The captain looked at him, confused.
"Well?"
"Which do you want me to do first sir?" "Let's start with the food." Pete sighed. "Now get moving.
The captain nodded and turned, trotting off, heading to the mansion still a hundred yards away, Pete walking stiffly, leading his exhausted mount
He heard another rider coming up and, looking back, saw that it was McLaws, trailing a few staff officers, all of them covered m the white chalky dust kicked up from the crushed limestone paving of the road.
"My God, what a march," McLaws announced, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow.
Pete nodded, saying nothing.
"We camping here, sir? My boys are beat"
Pete stopped, lowering his head. That's what I should do, he realized. We're into their rear, a good march, in spite of the incident back at the bridge. But there's still Westminster. Meade might even be moving toward it now. If he gets there first he can slip around our right and fall back to Washington without a fight… then what?
McLaws looked at him expectantly.
"Behind you? What's going on?"
"Hood's boys are blown, still forming up back at the bridge. A rider just came up reporting that the head of Hill's corps is just coming into Emmitsburg.''
"Our corps artillery?"
"Between Emmitsburg and the bridge."
Pete looked back up at McLaws. "My men did over twenty-five miles, general. Even Old Jack would be proud of what we did today."
That rankled him slightly. Always it was Old Jack.
He exhaled noisily, looking back down at the ground, kicking at the dust "One hour here. Get your men fed, get water. Then I want you back on the road."
"Sir?"
"On the road. It'll cool off a bit at dusk. On the road by dusk. You should have good moonlight. I want you to push to Westminster."
"Sir, that's kinda risky to my way of thinking."
"Goon."
"Hood here. Me heading off to God knows where? Sir, I'll bet at least ten percent of my men are dropped somewhere between here and Emmitsburg. You push us through the night and I won't have a thousand left standing under their colors come dawn."
"I don't push you now, and we have to attack there tomorrow, you won't have a thousand left come sunset" Pete whispered. "It's the good ground. It's always about the good ground. Who gets it first holds it and makes the other man attack. I'd rather have your men half-dead from exhaustion, than dead forever up here in Maryland."
McLaws lowered his head. "What about the road north of here, the one going straight to Gettysburg."
"There's nothing on it yet. As Hood comes up, I'll have him cover that approach."
'Three hours, at least give 'em that chance to cook up a decent meal, find clean water, sleep a little bit"
Pete shook his head. "Give 'em three hours, and they'll stiffen up and be useless. An hour, then march. I want you on the road by dusk."
"Why then?"
"I want those retreating Yankee cavalry to see you. I don't know what they have in Westminster, but I'm willing to bet it will be like Second Manassas, maybe a couple of good regiments, but the rest of 'em units assigned to guard detail because their commanders feel they can spare them. Hell, we do the same thing. We pick the unit we feel is used up or can't be relied on anymore to guard the wagon trains. It'll be a scratch command down there, and it will fall apart the moment you push it
"You on the road, heading straight at them"-Pete forced a smile-"it just might spook them."
"And suppose those Yankee cavalry are waiting?"
"You'll have a hundred or so mounted in front to feel out any traps. But I think they're played out. John Buford is dead."
"Damn," McLaws whispered. "I didn't know that"
"You marched past his body back at the bridge. We captured Gamble; looks like he'll lose an arm. The fight is out of them. They'll give back, falling into Westminster, and, General, I want you in there by dawn."
McLaws finally nodded in agreement
"Good. My headquarters will be here until General Lee comes up. I'll try and come up to you in the morning. Take the town; block the roads coming down from the north."
"The north?"
"That road that heads north, goes straight through the village of Harney and then on to Gettysburg. Apparently a fair part of the Union army moved up it yesterday. They just might turn around and come straight back down. If so, Hood will have to block it until the rest of the army comes in and can be passed along to you. So until that happens, you, sir, will be the lead on the right, while Hood holds the center here.
"Sooner or later Meade will wake up. And when he does, General, I want you on there, dug in and ready."
McLaws saluted and started to turn.
"They just might be on the edge of a panic," Longstreet said. "If so, fuel it, get them running. Get them running."
7:45 PM, JULY 2,1863
He let his horse gulp down water for a minute, dismounting with Warren, kneeling down into the cool stream to splash his face with water, then taking a canteen, filling it, and half draining it.
Even as he did so, Henry looked around warily. It was the same place he had stopped only the day before, riding north to Gettysburg. He knew that for certain because the dead trooper, who had been in the back of the ambulance when he had stopped here on the way to Gettysburg, was lying by the side of the stream. He tried, not to notice him, though the scent of his body hung heavy in the evening air.
They had begun to pass cavalrymen from Buford's command a half hour ago, small scattered detachments from half a dozen regiments, the men moving slowly, dejected, talking of a terrible fight along the road half a dozen miles away. He had let most of them go, telling them to stay the hell off the road and let the infantry, pass. A dozen or so, who still seemed game, he had drafted as an escort. The men were on the far side of the creek, obviously nervous, carbines unsheathed.
A broken unit always made a minor setback sound like a defeat and a defeat a disastrous rout. These men were talking about thousands of Rebs. Whether it was true or not, he sensed they'd know in a few more minutes, and his gut instinct was to be ready.
Standing up, he pulled out his revolver, half-cocked it, checked the spin, making sure percussion caps were in place, then gently let the hammer back down. He mounted, looking over at Warren, who was already mounted and waiting.
He followed Warren's lead, splashing up the opposite bank. The waiting troopers, led by a grim-faced lieutenant with a cheek laid open by a shell fragment or bullet, spread out as they went down the road. They were very good, moving cautiously, a couple of men on the road, the rest filtering into the trees, meadows, and cornfields to either side of the lane. Several of them would move forward a hundred yards, pause, look around, then motion the rest up, who would leapfrog forward. And then the ritual would be repeated again.
Twilight was setting in, the western sky a dull, shimmering red, a dark, haze-shrouded sun slipping below the horizon; flashes of heat lightning, or was it gunfire, sparkled to the east
They reached a broad, open plateau. Henry remembered it. Taneytown was just a mile or so off. The lead trooper out ahead stopped, leaned forward slightly, then held his hand up.
Henry nudged his mount the poor beast breathing hard as it slowly went up to a trot Warren by his side. They came up to the trooper's side. The lieutenant already had his field glasses out Henry looked over at him in the twilight The glasses were high quality, beautiful brass trim work, the man dressed in what was obviously a tailored uniform. Dandy or not he at least was here rather than safely back home in some countinghouse or law office in New York, angry about the retreat glad to have fallen in with someone from headquarters who wanted to find out what the hell was going on.