Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [153]
Jackson had stopped smiling, stared at the young man, said, “We will move at dawn, Captain. General Lee will be expecting us.”
Pendleton knew the festivities were over. He took a step back, raised a salute, said, “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”
Jackson removed the hat, leaned over into the tent, and the flaps closed behind him. He tossed the hat down on his blanket, thought of Anna, the silly gift that he thought he would never wear. I am a lieutenant general, he thought. She is proud. I must tell her, No, do not be proud of me—thank God for what He has given us. He ran his hands down the smooth material of the uniform, so different from the old ragged jacket that lay now on the ground by his feet. He began to undo the buttons, thought of sleep, the day ahead, then he saw the laughing face of Stuart, thought, I suppose I cannot insult the kindness of General Stuart. But it is clear he has too much time on his hands. We will have to see what we can do about that.
He sat on his blanket, leaned over to the small lamp, snuffed out the light. He lay down, pulled the blanket over the fine gray cloth, and now it was dark and quiet and the cold began to seep into the tent. He stared up, began to think of Fredericksburg and the wide river, of bayonets and flashing cannons and driving the enemy back, over the edge, into the icy water.
29. HANCOCK
December 1862
THE PONTOONS had finally come into Falmouth the last few days of November, came piecemeal, a convoy that had stretched itself thin on the softening mush of the roads. Now they lay in long rows on the bank of the river, patrolled by nervous engineers, the men who would push them out into the icy water and lash them together side by side, until they reached the far shore. Once in place, planks would be laid on top, and the huge army would begin to cross on a narrow strip of bouncing wood. Hancock had walked among them, had heard the comments. They had waited for nearly two weeks for the pontoons to arrive, and now that they were there, the order had not come. There was only silence from Burnside’s headquarters.
Hancock had stayed away from headquarters, from the frequent meetings, meetings that Burnside also avoided, choosing instead to hear a summary of the comments from his staff, feeling out the mood of his commanders. When Burnside did attend, it was to persuade his subordinates that loyalty was their primary concern, not the soundness of his plan. Now, there had been another meeting, and Hancock had been summoned specifically, had gone with no expectations, and the crowded room had been loud and hostile, the commanders speaking their minds more openly now, criticizing their commander’s strategy. The meeting was chaired by Sumner, and the old man had finally given up, had dismissed them with a weary wave of his hand. As the men flowed out of the grand old house, no one spoke, the mood of the generals reflecting the mood of the army. Hancock had paused, waiting for Couch, but Couch passed by him with red-faced anger, did not want to talk, and the others had gone quickly as well. Now Hancock stood alone in the winter ruins of the wide garden, stared far across the river toward the heavy lines of Bobby Lee, admired the scene again, the snow on the wide-open fields, the pleasant waterfront town, and felt like this was all unreal somehow, that there was no war, that nothing would happen to disturb this peaceful countryside.
He put one foot up on a low brick wall, thought, No, this is very real, and we do not have a leader. Behind him he heard a voice, turned, saw Sumner coming toward him. The old man was pulling on a heavy coat, his breath in short bursts of white, and he walked closer to Hancock, who pulled his foot from the wall, turned, stood at attention.
“Easy, General. Saw you out here, wondered what you were doing. You didn’t say much this morning, but there’s a lot in your face. A lot of them . . . they’re getting pretty casual with what they’re saying about