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.