Lee searched for one. Try as he would, he could not find it. To no one in particular, Charles Venable said, “The fellow doesn’t lack for brass, that’s certain.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Lee agreed. The major’s remark helped decide him. “Very well, Mr. Rhoodie, I will give that order, and we shall see what arrives on that northbound train. If you make good on your claims, the first rifles will go to General Stuart’s cavalry. After that, well, the divisions of General Anderson and Henry Heth are quartered closest to us here. Those men can have first call on the rifles among the infantry.”
“If he makes good,” Charles Marshall said heavily. “What if he fails?”
“What would you recommend, Major?” Lee asked, genuinely curious.
“A good horsewhipping, to teach him to brag no more.”
“How say you to that, Mr. Rhoodie?” Lee inquired.
“I’ll take the chance,” the stranger answered. Despite himself, Lee was impressed—whether the fellow could do as he said remained to be seen, but he thought he could. Rhoodie went on, “With your permission, General, some of my comrades will ride north with the rifles. You’ll need instructors to teach your men to use them properly.”
“They may come,” Lee said. Afterwards, he thought that moment was the one when he first truly began to believe Andries Rhoodie, began to believe a trainload of fancy repeaters and ammunition could arrive from North Carolina. Rhoodie was just too sure of himself to doubt.
Walter Taylor asked, “Mr. Rhoodie, what do you call this rifle of yours. Is it a Rhoodie, too? Most inventors name their products for themselves, do they not?”
“No, it’s not a Rhoodie.” The big stranger unslung the title, held it in both hands as gently as if it were a baby. “Give it its proper name, Major. It’s an AK-47.”
Lee returned to his tent to finish the delayed letter to President Davis, then went back outside to see how his staff officers were dealing with Andries Rhoodie. Rhoodie, for his part, seemed perfectly ready to wait to be proved right. Either from that commodious haversack of his or from the pack behind his horse’s saddle, he had taken out and erected a neat little one-man tent and was now building a fire in front of it.
Majors Taylor, Venable, and Marshall stood around watching him. Each of them kept a hand close to his side arm. It occurred to Lee, though, that with such a quick-firing repeater, Rhoodie might take advantage of a second’s inattention to take out all three men before they could shoot back…
The notion was unsettling. But the extraordinary repeater was inside the tent at the moment, and the big stranger showed not the slightest sign of hostility. He got his fire going on the first match, and proceeded to warm his hands over it. Lee smiled a little. Rhoodie did net have the air of a man about to attack everyone around him.
He ducked into the tent, but emerged with nothing more lethal than a pot and a folding metal stand. He dipped up some water from a little brook that ran eventually into the Rapidan, then returned to his fire and put the pot over it to boil.
Lee’s servant came up. “Supper be ready soon, Marse Robert.”
“Thank you, Perry. What do we have tonight?”
“Possum soup, all nice and thick with peanuts,” the black man answered.
“That sounds very fine.” Lee walked over to Rhoodie. “Would you care to share supper with me, sir? Perry has not much to work with here, but one would never know it by the meals he turns out.”
Rhoodie’s eyes flicked toward Perry. “Your slave?”
“He’s free,” Lee answered.
Rhoodie shrugged. Lee could see he did not approve. The stranger started to say something, then evidently thought better of it, which was just as well. When he did speak, it was about supper: “Will you let me add to the meal? I know you’re on short rations here.”
“I wouldn’t want to deprive you. Times are hard everywhere.”
“It’s no trouble. I have plenty.” Rhoodie peered into the pot. “Ah, good; it’s boiling.” He set it on the ground. “Excuse me.” He went back into the tent. When he came out, he was holding a couple of packages whose sides and bottoms reflected the firelight metallically. He peeled a lid off each of them. The insides of the lids looked metallic, too. He set down the packages, poured hot water into each of them. Instantly, savory steam rose.
Lee watched—and sniffed—with interest. “Is that desiccated stew you have there? The Federals use desiccated vegetables, but I did not know anyone was preparing whole meals that way.”
“Desiccated stew it is, General.” The tall stranger’s voice was oddly constrained, as if he’d expected Lee to be more surprised. He passed him one of the packages and a spoon. “Before you eat, stir it about a little.”
Lee stirred, then tasted. His eyebrows rose. “This is excellent. Were they to taste it, the wits in the army wouldn’t joke so about’ desecrated’ vegetables.” He ate another couple of spoonfuls; “Very good indeed. Now I find myself embarrassed at. having nothing better than possum soup to offer in exchange.”
“Don’t fret about it, General,” Rhoodie said. He held out his metal packet as a bowl when Perry came by a couple of minutes later with the kettle. Perry ladled the container full. He smiled. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your black is a fine cook.”
“He does seem to work miracles, doesn’t he? He has to, these days, I fear.” Lee finished the last of his stew. Even desiccated, it had more and finer ingredients than he was used to; he could still feel their rich savor in his mouth. He said, “Mr. Rhoodie, you’ve spoken glibly of all the rifles you can furnish us. Can you also supply desiccated rations of this sort, enough to hold hunger at bay in this army until spring?”
“Our, ah, firm, is chiefly concerned with weapons: As far as rations go, I will have to inquire before I tell you how many we can bring in.”
“I wish you would,” Lee said. “A soldier who cannot march and fight is as much a loss to his country as one without a rifle.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Rhoodie said. “I don’t know how much that will be. We’re ready to move with the rifles now. For food, we would have to begin to make special arrangements, and they might take some time.”
“You know your own affairs best, I’m sure. I merely say that, if practicable, rations would be of material benefit to us.” Lee got to his feet. So did the big stranger. He started over to the brook with his pot. Lee said, “Surely you aren’t still hungry, sir.”
“I was going to boil water for coffee. Would you like some?”
“Real coffee?” Lee asked. Rhoodie nodded. With a rueful smile, Lee said, “I almost think real coffee might be too potent for me, after so long drinking chicory and scorched grain masquerading under the name. Still, I will gladly hazard the experiment, provided you have enough for my staff as well. I would not see them deprived of what I enjoy.”
“They’re welcome,” Rhoodie said. “They need their own mugs, though.”
“By all means,” Lee called his aides, gave them the good news. They exclaimed in delight and hurried back to their tents. Lee went off to fetch his own mug.
By the time everyone converged, mug in hand, on Rhoodie’s shelter, he had his pot back over the fire. With his free hand, he passed each Confederate officer a small, flat packet. Rhoodie said, “Tear it open and pour it into the bottom of your cup.”