Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [23]
“Very well,” Lee said. “Mr. Stuart, I will have the message ready for you shortly. Mr. Green, we must use the bayonet. We do not know the situation in there—we cannot have your men firing at will.”
“I understand, sir. It will be bayonets. I will have the men prepare a battering ram. We will make good work of it, sir.”
“Very well. Get some rest, Lieutenant, I will speak with you at dawn.”
“Sir!”
Lee found a wooden box, sat down. Stuart grabbed a lantern, a careless target left sitting on top of the barricade. He brought it closer, out of sight of the engine house, and Lee pulled a pen from his pocket, the same pen he had used that morning to figure his list of lumber, and wrote out the terms of surrender.
IT WAS just daylight, a cold, thick morning, fog rolling off the river into the small town. Lee climbed up a small hill, a short distance behind the barricade, to find a clear view, and was suddenly aware that the hills around him were covered with people. In the night, the town had poured from its homes, and now everyone, Lee guessed a thousand, maybe more, was watching the proceedings. He looked back to the engine house, saw the militia stirring, forming into line all around, a toothless presence that might at least intimidate Brown into surrender. Through the mist he saw the blue form of Lieutenant Green, moving up the hill toward him.
“Colonel. Good morning. We are ready when you are, sir. We await the order.”
Below, Stuart was tying a white handkerchief to a short pole with quick, nervous motions, and then he turned, saw Lee and ran up the hill. “All set, Colonel!” Stuart was breathless, shivering.
Lee looked at Green, gave him a nod, and the young marine went toward a small group of men, his handpicked troops. Lee waited for him to leave, out of earshot. Then he put a hand on Stuart’s arm, a brief clench from his cold fingers. “Lieutenant,” he said, “it would please me if you would use some caution this morning. We have no way of knowing how this man Brown will respond.”
“Colonel . . .” But there were no words, both men knew it was just duty. “I await your order, sir. Let’s take these people out.”
Lee nodded. “You may proceed, Lieutenant.”
Stuart ran back down, picked up his flag of truce, pulled Lee’s message from his pocket, and, with a glance toward the waiting marines, walked past the barricade, across the open ground, to the engine house door.
Lee heard Stuart’s voice, firm and unshaking, and he held his breath, said to God, Please, let there be reason, protect him from harm. Suddenly, the door opened, a slight movement, and Lee could only see a dark, faceless crack.
Stuart looked into the slight gap, saw a short barrel of a rusty carbine pushing out through the opening, pointing at his head. He focused on the small black hole, the end of the barrel, stood without motion, said quietly, “I have a message . . . a request from Colonel Robert E. Lee. Please allow me to read it.”
There was noise from inside, hushed sounds. Stuart could hear people moving, and from behind the rifle came a face, smeared black dirt in a wild mass of tangled beard, and Stuart recognized the glare of the deep black eyes, the face of John Brown.
Stuart showed the paper, held it up, could not look away from the eyes, and Brown said with a quick burst, “Read it!”
Stuart began, emphasized the part about their safe passage, the impossible nature of their position. Lee’s words were brief, to the point, and as Stuart read, he glanced at Brown, at the small black hole pointing at his head, wished the message had been shorter.
Brown began to make a sound, a hissing grunt. The barrel of the rifle stuck farther out, closer to Stuart’s face, and Brown began to speak, a quick stream of words, his own terms, his version of the day’s fighting, a flurry of talking that Stuart tried to follow. Behind Brown there were other voices, joining in, and Stuart knew the situation was falling apart, felt the tightening in his body like a coiled spring, and said,