Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [181]
37. LEE
December 14, 1862
AS THE sun went down, it began to rain, cold, hard drops, and he found shelter, stayed near his tent. He had been at the top of his hill all day, waiting, watching. His eyes were worn, tired from the long hours of looking through the field glasses, and he felt a great need for sleep. Taylor had brought him a plate of food, and he sat now just inside the flaps of his tent, gave a silent blessing, Thank You, ate gratefully, and thought again of the great open field below him: Thy will be done.
He had expected a new attack, all of them had, and the sunken road behind that wonderful stone wall was lined with fresh troops, anxious men who could see the field in front of them, the horrible piles of blue bodies, and they were ready for more, ready to resume the slaughter.
He thought of Thomas Cobb, the fiery clean-cut Georgian whose brigade had first filled that road, and Maxcy Gregg, the charming, educated man from South Carolina—both were dead. There had been many . . . good soldiers, good leaders. Where would they come from now?
He cleaned the plate, wiped at thick gravy with a hard biscuit. It was still raining, and he pushed back the flap of the tent, looked out, saw men around a sputtering fire, thick smoke.
Taylor saw him, came over quickly, splashing through mud. “General, can I get you anything?” he asked. “Was the supper acceptable?”
Lee nodded, handed him the plate, said, “Thank you, Major, it was fine, quite good. I would like to speak with General Longstreet. Please send someone to his camp. Be sure to express my apologies for bringing the general out in this weather.”
“Sir!” Taylor stood upright, saluted, and moved toward the fire. Lee watched, saw one of the staff move quickly away. He let the flap drop again, moved over to his cot, lay down and closed his eyes for a moment, just a quick rest, his mind drifting out . . . over a wide flat ocean, thick waves of blue, rolling against a rocky shore, the sweet soft rumble of the surf, and the voice of . . . Longstreet.
“General, forgive me for waking you.”
He blinked, tried to see, sat up and shook his head. “No, please, General,” he said. “I will join you.” He stood, pushed aside the flaps, stepped out into the chill. The rain had stopped, giving way to a light breeze. Longstreet stood towering before him in a heavy overcoat, his face hidden by the wide floppy hat. Lee moved to the fire, held out his hands, felt a thick cloud of smoke engulf him. He backed away, said, “Too wet. Winter . . . we should not be out here.”
“We won’t be, much longer.”
Lee looked toward the voice. “General, do you have some information?”
Longstreet removed the hat, pulled out a short cigar, lit it behind his dirty white gloves, said, “They spent all afternoon digging trenches, by the town. Those men out there, in the field: they will be gone by morning. The skirmishers down below have been talking to them, taunting them a bit . . . you know how it goes, sir. ‘Come and get some more,’ all of that. The Yanks are talking pretty freely about . . . about all of it, I suppose. Mainly, they’re pretty sure they’ve been left out there alone. Not many kind words for Burnside. General McLaws brought me a prisoner, an officer, Pennsylvania man, says he’s not going back, thinks he’s been led by fools, a lost cause. Says there’s no attack coming, the generals have no stomach for another day like yesterday.”
Lee stared at the struggling fire, said, “Dangerous talk from an officer. You believe him?”
“He says they’re expecting us to advance, drive them back. That’s the reason for the trenches. They think we’ll try to push them across the river.