Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [68]
Hancock glanced out the window, to the cluster of blue coats sitting around Johnston’s wagon, the show of perfect loyalty to their commander. He looked back, across the small room, saw both men looking at him, felt the weight of the gaze, as though it was him, he was the one not doing the right thing.
“Gentlemen, I offer you no advice. I will fight for my country, my whole country. I do not believe we are a collection of independent states, but one nation, and my duty is to preserve that nation. I do not sympathize with your pain, or the torment of your decision. Your conscience must guide you, and in the end only you will know if your decision was the right one.”
Johnston stood, went slowly to the door, pulled it open, turned to Hancock and said, “Captain, we are all men of honor. Remember that. God will judge our choices.”
Hancock moved to an empty chair and stood behind it, resting a hand on the back. He rubbed the smooth dark wood, looked up and into the face of his former commander. “Sir,” he said, “it is not God who will assemble us on the battlefield, nor position our troops, nor place the cannon, and it is not God who will aim the musket.”
13. LEE
May 1861
IN THE days that followed Lee’s official appointment, he presided over an extraordinary effort at organizing a defensive line across northern Virginia. Governor Letcher had provided him with a long list of volunteer officers, with many names from the old army. He began the delicate balancing act of placing good men in key positions, while tolerating the political appointments given to “distinguished citizens,” whose grasp of military service was usually limited to their ability to look good on a horse, wearing a dashing new uniform.
He was alone in his new office, across the street from the governor’s offices, pondering the most recent list, the names from which he would organize an army. His finger slid down the pages, stopping at names he recognized, and he thought, Good, good, yes, this is very good indeed.
It was not surprising to Lee that most of the Virginians who had served in the old army would rally to their state’s defense, and his confidence began to build as he saw the names, the experienced officers: A. P. Hill, Dick Ewell, George Pickett; men who had been in Mexico. He searched for some names in particular, and was surprised at their absence—his friend George Thomas from Fort Mason—and Lee thought, Well, there is still time.
The offices around Lee’s were buzzing with a mild chaos, and Lee knew his next priority would be the formation of some sort of staff. The paperwork on his desk began to pile ominously, the requests for appointments, local dignitaries from smaller towns, who had organized their own units with themselves at the top, letters of recommendation for friends and relatives from those with political pull. The experienced officers did not make the requests—they would wait for their assignments.
Lee made notes on a separate page, checked a map that hung on the wall to his side, and saw a man standing in his doorway, stiff, silent. The face was familiar. Lee said, “Yes, hello, may I be of assistance?”
The man stepped into the office. He was tall, lean, and sturdy, wearing a dark blue coat, knee-high cavalry boots, and a small billed cap, which Lee could now see carried the insignia of the Virginia Military Institute.
“I believe I know you. . . .” Then Lee remembered Scott’s grand review in Mexico City, the great victory celebration in the center of the capital.
Scott had wanted them all together, would shake the hands of the officers, and so the army had lined up in formation, the troops spread out down the streets to the square, and this one man, this young artillery officer, had stopped the procession, had received a loud and personal congratulations from Scott. It was recognition of more than just duty, but of an officer who had taken his small guns up close, to the face of the enemy, had led his men out in front of the slow advance of the infantry and moved the enemy back on