"Fine then. Refuse that flank, pull it back from the crossroads, and anchor it with concealed batteries on those hills. We put Fifth Corps behind the hills as reserve. Winfield, your corps behind this position as reserve covering this hill and that position over mere," and as he spoke he waved toward Culp's Hill.
"This is a good site; the roads coming in are good; we'll have our full strength up by late tomorrow; then let Bobbie Lee try and dig us out."
Winfield was silent.
"Don't you approve?"
"It's an excellent position, sir. But I wonder if Lee sees it that way," Winfield said. "What do you mean?" "This situation, does he see it as too good?"
"Lee's instinct is to attack. He knows we are here," Meade replied sharply. This whole campaign was to bring us out from Washington in order to engage us in the open. Fine, we want it, too. One thing Lee does not understand is that we are in Pennsylvania now, and the boys will fight like hell to defend it. From everything I heard about this evening's fight both of you saw that"
"Yes, they fought like hell," Winfield offered.
"He'll come on, and here's where we dig in. Hunt come dawn, start bringing up the rest of your reserve. I want a firm anchor on the left flank, that hill you mentioned. See what guns you can put on top of the hill to the right of here as well.
"Winfield, I want to meet with all corps commanders in a half hour. There's a house just back down the pike a quarter mile or so; meet me there."
"Yes, sir."
Meade extended his hand. "Winfield, you did well today. Damn well."
"The men did, sir."
Meade grunted and stiffly remounted. Without further comment he trotted off, guidon fluttering behind him.
"I wonder if I should have said more," Winfield said softly.
"Sir?'
"What do you think, Henry?' "About Lee? Tomorrow?" "Yes."
"Remember, I served under him at Fort Hamilton." "I know; that's why I asked."
"A subtle mind, we all know that Something gets him angry though, and he could be bull-headed. We saw that this evening."
He looked down at the town. A distant cry echoed, a high, pleading shriek that died away.
"Goddamn war," Hancock whispered. "When in Christ's name is it ever going to end?'
"Maybe when the last of us is dead."
Winfield looked over at him.
"You didn't answer my question, Henry."
"Nor did you answer Meade's."
Winfield chuckled softly. "Because I couldn't. When it comes to Lee… — I just don't know. I'm certain about the flank. That has always been his way. In fact, he surprised me a bit today with the last attack. I'd have shifted, gone for the low ground between here and the Round Tops. I think he got worked up, thought he could push us and we'd crack. Now he knows we won't
"We whipped him good today. Let's hope it gets him so damn mad that tomorrow he comes straight in across those fields," and he pointed toward the open land west of the hill.
"I think it will be one of two things," Henry finally replied.
"Go on."
"Chancellorsville. Distance is about the same. Swing behind the seminary, head southwest come out below the Round Tops, then cut in. The flank, just like you said. If so, I'll be on that hill, and by God he'll pay."
"Or?"
"Second Bull Run and he'll march fifty miles to get into our rear."
Hancock stood silent hands folded behind his back. He finally looked over at Henry and smiled. "Henry Hunt pray for another Chancellorsville. If Lee tries that on us again, this time we'll bloody him'good."
Henry said nothing. Picking up his cup of coffee, he took a sip and grimaced. It had gone cold. He drank it anyhow. Two hours' sleep was enough. It was time to get down to the rocky hill, Little Round Top, and start digging in.
Chapter Seven
4:00 AM, JULY 2,1863 HERR'S RIDGE
GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA
"Sir, I think you should see this."
John Williamson drifted in the half-real world of waking and numbed sleep. He tried to ignore Hazner for a minute, to hold on to just one more precious minute of rest, the opiatelike sleep of complete exhaustion, devoid of dreams, of nightmares, of all that he had seen.
"Sir." Sergeant Hazner roughly shook him, and John sat up. Hazner was crouched before him, a dim shadow in the moonlight
"What is it?"
"Over there by the road, sir. Something is up."
John turned, fumbling for the glasses in his breast pocket. The world around him was hazy, wrapped in early morning mist and smoke drifting from smoldering fires. The air was rich, damp, carrying the scent of crushed hay, and that other smell, the smell of a battlefield. Where the battle had started, dead men and horses scattered about their campsite alongside the pike were beginning to swell.
The camp was quiet at least nearby, but he could hear low moans, cries from a nearby barn, bright with lights. Even as he put his glasses on, two stretcher bearers staggered toward him, carrying their burden, who was babbling softly, lost in delirium. Even in the dark he could see that the stretcher bearers were Yankees, white strips of cloth tied around their arms to indicate they were prisoners who had given their parole and were now pressed into service.
One of them looked over at John. "Vere the hospital? Ve lost?"
It took him a moment to understand what the Yankee was saying. His accent was thick, German from the sounds of it
John pointed toward the barn. The Yankee nodded his thanks and pressed on.
John spared a quick glance down at their burden. In the soft glow of moonlight the man they were carrying already looked dead, his features ghostly white, dark, hollow eyes wide with pain. Since he was wrapped in a blanket it was impossible to tell which side he was on.
Across the gently sloping valley below, lanterns bobbed up and down, like fireflies drifting on a summer night The rising mists gave it all a dreamlike appearance, of spirits floating in the coiling wisps of fog. A lantern or candle would stop, hover for a moment and then move on. He watched as one knot of men stopped, lantern laid down on the ground, men gathering around, one going down on his knees and covering his face, while comrades gently picked up a body to carry it off.
Around him all was still, what was left of his regiment lost in druglike sleep. A man cried out softly, tossing, and sat up, breathing hard. Embarrassed, he looked about caught John's gaze, then looked away, lying back down.
Fires had burned down to glowing embers, thin coils of smoke rising straight up, mingling with the damp night air.
"I think that's your friend, Colonel Taylor, over on the road," Hazner whispered, touching John on the shoulder and drawing him back.
"So?"
"Well, sir, if he's out and about back here behind the lines at this time of the morning, that tells me something is up."
"And you want to know what it is." John sighed. "Is that what you woke me up for?"
"Well, sir, I don't have the social connections you have."
"Goddamn, Hazner. Can't it wait till morning?" 'It will be that in another hour, sir. I was about to get you up anyhow."
Every joint of his body ached in protest, and he was tempted to tell Hazner to go to hell and lie back down. But the sergeant was right. If something was up, it'd be good to know it now.
After the bloody assault of the afternoon, the regiment had gone into reserve. He had watched the final assault go in against that damn hill on the far side of the town, a charge that had gone down into flaming ruin, wiping away the sense of triumph. Perhaps the regiment would be ordered up, and the thought of that knotted his stomach. Not another charge, not like yesterday, God forbid, never another charge like that
He looked to the road and saw that it was indeed Taylor, half a dozen staff with him. They were dismounted, gathered in a tight circle, one of the men holding a lantern over a map that was pressed against the flank of a horse. John moved toward them, feeling a bit nervous about intruding, but Hazner had set him on a course and he could not turn aside, for now his curiosity was up as well.