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.
Chapter Three
Henry Hunt reined in, Warren at his side. Warren uncorked a canteen of water and handed it over to Henry, who nodded his thanks. The day was already warm, though a light shower had brushed across the landscape shortly after dawn.
"This is a damn good position," Warren offered, and Henry nodded in agreement •
The ground before them sloped down to a broad, open marshy plain, bisected by a narrow creek. A mill with a pond backed up beyond was to his right He carefully studied the area, while Warren, with one leg drawn up over the pommel of his saddle, took a small sketchbook out and carefully traced in the topographical details, noting down distances, buildings, roads, elevations.
"Clear fields of fire," Henry announced. "This must have been lumbered off years ago for the mill down there. God, I could line a hundred guns up along these heights and hold it till doomsday."
"If they come down this far."
Henry, still holding Warren's canteen, leaned over, watching as the engineer drew his map. Personally he found Warren to be difficult at times, a bit too officious; but he respected the man for his eye, his sense of ground, how it affected battle and movement
"We've got the potential for a remarkable defensive position here," Warren announced, inverting the pencil in his hand, tracing out the line they had ridden along so far with the blunt end. 'This creek bottom just east of Taneytown over to here; open fields of fire along the entire length. This is good killing ground, exceptional." Henry nodded in agreement.
Henry dismounted, one of his staff taking the reins. The men riding with them were nervous. Everyone was on edge, not knowing where the rebel cavalry might be lurking. He walked a few yards along the road they had come out on while riding the ridgeline bordering the creek. The road, he realized, must be the main pike running from Westminster up toward Littlestown and Gettysburg beyond. It was well paved with crushed limestone, but torn up now by the passage of thousands of troops and cavalry. If the fight should come down this way, it would be a main line of advance.
He scanned the ground, a bit rocky but still a good position to dig in guns. Yes, if it should be fought here, along this line, this would be the place to hold.
Stretching, he walked back to his mount and got back in the saddle. Warren was finished sketching, folding up his notebook. Henry passed the canteen back over.
"Pipe Creek," Warren said, "if it's going to be anywhere, I hope it's here. Whoever holds this land will win."
As the two turned to ride on, Henry paused, looking off to the north. He wasn't sure, but there seemed to be a tremor in the air… artillery fire. He waited, head raised; again a distant, flat thump, more felt than heard. He looked over at Warren, who nodded in agreement They waited for a moment but all that greeted them was silence, and finally they rode off to the east
JULY I, 1863, 9:00 AM
"Battalions, forward march!"
The colonel shouting the order sat ramrod straight astride his mount, sword drawn, the tip of the blade resting against his shoulder, obviously nervous that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia was watching. The young officer's voice echoed across the orchard, picked up by company captains, rippling down the line. He raised his sword and saluted as the column moved onto the Chambersburg Pike and headed east toward the South Mountain gap.
Lee returned the salute, reining in Traveler, and moved to the side of the road, clearing the way for the brigade of Georgia troops that were filing out of the orchard. A lone fifer at the front of the column valiantly tried to play "Dixie." The boy looked over at Lee, turned bright red, and completely fumbled the tune, a ripple of laughter echoing through the column at his discomfort
Lee smiled and touched the brim of his hat in salute to the boy who, crestfallen, looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
"Don't you worry, General, we can fight a heap better than Jimmie can play," a wag shouted from the middle of the column.
A piercing cheer erupted, the men raising their caps in salute as they passed Lee.
"They're in good spirits this morning."
Lee nodded, looking over at Pete Longstreet who was riding beside him. "They're ready for what has to be done," Lee said quietly, watching as the column passed before him. "In spite of the hard marching of the last three weeks, the men look healthier, they're living well off of the land up here.
"You saw the report I sent over to you last night from Harry Heth?" Lee asked, looking back at Longstreet
"The contact his division made with Yankee cavalry last night near Gettysburg? Yes."
"And?"
"If Stuart was where he was supposed to be, we'd know more about what's down this road," and as he spoke Pete gestured to the east
"That's what we'll find out today," Lee said. "It might be nothing more than a forward screen, backed up with some militia."
"Or it could be the entire Army of the Potomac concentrating there. We're still spread out sir."
"We won't be by the end of today," Lee replied sharply. "We are at Cashtown, as planned. If the Army of the Potomac is indeed coming up, as your spy reported, Cashtown is very defendable ground. And don't worry about our young prodigy. General Stuart will be reined in; I've sent couriers put to look for him."