The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [34]
“Sir?”
Lee looked up. Young Walter Taylor. Lee came slowly awake, back to the misty world. Taylor stood in the rain with inky papers—a cool boy of twenty-four, already a major.
“Good morning, sir. Trust you slept well?”
The clear black eyes were concerned. Lee nodded. Taylor was a slim and cocky boy. Behind Lee’s back he called him “The Great Tycoon.” He did not know that Lee knew it. He had a delicate face, sensitive nostrils. He said cheerily, “Nothing from General Stuart, sir.”
Lee nodded.
“Not a thing, sir. We can’t even pick up any rumors. But we mustn’t fret now, sir.” A consoling tone. “They haven’t got anybody can catch General Stuart.”
Lee turned to the beautiful horse. He had a sudden rushing sensation of human frailty, death like a blowing wind: Jackson was gone, Stuart would go, like leaves from autumn trees. Matter of time.
Taylor said airily, “Sir, I would assume that if we haven’t heard from the general it is obviously because he has nothing to report.”
“Perhaps,” Lee said.
“After all, sir, Longstreet’s man is a paid spy. And an actor to boot.” Taylor pursed his lips primly, flicked water from a gray cuff.
Lee said, “If I do not hear from General Stuart by this evening I will have to send for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll send the Maryland people. They’ll be familiar with the ground.”
“Very good, sir.” Taylor shifted wet papers. “Message here from General Hill, sir.”
“Yes.”
“The General wishes to inform you that he is going into Gettysburg this morning with his lead division.” Taylor squinted upward at a lightening sky. “I expect he’s already under way. He advises me that there is a shoe factory in the town and his men intend to, ah, requisition some footgear.” Taylor grinned.
“General Ewell is moving down from the north?”
“Yes, sir. The rain may slow things somewhat. But General Ewell expects to be in the Cashtown area by noon.”
Lee nodded. Taylor peered distastefully at another paper.
“Ah, there is a report here, sir, of Union cavalry in Gettysburg, but General Hill discounts it.”
“Cavalry?”
“Yes, sir. General Pettigrew claims he saw them yesterday afternoon. General Hill says he was, ah, overeager. General Hill says he expects no opposition but perhaps some local militia, with shotguns and such.”
Taylor grinned cheerily. Lee remembered Longstreet’s spy. If it is Union cavalry, there will be infantry close behind it. Lee said, “Who is Hill’s lead commander?”
“Ah, that will be General Heth, sir.”
Harry Heth. Studious. Reliable. Lee said, “General Hill knows I want no fight until this army is concentrated.”
“Sir, he does.”
“That must be clear.”
“I believe it is, sir.”
Lee felt a thump, a flutter in his chest. It was as if the heart was turning over. He put his hand there, passed one small breathless moment. It happened often: no pain, just a soft deep flutter. Taylor was eyeing him placidly. He had no fear of the Army of the Potomac.
“Will the General have breakfast?”
Lee shook his head.
“We have flapjacks in small mountains, sir. You must try them, sir. Fresh butter and bacon and wagons of hams, apple butter, ripe cherries. Never seen anything like it, sir. You really ought to pitch in. Courtesy of mine host, the great state of Pennsylvania. Nothing like it since the war began. Marvelous what it does for morale. Never saw the men happier. Napoleon knew a thing or two, what? For a Frenchman?”
Lee said, “Later.” There was no hunger in the glassy chest. Want to see Longstreet. Up ahead, in the mist, A. P. Hill probes toward Gettysburg like a blind hand. Hill was new to command. One-legged Ewell was new to command. Both had replaced Stonewall Jackson, who was perhaps irreplaceable. Now there was