Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [113]
He heard horses, several, riding hard up to the house, and he knew from the sound it was too fast and too much show: Stuart. He smiled, heard loud voices and took a last look out the window. How strange, he thought, I feel more like a father here than anywhere else. They are all my children: Taylor, Stuart, sometimes . . . even Jackson. Maybe this whole army . . .
Is that not what a commander must do, earn respect, give them discipline and . . . love them? The thought jarred him. He felt suddenly guilty, thought, No, it’s all right, I do not love my own family any less. But I have not been a good father . . . and now God has placed me here, to redeem myself. And if my own children don’t know . . . then these men will. He turned back toward the doorway, waited for the inevitable burst of Stuart.
But it was Taylor first. “Sir, General Stuart has returned, and has asked to see you.”
Lee was still smiling, tried to hide it, said, “Of course, Major, send him in.”
Stuart was instantly through the door, and Taylor backed out. Stuart had kept his hat on, rich gray felt and a long black plume, waited for the right moment, removed it with a flourish and made a deep bow to his commander. Lee let him go through the routine, could not hide the smile. Abruptly, Stuart came to attention, slapped his heels together sharply.
“Sir, with your permission, may I present the latest newspapers from the North.” He reached into his coat, withdrew a handful of clippings, laid them carefully on Lee’s desk. Lee leaned forward, picked through them, all items about McClellan and Pope and the recent battles.
“Good, General, thank you. I see there’s quite a bit about their new commander.”
Stuart made a sound, a grunt, and Lee looked at him, questioning. “With the general’s permission,” Stuart said, “I have heard of General Pope’s dispatches, sir. He has ordered his men to pursue a policy of barbarism, sir, pure barbarism. His army has been instructed to take whatever they can from our farms, from our stores. He has ordered anyone conversing with any of our people to be arrested as a spy.” Stuart began to move, pacing in the small space, obviously angry. Lee sat back in his chair, watching, surprised. “General Lee, this man is no gentleman. McClellan . . . at least you could depend on him to conduct himself like a civilized man . . . but this fellow Pope is . . . a barbarian!”
Lee picked up one of the clippings, read briefly, My headquarters shall be in my saddle. Lee paused, knew there would be jokes about that. He read on, a message Pope had given to his troops, trumpeting his victories in the West, which Lee stopped to consider, some minor battles that had little influence on the war. He read on, I come from where . . . we have always seen our enemies from the rear . . . let us not talk of taking strong positions and holding them, lines of retreat, bases of supplies. The story quoted him further, bombastic statements about crushing the enemy with quick and direct blows, and Lee looked up at Stuart, who was still moving about.
“Well, it seems we have a new problem.”
“Sir, I have learned that General Pope has taken command of the forces under Banks and Fremont, and has at his command, sir, something over fifty-five thousand men. General McClellan has not yet left his base on the James River, but according to . . . those reports, there, sir, in the Washington paper . . . the wounded from his forces have already been seen coming up the Potomac. If General Pope is planning