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
JULY I, 1863, 8:45 AM
UNION MILLS, MARYLAND
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
NEAR CHAMBERSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA
"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."
Longstreet said nothing, but Lee could read the doubt in his eyes, the caution that hung over "the Dutchman." In the past it has always been a good balance, the impetuous Jackson, ready to leap off into the unknown, Longstreet the opposite, forever preaching about defense. But Jackson was gone. Longstreet was the senior of the corps commanders now and had to be pushed to show more audacity.
The column continued to pour out of the orchard and onto the road, and Lee felt a thrill at the sight of them. They were typical of the hard-fighting Army of Northern Virginia. Many wore gray four-button jackets, some were dressed in whatever could be found or sent from home. Butternut brown was fairly common, the wool spun, woven, cut stitched, and dyed by loving hands. Some wore butternut pants as well, but a fair number had on sky blue trousers, taken from Yankee prisoners.
Most of the men had shoes, yet again captured, though more than one boy was barefoot this morning. On the soft dirt roads of central Virginia on a summer day this hadn't been a problem, but this road was a main pike, and as it cut through the South Mountain Range there were sections that had been macadamized with crushed limestone gravel so the going would be tough on bare soles.