Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [147]
PART
THREE
27. LEE
November 1862
HE STRAIGHTENED his stiff legs, stood high in the stirrups, the big gray horse not moving under him. The hill around him was mostly bare. A few trees broke the clean snow, and in front of him the slope was steep, dropping away toward the town. He could see clearly, see it all, the wide gap of open land the attackers would have to cross, broken only by a few fences, and one deep canal, which would disrupt any quick advance of troops. Fredericksburg itself was spread out against the edge of the river, and he knew he would not hold it, it had no value to the army, but even if he had wanted to, the Federal cannon were massed across the river, on top of the long rise known as Stafford Heights, perched high above the river, and so would control any movement in the town and make any defense there impossible. No, it was back here, these hills. He looked around, saw the troops working, dirt and snow flying, a few trees felled and moved into place. The cannon had arrived now, and the shallow pits prepared, and his own guns were moving into position. They too would control the ground, the open fields the Federal troops would have to cross to reach them. He looked back to that ground, the flat grassy plain, saw a few small houses, knew they would offer little protection.
Across the Rappahannock, on the far hills, he saw the camps, the masses of blue, and could see some movement, though not much detail. The heights were nearly a mile away, and the only really clear image was the house, the mansion, the ancestral home of George Washington. He glanced that way, did not want to look at it, avoided it, knew that again this war had taken something from him. He looked down, patted Traveller’s neck, said a small prayer: Please, don’t destroy this one too. He knew it was not just the war, that Mary’s health was failing for reasons beyond what he was doing now, but he could not help the feeling that if this were over . . . if they were at home and he could be with her, she would be better. He realized he did not even know where she was these days, somewhere in Richmond, safe, for now. But across the river from him sat another piece of her, another symbol of loss, and he could not look at it, knew that there were other matters at hand.
He focused again, looked back to the open ground at the base of his hill, saw straight down to a deep road bed, a long stone wall that ran along the base of the hill. Surely, he thought, they will not do it here, not here. He looked to his right, to the south, along the ridge of the hills, saw his men working far into the distance, digging in. This is too . . . perfect. He felt a nagging sense of alarm: No, it will not happen here. Burnside is not a fool. But . . . there they sit, across the river, a great assembled force, and they are not moving.
The Federal Army had marched with uncharacteristic speed, had surprised him, slipping down the river this far. He hadn’t expected the fight to be here, had waited for them to come at him from farther upriver, crossing at the shallow fords to the north. But Stuart followed their movement, the advance down to Falmouth, watched them all along the way, and they continued to move south, reaching the hills across from Fredericksburg a full day before Lee could move any troops in their direction. Lee then quickly brought Longstreet’s army to these hills, and now Jackson had been recalled from Winchester, from the valley, and was on the march. Everything