Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [121]
He thought of Pope, where he might be. Was he watching this as well, or was he caught in the flow, pulled away by the tide of a beaten army? He thought of Longstreet, who had delayed yesterday, would not attack until the time was right, and now it did not matter because the time was right today. He knew Jackson would be out with his troops, pushing them forward. He turned back, looked to the row of trees where the artillery was, saw the gunners standing along the ridge, waving, cheering, and then he thought of the lone soldier, the man who had come back into Richmond after the first battle, the man he had tried to talk to, who spoke only of Jackson’s great success, and he wondered if he was here, today, a year later, and had seen it all again.
Taylor was beside him now, and Lee looked at the young man, said, “Remember this, Major. There are not too many days like this . . . when you have swept your enemy from the field and you can watch him run. You don’t need official reports or newspapers or the gossip of stragglers . . . you don’t need anyone to tell you what has happened.”
Taylor nodded, staring wide-eyed at the frantic withdrawal of Pope’s army.
Lee pulled on the reins, turned the horse around, said, “We had best get back . . . they will be looking for us.” Then he paused, looked out one last time, saw his own troops now, moving over the far ridge, still in pursuit, a deadly chase that would last until it was too dark to see.
IT RAINED all night and all the next day. Longstreet’s fresher troops were assigned the dismal task of burying the dead, and the men dug their way through the soft ground of the farmlands, now turned to vast seas of thick mud. The pursuit of Pope’s army had been bogged down by the rain and by the arrival of more of McClellan’s troops, which Pope now used as a rear guard as he limped his way slowly back toward Washington.
Lee’s staff gathered at the edge of a stand of trees. They had just come across Bull Run Creek, following the slow advance of the army, pressing closer to the Federal troops. Out in front, the advance lines had confronted the Federal skirmishers, who did not run, and so both armies moved sluggishly in the rain, staring at each other like two tired animals, one slowly backing away.
Lee stood beside Traveller, holding the reins, and around him the rest of his staff waited for further news of Pope’s movement. Taylor stood near Lee; the others mostly sat on their horses. There was no dry place, and the thick black rubber of their raincoats wrapped each man like a glistening shroud. Lee focused, tried to hear, caught the occasional dull pop of musket fire from the distant skirmish lines, but it was infrequent and had no meaning. There will be no fight today, he thought, and even with McClellan’s reinforcements, Pope would not make a stand. He would go back to Washington and tell of a great battle where he was lucky to rescue his troops, could only back away because his troops were sadly underprepared or overmatched, and he would inflate the enemy’s strength and claim he fought the good fight against tall odds, because that was the kind of man he was. He will not tell his President that he stumbled blindly into a disaster, Lee thought. That observation would be made by others.
Lee put his hand on Traveller’s neck, felt his uniform pull at him, soaked by the wetness, the hot and stifling humidity, held hard against him by the dripping raincoat. He patted the horse’s thick, wet hair, and the horse turned slightly, cocked his head. From behind, a man came through the trees, said in a quick yell, “Yankees!” and a shot rang out, the ball whistling over Lee’s head.
Traveller jumped, lunged forward, and Lee’s hands were still holding the reins,