Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [216]
He walked back up to the turnpike, looked at the pair of brass guns, pointing away down the far road, and he heard the voice of his aide. “General Devens, sir, a messenger.”
He looked for the voice, saw his young lieutenant, and another man in a heavy sweat. The man saluted him, said, “General Devens, sir, Major Rice reports that a large body of the enemy is to his front. He suggests . . . he respectfully advises . . .” The man paused. “General, he ordered me to say . . . ‘for God’s sake make some disposition to receive them.’ ”
Devens stopped smiling, said, “Sergeant, have you seen this large body of Major Rice’s enemy?”
“Well, no sir. I’m the courier, sir. The major commands the lookout, sir. Don’t care much for heights myself.”
“Well, then, Sergeant, you go back and tell Major Rice that there is no need in trying to panic either you or this division. I will forward this report to General Howard. But I would suggest you return to Major Rice and tell him to calm down. If he cannot perform his duties with appropriate decorum, we may have to find someone else for the job. Is that clear?”
The man snapped to attention, said, “Perfectly clear, sir. Please allow me to return to the outpost, sir.”
Devens returned the man’s salute, said, “Dismissed, Sergeant.” He stared wearily at the lieutenant, rested his hands on his hips. “I suppose you should ride to General Howard’s headquarters. Tell him of the report. Tell him I have seen no evidence that the enemy is doing anything more than leaving.”
The man hurried away, mounted his horse, and galloped down the road, then slowed, rode the horse at a trot, knew that when he reached Howard’s headquarters he would hear the same reproach, would receive the wrath of the annoyed commander: that these observers, the men who watch the enemy, are always jumpy, always exaggerate, and that the commander certainly understood the situation—it was his job to know what was going on.
48. JACKSON
May 2, 1863. Late afternoon.
HE STEPPED quietly through a cluster of small bushes, thick and green, and the ground suddenly dropped away, down a long flat hill, and there, along a wide road, was the Federal line.
He had never been this close, felt like giggling, a wild adventure. His guide, the man who had brought him to this spot, was beside him: Lee’s nephew, Stuart’s brigade commander, Fitz Lee.
“There they be, General. The whole lot of ’em.”
They were sitting around small fires. Some were reading, playing cards, and back, behind them, a small herd of cattle was being lined up, the preparation for tonight’s dinner. Jackson rubbed his hands together, wiped them on his pants leg. This was an incredible sight.
Lee backed away, through the bushes. Jackson didn’t want to leave, but knew he had to get back, to move the column farther to the west. This was the point where they had thought the flank could be assaulted, but there were too many blue troops, and the line ran farther west, along the road. So the march would continue, until his men were far around the last of the Federal lines.
He followed the young Lee back to the horses, said nothing. Lee climbed up, smiling, waited for the compliment, the acknowledgment of a fine piece of scouting. He was well taught in the Stuart school of soldiering, appreciated the glamour of the cavalry; they all basked in the bright light of Stuart’s reputation. But Jackson had climbed up on the horse, was already far away, and Lee frowned, would have to find the pat on the back elsewhere.
They moved quickly back to the road. A squad of cavalry was waiting, and Jackson looked past them, pulled the horse around, began to move alongside the marching column of troops, toward the front of the line.
He reached an intersection,