Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [162]
In Fredericksburg the streets had filled with Federal troops, and Lee could see them crowding between the buildings and the houses, setting up their camps in the shattered ruins. He did not give the order to the artillery, would not do as Sumner had done—would not shell the town.
The day had passed, and the armies watched each other, one growing, feeling its strength, while the other sat back firmly against its hills. Lee made no attempt to move forward, knew the guns on Stafford Heights were still there, would still control the open fields, and so he spent the day moving men about, small adjustments in a line that needed very little adjusting. When the darkness came, there had been nothing, only slight noises from the town, no campfires, Burnside making sure his men were not seen from Lee’s hills. Lee had thought, How foolish, depriving your men of the warmth of their fires, while bitter winds hurled down the valley. It was an order straight from some textbook, and Lee knew that in the morning, the Federal troops would be weary and stiff and grumbling.
He awoke before the light, met Taylor beside the small fire, tried to see stars, and of course there would be none. The wide valley, the entire scene, was again bathed in thick fog. Taylor was holding a cup of something hot and steaming, offered it to Lee, knowing Lee did not often drink coffee, but it was very cold.
Lee said, “Yes, thank you, Major. Have you sent for the commanders?”
Taylor nodded. “Yes, sir, they should be here very soon.”
Lee held the cup up to his lips, pulled it away, too hot, blew on it, tried again.
Taylor said, “General, I do hope we have some activity today. It’s a mighty cold place to just sit.”
Lee nodded, turned away from the fire, walked over to the horses. A groom was brushing Traveller. Lee raised a hand, and the groom backed away silently.
Lee reached out to the horse, stroking his neck, still feeling the sore stiffness in his hands, and thought, Taylor was right, this cold . . . these old hands need to be warm. But it will happen today, and by tonight we will again sit before great fires and not care about the cold.
He had not felt this way before, this sense of comfort, of confidence. He had eighty thousand men around him, more than the Confederate Army had ever put on one field. He had the ground, he had the commanders, and he was facing a man who was unsure and cautious. He said a small prayer, By Your mercy, we will not lose many, our friends . . . Please deliver us . . . and the prayer faded from his mind, he could not ask for more, realized he had already been given much.
Traveller lowered his head, waiting, and Lee scratched him between the ears, was lost for a moment, saw Mary, the younger girl he had married, courted right over there, across the river in that great house, the beautiful gardens. It was so very long ago. . . .
There were more noises, the army stirring, men joking and laughing in the cold mist. They understand, he thought, God is smiling on this army, and they feel it. All during the autumn, since the second battle at Manassas, there had been a growing revival of religious sentiment in the army. Tents had gone up at every camp, more preachers had begun traveling with the army, and Lee had felt the spirit, the growing sense of Providence filling the men, watching over them. It was comforting to him, because he still ordered