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.