Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [71]
He stood, stretched, loosened stiff bones, said aloud, “Enough.”
He went to the door, pulled his coat from a hook, and walked out through the hallway, past offices of noisy officers. He avoided the faces, thought, Please, allow me to get away, just for a while. And then he was safe, outside, walking down the hill away from the building, from the government. He took deep breaths, walked under the full green canopies of the trees, opened up the dark creases of his mind to the warming spring breeze.
He walked to the Spottswood, still his home, thought of something cool to drink, just for a moment, a guilty pleasure. He reached the grand dining room and was relieved to find it nearly empty. He saw the perfect spot, a delightful corner table, and hurried, as though racing against unseen competitors vying for the same chair, then sat down, the victor. A waiter approached; no, not a waiter, a soldier, a tall, thin boy in an officer’s uniform, the uniform of Virginia.
“Sir . . . you are General Lee, are you not, sir?”
Lee knew the escape was over, felt his duty creep back out, pushing away the sunlight. “Yes, Lieutenant, I am.”
“Oh, sir, it is a great pleasure to meet you, sir. I am at your service.”
“Service?” Lee thought of the waiter again, looked past the boy, trying to find someone to bring him . . . something.
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Walter Taylor, sir. I have been assigned to your staff. My orders, sir.”
Taylor pulled an envelope from his pocket, held it out, and Lee saw the governor’s seal, looked at the boy’s face, handsome, the eagerness of the young.
“My . . . staff. Yes, it appears the governor is providing for my assistance . . . hmmm.” Lee finished reading the orders, returned them to the waiting hand.
“Tell me, Lieutenant Taylor, do you know how to write?”
“Write? You mean, can I read? Well, yes sir, certainly, sir.”
“No, I mean, write letters. Capture a good phrase, the gracious message.”
Taylor was puzzled, thought, then said, “Well, yes sir, I believe I can. I write home . . . as often as I can.”
“Good. Then by all means let’s get started.” Lee stood, put aside the thoughts of a cool drink, and Taylor backed up a step, not sure what was happening. Lee put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, turned him around gently, said, “Follow me.”
Taylor glanced over to his own table, his food untouched on a plate, just delivered the moment he saw the general enter the room. He made a quick sidestep, grabbed a piece of bread, stuffed it into his pocket, then galloped after his new commander, who was already outside, returning to his work.
By June, Lee had assisted in the transfer of all the Virginia forces into the Confederate Army. While he assumed there would be a place for him in that army, once again he did not have the political outspokenness to grab a choice position for himself. As he entered the new offices of the Confederate government for a meeting with President Davis, Lee knew he was now in command of a nonexistent army.
He passed through large double doors, and there was no one in the outer office, no voices, none of the manic activity that seemed to fill his own building. He slowed, eased toward Davis’s office, then knocked. There was a muffled sound from inside, a voice, and Lee turned the old brass handle, opened the door.
“Yes? What is it? Oh, General, do come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I didn’t see . . . there’s no one out here.”
“Yes, I know. Sent them home.”
Davis was a tall, angular man. His face carried a fierce expression that rarely softened. He sat behind an enormous desk, signing documents in steady succession.
“Sir, do you have a moment? If this is not a good time—”
“No, do come in, General. Just finishing up some orders here, you know how it is. There, that will hold those people for a while. Damned nuisance, these supply