The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [9]
“You’re sure?”
“Well, it was Meade the newspaper said, but you know them damn newspapers.”
Longstreet thought: new factor. He spurred the horse, but he couldn’t move fast because of the dark. Lee must listen. God bless the politicians. Reynolds was their best man. Why did they go to Meade? But I’m sorry to see Hooker go. Old Fighting Joe. Longstreet said, “It was Meade, then, and not Reynolds?”
“Rumor was that Reynolds was offered the job but wouldn’t have it on a plate. That’s what the paper said.”
Old John’s too smart to take it. Not with that idiot Halleck pulling the strings. But Meade? Fussy. Engineer. Careful. No genius for sure. But a new factor. A Pennsylvania man. He will know this country.
The spy chatted on amiably. He seemed to need to talk. He was saying, “Strange thing about it all, thing that bothers me is that when you do this job right nobody knows you’re doing it, nobody ever watches you work, do you see? And sometimes I can’t help but wish I had an audience. I’ve played some scenes, ah, General, but I’ve been lovely.” The spy sighed, puffed, sighed again. “This current creation, now, is marvelous. I’m a poor half-witted farmer, do you see, terrified of soldiers, and me lovely young wife has run off with a drummer and I’m out a-scourin’ the countryside for her, a sorrowful pitiful sight I am. And people lookin’ down their noses and grinnin’ behind me back and all the time tellin’ me exactly what I want to know about who is where and how many and how long ago, and them not even knowin’ they’re doin’ it, too busy feelin’ contemptuous. There are many people, General, that don’t give a damn for a human soul, do you know that? The strange thing is, after playing this poor fool farmer for a while I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Because nobody cares.”
They came to Lee’s camp, in the grove just south of Chambersburg. By the time they got there Longstreet knew that the spy was telling the truth. Young Walter Taylor was up, annoyed, prissy, defending General Lee’s night’s rest even against Longstreet, who glowed once with the beginning of rage, and sent Taylor off to get the old man out of bed. They dismounted and waited. The spy sat under an awning, grinning with joy at the prospect of meeting Lee. Longstreet could not sit down. He disliked getting the old man up: Lee had not been well. But you could lose the war up here. Should have gone to Vicksburg. News from there very bad. It will fall, and after that … we must win here if we are to win at all, and we must do it soon. The rain touched him; he shivered. Too damn much rain would muck up the roads.
Lee came out into the light. The spy hopped to attention. Lee bowed slightly, stiffly.
“Gentlemen.”
He stood bareheaded in the rain: regal, formal, a beautiful white-haired, white-bearded old man in a faded blue robe. He looked haggard. Longstreet thought: He looks older every time you see him. For a moment the spy was silent, enraptured, then he bowed suddenly from the waist, widely, formally, gracefully, plucking the floppy hat from the balding head and actually sweeping the ground with it, dandy, ridiculous, something off a stage somewhere designed for a king.
“General,” the spy said grandly, “à votre service.” He said something else in a strange and Southern French. Longstreet was startled at the transformation.
Lee glanced at Longstreet: a silent question. Longstreet said, “Beg pardon, sir. I thought this urgent. The man has information.”
Lee looked at the spy silently. His face showed nothing. Then he said formally, “Sir, you must excuse me, I do not know your name.”
“The name is Harrison, sir, at present.” The spy grinned toothily. “The name of an ex-President, ex-general. A small joke, sir. One must keep one’s sense of humor.”
Lee glanced again at Longstreet. Longstreet said, “The man has the position of the Union Army. He says they are very close. I have a map.”
He moved to the map table, under the awning. The spy followed with reproach. Lee came slowly to the table, watching the man. After a moment he said to Harrison,