cover his face, and mourn those whom he has slain.
'When he comes at you in this next fight he will not hesitate. He wants this war to end, and the only way he sees how is to break our will to resist Sir, remember, he will seek the battle of decision the same way Napoleon would. Napoleon was someone he admired.' 'Lee admires the Corsican!’
'Not for his politics, but yes, for his method of battle. Napoleon was a master at breaking the will to resist, the climax of the grand charge that sends the enemy fleeing the way he did at Marengo and Austerlitz. Lee cannot afford another half victory like the last several fights. It goes against his nature, and it tears at his soul.'
'What do you mean, 'tears at his soul'?'
'He wants to believe there is purpose in this world, 'a logic and reason, God's higher plan, if you will. War, in contrast, represents chaos to him. If he justifies his own actions, it is that he seeks to end the chaos on God's terms, which means a swift victory, brutal in the Old Testament sense if necessary, but a finish.'
Meade snorted derisively and poured another drink.
'Fight and the devil take the hindmost' Meade growled. 'If you want a purpose, there it is. I never had any use for worrying beyond that. When you are dead, that's it'
'You asked for my opinion on the old man,' Henry replied coolly. 'Every battle where men are killed-both his and ours-with no conclusive result gnaws at him. It represents chaos to him. He'll want to close it off. The irony is that in so doing he'll create a bloodbath. I expect that when we finally collide, he'll come at us like a wolf at the scent of his prey.'
If we can choose our ground and dig in, then let him come at us.'
'Make sure that it's him coming at us and not the other way around,' Henry offered.
Meade looked up at him coldly, the glance a signal that Henry was offering advice where it wasn't wanted, but he pushed ahead anyhow.
'He'll come straight at us, but if he can see a chance to flank, he'll do it He lost Jackson, who was the master of that game. There's a hole now in his command, which I doubt either Dick Ewell or Ambrose Hill can fill. This change in his high command might put him off balance. As a result there's a chance Lee might take the reins himself rather than let his subordinates run things once battle is joined. I heard from a prisoner that he fought the ending of Chancellorsville that way, right down to taking charge of individual brigades. He might do that again next time, and if so, be careful, sir. He'll come in hard then. If blunted, look for a flank. Keep a sharp eye on the flank, sir.'
'I appreciate the advice,' Meade said coldly, 'but it's Lee I want to know about, not your analysis of how I should fight'
'That's about it' Henry replied quietly. 'You liked him, didn't you?'
Henry nodded reluctantly. 'I trusted him. At times he seemed a little too perfect In peacetime that could put some men off; but in war, a man like that who can inspire perfect trust…' and his voice trailed off.
He realized he had just insulted Meade and, fumbling, he poured another drink for himself, nearly finishing the bottle.
'We probe farther north tomorrow. I want the Artillery Reserve up in support position by Wednesday the first' Meade leaned back over the table and pointed at the map. 'As soon as you arrange that then I want you to go survey the land along the creek up by Westminster. I want you to accompany General Warren. He's my chief topographical engineer, but I want an artilleryman's eyes looking at it as well. See if this could be your next Malvern Hill. We want good ground.'
His tone indicated dismissal and, standing, Henry saluted and left the tent
The camp was quiet It was past midnight; a mist was rising, cool, pleasant after the heat of the long day. Campfires had burned down to smoldering embers, more than one staff officer curled up on the ground, a few sitting in camp chairs, talking softly. A couple looked up, curious, then returned to their private conversations, ignoring him.
Henry walked back to where he had dismounted, spotted his horse tied to a peach tree, saddle taken off. The orderly had even rubbed him down. Caesar was cropping the rich grass. He looked up at Henry's approach, snorted, and accepted the scratch behind the ears.
Henry had named all his mounts after generals of classical history. Hannibal, the last, had broken a leg at Fredericksburg. Before him there had been Hasdrubal, Pompey, and Vespasian. He sadly wondered how long Caesar would survive.
Never get attached to them, he thought, and never get attached to the men either.
That must be eating Lee alive. He was attached more than any of them to those he commanded. He wanted the killing to end, but he knew as well that in order for it to end he had to be absolutely ruthless. The strain might very well destroy him, but even that he would see as the Will of God
Henry suddenly felt a terrible wave of sadness, of remorse and pain for the old man.
Damn, he's a traitor, he tried to reason, but at least for this moment he allowed himself a moment of pity.
Leaning against Caesar, Henry watched the moon hanging low in the western sky, wondering where Lee was, what he was thinking, and wondering as well if he could kill Lee if given the chance.
The chilling thought was there as well that Lee, the gentle, the soft-spoken and kind, would kill him without a moment's hesitation if that was necessary for victory, and Henry knew he had to brace himself to do the same.
Chapter Three
JULY I, 1863, 8:45 AM
UNION MILLS, MARYLAND
Henry Hunt reined in, Warren at his side. Warren uncorked a canteen of water and handed it over to Henry, who nodded his thanks. The day was already warm, though a light shower had brushed across the landscape shortly after dawn.
'This is a damn good position,' Warren offered, and Henry nodded in agreement
The ground before them sloped down to a broad, open marshy plain, bisected by a narrow creek. A mill with a pond backed up beyond was to his right He carefully studied the area, while Warren, with one leg drawn up over the pommel of his saddle, took a small sketchbook out and carefully traced in the topographical details, noting down distances, buildings, roads, elevations.
'Clear fields of fire,' Henry announced. 'This must have been lumbered off years ago for the mill down there. God, I could line a hundred guns up along these heights and hold it till doomsday.'
'If they come down this far.'
Henry, still holding Warren's canteen, leaned over, watching as the engineer drew his map. Personally he found Warren to be difficult at times, a bit too officious; but he respected the man for his eye, his sense of ground, how it affected battle and movement
'We've got the potential for a remarkable defensive position here,' Warren announced, inverting the pencil in his hand, tracing out the line they had ridden along so far with the blunt end. 'This creek bottom just east of Taneytown over to here; open fields of fire along the entire length. This is good killing ground, exceptional.' Henry nodded in agreement.
Henry dismounted, one of his staff taking the reins. The men riding with them were nervous. Everyone was on edge, not knowing where the rebel cavalry might be lurking. He walked a few yards along the road they had come out on while riding the ridgeline bordering the creek. The road, he realized, must be the main pike running from Westminster up toward Littlestown and Gettysburg beyond. It was well paved with crushed limestone, but torn up now by the passage of thousands of troops and cavalry. If the fight should come down this way, it would be a main line of advance.
He scanned the ground, a bit rocky but still a good position to dig in guns. Yes, if it should be fought here, along this line, this would be the place to hold.
Stretching, he walked back to his mount and got back in the saddle. Warren was finished sketching, folding
