Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [148]
He turned Traveller around, began to ease him along the top of the ridge, moving slowly down to the south. The hills fell away slightly, down into thick trees, and he could see downriver now. The space between his troops and the river was even wider there, another large flat plain, completely open. This cannot be, he thought. No, this must be a feint, a ruse. They will start moving, downstream, a few miles, maybe Skinker’s Neck, possibly down to Port Royal. But that would be the last chance. Below Port Royal the river widened to over a half mile, and was deep enough for larger boats. And, as the river snaked far down below the plains of Fredericksburg, there were thick woods lining both sides and any crossing would be difficult, easily defended with smaller numbers of troops. He stopped the horse, looked back across to the heights. And so there they sit, he thought. And it will be . . . here.
Above Stafford Heights he saw something, the sun reflecting off an object high in the air. He had heard of the balloons, the new observation platforms held aloft by the big bags of hydrogen. And now he saw more of them, downriver, and he knew they were watching him, knew by now he was digging in. He shook his head. They were waiting for . . . what? Does Burnside think I will attack him? he wondered. No, he is coming. And we will be patient.
Behind his hill more men were moving up, wagons were unloaded, more guns were pulling in. He saw horses climbing up toward him, saw Taylor, and another man, a red hat: artillery. It was Colonel Porter Alexander. They reached him, saluted, and Alexander said, “General Lee, a fine day, sir.”
“Appears so, Colonel. What do you think of this position?”
Alexander smiled, and Lee saw the youth, a man not much older than Taylor, saw a bright and efficient student of war. Alexander said, “General, we have batteries all along the hill, we have a solid anchor on the north, covering the river, and by tomorrow the batteries will be positioned in those trees down to the south. We will be able to cover the entire open ground, all of it.” He paused, looked down toward the town, then closer, the bottom of the steep hill, the stone wall.
“General Lee, do you think they will come at us here?”
Lee looked again to the river, said, “Colonel, the Federal Army is massed together across that river watching us prepare for them. If I were General Burnside . . . no, I would not attack here, I would move back upstream, come across above us. But General Burnside is not a man with the luxury of flexibility. He is being pushed from behind, by loud voices in Washington, by newspapers who demand quick action. We are here, and so he will attack us here.”
“General, we have positioned guns to cover every inch of the open ground. If they try to cross that canal, it will slow them down, and we will hit them from every angle. Sir, a chicken could not live on that field.”
Lee looked at the young man, saw the intensity, the enthusiasm for the deadly job. He suddenly felt excited, a quick rush, looked back down toward the town, thought, Yes, let them come.
To the south, along the ridge, a lone horseman worked his way along, through the lines of laboring soldiers. Taylor motioned, and Lee turned his horse, watched the man move closer, then saw Captain James Power Smith of Jackson’s staff.
Smith saluted, knocking a thin crust of mud off his hat, said, “General Lee, sir. General Jackson sends his respects, and advises that his corps will begin deploying to the south of this position by tomorrow,