an arm, a leg, something of the old fighting spirit disappeared along with the limb. But two weeks ago Dick's first action in command of a corps at Winchester had been well fought, but far too many of the routed Union troops had been allowed to escape from what should have been a certain trap.
Ambrose Hill, a brilliant division commander, famed for his red fighting shirt and powerful presence in battle, had been given the newly created Third Corps. He had hoped for some of Jackson's mad dash with Hill, a driving spirit that could move a corps twenty-five miles in a day, throw it into battle, and win.
It was not turning out that way. Hill hid it well, but some said he could barely stay in the saddle, that his temper was short, and he was given of late to periods of withdrawal and morose depression. He was sick and barely fit for the next action.
Then there was Longstreet, the third of his commanders, 'Pete' Longstreet the old warhorse. Solid, reliable, but everyone knew that he could be too methodical, slow, and firm of opinion.
Pete was not for this campaign. It still touched a bit of a sore point that Pete had gone over his head, taking his case directly to the President, agreeing with Seddon's scheme to transfer his corps to Mississippi in order to relieve Vicks-burg. He'd allowed the issue to pass, and since the start of the campaign Longstreet had performed adequately but without real enthusiasm. Adequate was not good enough; he would have to be pushed.
Finally there was Stuart, the boy hero, infatuated with glory. Since the start of the war, the Union cavalry had been a minor annoyance. Brandy Station, fought only three weeks ago, indicated that times were changing. Stuart had been caught off guard. Rooney had said as much.
He wondered now if Stuart's failure to win at Brandy Station lingered and was driving Stuart to seek some new feat of daring and in the process forget what his primary mission was for this campaign, to shield the right flank of the Army of Northern Virginia as it advanced into Pennsylvania.
I have four men who are supposed to be my direct instruments of command. One is still trying to find his way after losing a leg, the second is sick, the third is bullheaded and not fully committed to this operation, and the fourth, well me fourth has simply disappeared.
'Who is truly in command here?' he whispered.
If I am in command, if my men trust me, if they place their very lives into my safekeeping, if my country places in my hands its continued existence, then I must lead with strength. This cannot be another Second Manassas or Chancellorsville, he thought bitterly.
In both actions mere had been a moment, like a hazy vision, of what could lie ahead with just a few more minutes of time, luck, and determination. Both times they had come so close to a total victory, and both times the chance had slipped away, once because of darkness, the other because of Jackson's fatal wounding. And both times nearly twenty thousand of his finest young men had fallen.
'I will not let that happen again,' and as he whispered those words he looked at the men gathered around the camp-fire. Some of them will die within the next week, and by God's Grace it must mean something this time.
This army has one more good fight in it, perhaps the best fight it will ever give. After that the numbers, the relentlessly building power of the North, will tell, no matter how valiantly we fight.
Grant struck him as the embodiment of that new power. He was faceless, remorseless like a machine, it was said, willing to grind down an opponent no matter what the cost. If they take Vicksburg and we do not counter it with a shattering victory in the East, the tide will turn. Grant and his triumphal veterans will be unleashed here or into Tennessee. The noose will tighten, England will stand back, and the Union army will be at the gates of Richmond to stay, with all of his beloved Virginia a scorched battlefield.
He lowered his head.
It is in my hands now, is it not, my Lord? he asked. The burden is mine, the path ahead is mine, and it rests now with me. That is Your Will. I ask You to give me the strength.
I will not let this opportunity, this moment, slip away. The rank and file of the army is ready; it is the top, the commanders, who are not. It is I who have been detached, delegating to others. In the next action I must be in control. The old ways of doing things when Jackson was still alive are finished, at least for this next fight. I must lead, or we shall lose this war.
The thought was startling. It was one thing to contemplate such thoughts when studying the history of others, men such as Napoleon or Caesar or even his own step grandfather-in-law, George Washington. To think such things in relationship to one's self was to him suspect. And yet, still reeling from the intelligence brought to him by Longstreet, he now knew it to be true as he sat atop the knoll in Pennsylvania. The war rested on his shoulders.
If the killing was to end, he must not waver. That, he knew, was the eternal paradox of command. To command well one had to truly love one's army; yet to command well, one had to order that army into a maelstrom of fire and death.
If they are willing to go there, he realized, I must be willing to lead them, if need be to take direct control and abandon my old practice of delegating. 'To take on the aspect of a tiger' was how Shakespeare put it, Lee remembered
Standing up, he stretched, looking back over at the nearest campfire. With his movement, the men about the fire fell silent He mounted, taking up the slack reins, and urged Traveler to a swift canter.
As he rode past, the men came to attention and saluted. He removed his hat in acknowledgment, and a cheer echoed across the field.
'Marse Roberts!'
It was picked up, jumping from campfire to campfire, ringing in his ears as he rode back to headquarters, knowing that all things were now possible.
'Marse Roberts!'
Maj. John Williamson of the Fourteenth South Carolina, Perrin's brigade, Pender's division, of the Third Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia, raised his hand in salute as the shadowy figure trotted past the edge of their camp.
He had seen the old man numerous times, had passed within feet of him when going into action at Sharpsburg. His old college roommate, Walter Taylor, was Lee's aide-decamp, and more than once John had gone to headquarters to visit and seen Lee there. Yet never had John grown used to the presence, to the thrill of it More than one of his friends said that they were in the presence of a new Washington, a presence they would one day tell their grandchildren about If they lived to have grandchildren. 'Coffee, sir?'
John turned. It was Sergeant Hazner, holding a tin cup, offering it
John grinned. Real coffee. Where Hazner had gotten it he didn't bother to ask. Chances were some shopkeeper down in Chambersburg was tonight clutching a receipt from Hazner promising payment from the Confederacy for coffee… ten pounds, upon the close of hostilities.'
There had been strict orders against looting, so now southern Pennsylvania was blanketed with such receipts.
'And try this, sir.' In Hazner's other hand was an open tin can.
John took the can, sniffed it 'What the hell is it?'
'Milk in a can, sir. Never seen the likes of it before. Think of it. Wonder what Yankee thought of it how many girls he's got squeezing a cow's teat with one hand, holding these little cans underneath with the other.'
John laughed, poured half the can into his coffee, and offered it back. He blew on the lip of the cup and took a sip, groaning with delight
'And real sugar in it too.'
'Hazner, what the hell did you do this time to be bribing me like this?'
'Well, sir, there is that little game tonight and I was wondering, us not being paid in months…'
John shook his head. 'George, I'm as broke as you are. Besides, I don't loan out money for gambling. Bad practice; suppose you lose and then get killed in the next fight where will I be?'
'Without coffee and good grub for starters, sir.'
George stepped back to the fire, picked up his own cup, upended the rest of the canned milk into it and then came back to join his major.
John smiled, glorying in the warmth, the sensation of real coffee, the interesting taste of canned milk.
After a year of campaigning in Virginia, this was close to paradise. Yesterday the regimental headquarters had butchered an entire hog, and not just a skinny runt. This one was a fat sow, and John had woken in the morning to the smell of fresh bacon and for dinner had downed a succulent roast lovingly cooked by Cato, the
