclaiming to be direct kin to the founder of their nation. It had been fifty years since Shaka was assassinated by his half-brother Dingane with no apparent Successor.
Cetewayo was the latest king in a line of ruthless men who had seized the throne of the most powerful nation in Africa. He pondered whether to have this upstart who had managed to find an audience with him immediately executed or tortured. She wore a black robe that went from her neck to the dirt floor. Her dark curly hair was sprinkled with gray and was cut close, with just barely a quarter inch left. Her skin gleamed in the torchlight with high cheekbones and dark eyes that bore into the king. She was a woman to be reckoned with, of that he had no doubt. Few looked him in the eye so steadily.
They were in his lodge, set in the center of his kraal. He had over a thousand warriors close at hand. His principal war chiefs sat on lesser benches to either side of his throne. They had been discussing the latest problems with the British when the old lady who called herself Shaka’s daughter had made her appearance, making her way to the middle of the lodge before anyone even knew she was there.
“Great King of the Zulu,” Shakan continued, “I know you think me foolish to be in front of you claiming the bloodline of Shah, but I do not come here to claim a throne or power. I come to warn you of the British.”
Cetewayo’s laughter was echoed by those of his council of warriors. “I know of the British. I do not need an old hag to come here and tell me anything. And a woman can never claim the throne or gain power.”
The British in neighboring Natal were indeed a problem, of that there was no doubt. The previous year, two wives of one his senior warlords, Sirayo, ran away with their lovers to Natal and were pursued by Sirayo’s sons demanding justice, because adultery was a capital crime in Cetewayo’s kingdom. The wives were captured, returned. And executed as decreed by Zulu law. However, this precipitous pursuit had violated the boundary of British claimed land. The British governor had demanded that the culprits, along with five hundred cattle, be handed over as a fine; instead Cetewayo apologized and offered the British five hundred pounds as restitution, a price he felt most fair but had not really appeased the British.
Following that incident events along the border escalated. What Cetewayo found particularly galling were the missionaries who entered his territory without permission, seeking converts. The white man’s religion he saw as being very dangerous because it subverted the iron-clad discipline of the army, which was the backbone of the Zulu nation. There were missionary stations all around the border, and even over the border, of his lands. He had ordered his warriors to refrain from attacking these representatives of the white man’s god because he suspected there might be a deliberate ploy by the British to draw him into war. Still. There was only so much he would tolerate, and the British were pushing him harder and harder. Then there were the Boers, who fought with the British. The blood feud between Zulu and Boer went back at least a generation.