Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [98]
19. LEE
June 1862
HE ENTERED his office, saw Taylor behind his desk, thumbing through a stack of letters. The new title that had been given to Lee, Military Adviser to the President, a title with nothing of significance attached, no real duty other than remaining near Davis, also provided for promotions for his staff. Taylor had received a commission of Major.
Lee paused, watched the young man, smiled at the quick movements, the efficiency. He is just a boy, Lee thought, and he’s a major. It took me nearly twenty years. . . .
“Oh, good morning, sir. You’re early, I didn’t expect you this soon.”
“Good morning, Major. Any news? Anything from General Johnston’s headquarters?”
“Sorry, sir, nothing. I spoke this morning with some men from General Hood’s brigade . . . Texans.”
Lee smiled, could not hide the reaction to the name, saw the huge man, John Bell Hood, the bright blond hair and beard, the only man Lee knew from his days in the cavalry who actually liked it there, chasing impossibly elusive Indians through the suffocating dust.
“You certain it was General Hood’s men?”
“Yes, sir. They came from Seven Pines, sir.”
“Seven Pines? So, our army is closer still.”
“Yes, sir. They told of being whipped at Williamsburg, said General McClellan had pushed them out of the trenches at Fort Magruder.”
“They said that? We have abandoned Williamsburg?”
“Yes, sir. They didn’t know much else, so I talked to some others, and they said pretty much the same thing. McClellan is apparently hot on their heels.”
Lee turned, went to his window, expected to hear something, cannon, some sign. There was no sound. He thought, This is madness. McClellan has never been hot on anybody’s heels. And did Davis know this, know of losing Williamsburg?
“Major, I am going to take a ride. It is not necessary to inform anyone in what direction I am riding.”
Taylor was puzzled. “Direction . . . ?”
“Major, I can no longer stay here and endure General Johnston’s silence.”
Lee heard the heavy sound of boots in the hall, then a young man, Major Marshall, another boy with the new responsibility of a senior officer, entered. Marshall stopped, startled to see Lee, and saluted, jarring his wire-rimmed glasses to one side.
“General, sir. Please forgive me for being late, sir.”
He glanced at Taylor, asked quickly under his breath, “Am I late?”
Lee’s mind was moving ahead, beyond the office, and he stepped toward the door, put a hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Major, we’re taking a ride.”
Marshall trailed after Lee, then turned back to Taylor, still confused. Taylor laughed, seeing the young man’s awkward expression, waved him away with a loud whisper, “Good luck on your mission, Major!”
THEY WERE not far from the city when they came upon the first troops, men of Gustavus Smith’s brigades. The men were down, lying about in large clusters, trying to avoid the vast patches of thick mud from the hard rains that had soaked these swamps the last few days.
Lee and Marshall rode on, passed more resting troops, then reached an intersection where a large building was identified with a makeshift sign, THE OLD TAVERN. Across from the tavern was a farmhouse, and Lee stopped, saw horses, officers moving in and out. To the east, in the distance, he heard the sound, the soft rumble of artillery, then a steady rattle, a flow of musket fire.
“This way, Major.”
Lee dismounted by the horses, and the men coming from the house stopped and gave a surprised salute.