Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [48]
“Forgive the interruption, sir, but a message has come for you.”
“Read it to me, Sergeant, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s sealed, sir. From General Twiggs’s office, sir.”
“Read it, Sergeant. Not much in the way of military secrets passing through there these days.”
Morgan broke the seal with a flourish, sent a piece of wax flying past Lee, hitting the window.
“Oh, sorry, sir. I’m not used to opening these things.”
Lee tried to smile, felt very tired, didn’t have it in him. “Go on, read it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, ‘To Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, dated February fourth, 1861, by direct order of the War Department, you are hereby relieved of duty with the Second Regiment of Cavalry and are hereby ordered to report in person to General in Chief Winfield Scott in Washington, prior to April first.’ Good God.”
Abruptly, Lee was awake. He reached out, and Morgan stared at the order, reluctantly handed it to him.
“I assume, Sergeant, that last comment is from you, not from the War Department?”
“Oh my God! Oh . . . yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I never read one of these before. You have been . . . relieved of command, sir? I’m terribly sorry. What did you do?”
“Sergeant, I have no idea. But it appears my services here are . . . concluded.”
He looked at the order, and saw there were no added remarks from Twiggs, he had simply passed it along, and Lee thought, probably with pleasure. He stood, pulled his blue coat from a hook on the wall, put it on.
“Sergeant, thank you. That will be all.”
Morgan saluted, said, “Colonel, I’m . . . I have enjoyed serving in your command. You will be missed, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. You are dismissed.”
The man left the office, closed the door gently behind him. Lee smiled, thought, I should have told him to keep this quiet.
He went to the window, bent over, put his hands on the dirty sill, looked out, saw nothing moving, no troops. He straightened, pulled down on his coat.
“I don’t suppose it makes much difference anymore.”
AS HIS coach entered San Antonio, Lee knew immediately there were changes. The streets were filled, people carrying all manner of weapons, a ragged army caught up in the passions he had feared.
The coach approached the hotel, his stopover for the night. He planned to leave the city the next day, making the roundabout trip back home, to Washington, and to Arlington. There was a late winter chill, a cold wind that washed down the streets, and as Lee stepped from the carriage, he drew attention. Several armed men approached, and Lee saw they were all wearing red armbands.
“Whoa, there, we got an officer here!” Lee looked at the man, saw a rough face, ragged clothes, and a rusty rifle. The man stepped closer, looked Lee over, did not point the rifle, but held it high, ready.
Lee saw others, more rough faces, and he thought, Get inside the hotel, now. Then another man moved up and onto the steps, blocking his way, and Lee turned to the first man, said, “Who is in charge here? Do you have a . . . commander?”
“Yep, reckon we do. Ben McCulloch. Now, soldier, if I was you, I’d be a-moving on out of here real soon.”
Lee knew the name. McCulloch was commander of the Texas Rangers, a man who certainly would side with his home state.
“Gentlemen, I have no intention of staying here any longer than it may take me to arrange transportation.”
He looked across the wide street, toward the buildings that belonged to the army and the one building that had briefly been his office. On top he saw a new flag, moving slowly in the cold breeze, the Lone Star.
Up on the wagon his driver, a corporal, waited for his instructions, and Lee saw the young man’s growing fear, knew that could be bad. He nodded silently to him in an attempt to reassure, then turned back to the man closest to him.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, polite, respectful. “May my aide and I be allowed into the hotel?”
The man moved closer. His face hardened as he stared at Lee. He took another step closer, put his hands on his hips and leaned forward, his face close to Lee’s. It was a taunt, bait for