Had the Yankees? Poe wondered.
“When you hear the battle start,” Sorrel said, “you might consider making a demonstration against Hancock. Keep him interested in what’s happening on his front.”
Poe looked up sharply. “One division,” he said, “against the Yankee Second Corps? Didn’t we have enough of that at Gettysburg?”
“A demonstration, General, not a battle.” Politely. “General Anderson has also put under your command the two brigades that are holding the center, should you require them.”
“Whose?”
“Gregg’s Brigade, and Law’s Alabamans.”
Poe’s mind worked through this. “Are Gregg and Law aware they are under my orders?”
“I presume so.”
“Presume,” Poe echoed. There was too much presuming in this war. He took off his spectacles and put them in his pocket. “Colonel Sorrel,” he said, “would you do me the inestimable favor of riding to Gregg and Law tonight and telling them of this? I fear the staff work may not have caught up with General Anderson’s good intent.”
Sorrel paused, then gave a resigned shrug. “Very well, General. If you desire it.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” His small triumph made Poe genial. “I believe I have been remiss. I remember promising you cider.”
“Yes. A glass would be delightful, thank you.”
They sat at the folding table, and Poe called for Sextus to serve. He opened a tin box and offered it to Sorrel. “I have some of Dr. Graham’s dietary biscuits, if you desire.”
“Thank you, sir. If I may put some in my pockets for later?”
“Make free of them, sir.”
Sorrel, possessing by now an old soldier’s reflexes, loaded his pockets with biscuits and then took a hearty swallow of the cider. Sextus refilled his glass.
“General Pickett’s campaign south of the James,” Sorrel said, “has been much appreciated here.”
“The form of appreciation preferable to us would have been reinforcements from General Lee.”
“We were, ah, tangled up with Grant at the time, sir.”
“Still, for several days we had two brigades against two entire corps. Two corps, sir!” Indignation flared in Poe. His fists knotted in his lap.
“The glory of your victory was all the greater.” The Georgian’s tone was cautious, his eyes alert.
Condescending, Poe thought. A black anger settled on him like a shroud. These southern gentlemen were always condescending. Poe knew what Sorrel was thinking. It’s just Poe, hysterical Code-breaker Poe. Poe always thinks he’s fighting the whole Yankee army by himself. Poe is always sending off messages screaming for help and telling other people what to do.
What? Another message from Poe? It’s just the fellow’s nerves again. Ignore it.
“I’ve always been proved right!” Poe snapped. “I was right during the Seven Days when I said Porter was dug in behind Boatswain Swamp! I was right about the Yankee signal codes, I was right about the charge at Gettysburg, and I was right again when I said Butler had come ashore at Bermuda Hundred with two whole Yankee corps! If my superiors would have given me a little credit?”
“Your advice has always been appreciated,” said Sorrel.
“My God!” Poe said. “Poor General Pickett is broken down because of this! It may be months before his nerves recover! Pickett- if he could stand what Lee did to the Division at Gettysburg, one might think he could stand anything! But this- this broke him! Great heavens, if Butler had committed more than a fraction of the forces available to him, he would have lost Petersburg, and with Petersburg, Richmond!”
“I do not think this is the place-” Sorrel began.
Too late. Poe’s mind filled with the memory of the Yankees coming at the Ravens at Port Walthall Junction, four brigades against Pickett’s two, and those four only the advance of Butler’s entire army. He remembered the horror of it, the regimental flags of the Federals breaking out of the cover of the trees, brass and bayonets shining in the wind; shellfire bursting like obscene overripe blossoms; the whistling noise made by the tumbling bullet that had carried away Poe’s hat; the sight of George Pickett with his face streaked by powder smoke, his long hair wild in the wind, as he realized his flanks where caving in and he was facing another military disaster.
“Screaming for reinforcements!” Poe shouted. “We were screaming for reinforcements! And what does Richmond send? Harvey Hill! Hah! Major General interfering Harvey Hill!”
Sorrel looked at him stonily. The old fight between Poe and Hill was ancient history.
“Hill is a madman, sir!” Poe knew he was talking too much, gushing like a chain pump, but he couldn’t stop himself. Let at least one person know what he thought. “He is a fighter, I will grant him that, but he is quarrelsome, tempestuous? impossible to reason with. He is not a rational man, Colonel. He hasn’t an ounce of rationality or system in him. No more brains than a nigger.”
Sorrel finished his cider, and raised a hand to let Sextus know not to pour him more. “We may thank God that the movement was made by Butler,” he said.
Poe looked at him. “The Yankees will not forever give their armies to men like Butler,” he said.
Sorrel gazed resentfully at the lantern for a long moment. “Grant is no Butler, that is certain. But we will do a Chancellorsville on him nonetheless.
“We may hope so,” said Poe. He had no confidence in this offensive. Lee no longer had the subordinates to carry things out properly, could no longer do anything in the attack but throw his men headlong at Federal entrenchments.
The young colonel rose. “Thank you for the cider, General. I will visit Generals Law and Gregg on my return journey.”
Poe rose with him, memory still surging through his mind like the endless waves of Yankee regiments at Port Walthall Junction. He knew he had not made a good impression, that he had confirmed in Sorrel’s mind, and through him the minds of the corps staff, the stories of his instability, his hysteria, and his egotism.
Harvey Hill, he thought, seething. Send Harvey Hill to tell me what to do.
Sextus brought Colonel Sorrel his horse and helped the young man mount. “Thank you for speaking to Gregg and Law,” Poe said.
“Use their forces as you see fit,” Sorrel said.
“This division has had hard fighting,” Poe said. “I will be sparing in my use of them.”
“We’ve all had hard fighting, sir,” Sorrel said. A gentle reproach. “But with God’s help we will save Richmond again this next day.”
Poe gave a swift, reflexive glance to the ravens, anticipating another “Nevermore,” but saw they were still asleep. No more omens tonight.
Sorrel saluted, Poe returned it, and the Georgian trotted off into the night.
Poe looked out at the Yankee campfires burning low off on his left. How many times, he wondered, would this army have to save Richmond? McDowell had come for Richmond, and McClellan, and Pope, Burnside, Hooker, Meade, and Butler. Now there was Grant, who had seized hold of Lee’s army in the Wilderness and declined to let it go, even though he’d probably lost more men than the others put together.
Maybe Lee would turn tomorrow into another Chancellorsviile.
But even if he did, Poe knew, one day this or another Yank general would come, and Richmond would not be saved. Even Lee could only fight history for so long.
The politicians were counting on the Northern elections to save them, but Poe had no more confidence in George McClellan as a candidate than as a general- Lincoln could outmaneuver him at the polls as handily as Lee had in the Seven Days’ Battle.