by Jeff Shaara
He thought of West Point, the old lessons, the textbooks. Of course, it was all Napoleon, massed strength against massed strength. And it should be no different here. Santa Anna expects us to fight by the rules. He suddenly felt very odd, as though some dark place had opened up in his mind. He looked around, thought, Here you are, so focus on the job at hand, figure out how to cut a trail through this … mess. You’re not paying attention. There is something much more important here than hacking a trail through brush, the duty of one engineer. This is strategy, this is what a good commander must do. This is how General Scott will win this war. We don’t have the strength or the ground. So, we use guile. He wrote again, made notes on the map, felt his heart beating. You will remember this, Captain. They did not teach us this in class. What would Napoleon say?
He folded the map away, looked for Fitzwalter, saw the young man in the distance, hands on his knees, staring down at the ground. Now Fitzwalter looked at him, motioned, Come here.
Lee moved that way, saw the young man point down. Lee leaned over, could see small arcs, half circles cut into the hard gray dirt. Horses. It’s a trail. He followed the line of tracks, saw them disappearing into more brush, but the brush was thin, and he moved that way, the young man close behind. The trail was on flat hard ground now, wound down through more shallow ravines, past a small cluster of taller trees. Lee looked up to the left, watching the big hill, thought, We’re still in cover. This will do just fine. He moved quickly now, easing his way forward, kept one eye on Atalaya. If they’re lookouts, they may be watching for us. Don’t get careless.
The trail began to wind to the left, and he kept moving, past more of the taller trees with their canopy of thick green tops. He glanced up, thought, Oaks, but no, they’re different, small leaves, unfamiliar. You’re not in Virginia, Captain.
The trail straightened out again, leading out past the trees, beyond the shorter brush, into another rock field. He stopped, thought, Easy, no cover out there. He looked at both hills, realized Atalaya was on the right, thought, This is it. We’re between the hills. This has to go right out to the main road. He looked toward Atalaya, could see small clumps of brush, some larger trees, looked again toward El Telégrafo, rising to the left. He clenched his fists, wanted to laugh. This is … amazing. We’re in the enemy’s rear. And so far, they have no idea. He glanced up at the sun, nearly straight overhead, looked for Fitzwalter, the canteen, thought, We’re nearly finished here, a little water would be fine. The young man was not on the trail, and Lee felt a sudden dread. No, don’t go off exploring. Not now.
Then Fitzwalter emerged from a line of tall, thick bushes, motioned to Lee, excited, whispered, “Sir, this way. There’s a spring.”
He was gone again, and Lee followed, could hear it now, the marvelous sound of bubbling running water. He reached a clearing, saw Fitzwalter on the far side of a great fat log, a long dead tree. The young man’s head disappeared, then bobbed up from behind the log, dripping with the delicious coolness. Lee smiled, climbed a small rise, reached the log, leaned his hands on the rough old wood. The spring was small, a few feet across, feeding a stream than ran noisily through a channel of rock, a small ditch that carried the clear water to the pass between the two hills.
Fitzwalter pulled his canteen out, knelt down, reaching toward the water. Lee watched him, thought, God has provided. Make note of this on the map. He waited for the young man to fill the canteen, but saw Fitzwalter suddenly freeze, the canteen just above the water, and now there were noises, the sounds Fitzwalter had already heard. Lee looked beyond the spring, saw a trail leading up through the rocks of the big hill. The sounds were louder now, and Lee felt his chest turn cold. Voices.
The young man scrambled back over the log, and Lee helped, pulled his arm sharply, then pushed him away down the short hill. Lee dropped down behind the log. He could hear the voices plainly now, Spanish. The men suddenly appeared on the trail, moving toward the spring. Lee looked down, saw a flat open space beside the log, lay flat out, slid himself hard under the side of the log. He could see underneath the log through a small dip in the ground, could see the motion of the water. He began to push down the log with his left foot, digging with his heel, shoveling dirt along past his feet. The dirt was soft, and blessedly quiet, and he cleared out a small space against the log, thought, How close are they? Maybe once more. He dug his heel into the dirt again, pushed his leg straight. He could hear the voices clearly, thought, All right, enough. He pulled himself tightly into the dampness of the dirt, under the old wood, pulled his legs together, his chest pressing hard into the log above him. He lay his head back slowly, felt his hat give way. He turned his head, stared into the narrow space under the log.
He could see the boots of the soldiers now, dull black leather. He counted … four men. His eyes were filled with sweat now, and he felt the awful burn. He blinked it away to clear his vision. His heart was throbbing, the dusty smell of the old wood filling him, and he held on to his breath, tried to calm himself, keep the sounds away. His right arm was free, and he felt his pistol in his belt, thought, No, only if you have no choice. They will leave soon. Patience. Just … pray. God help me. God protect me.
The talking continued, men filling canteens and bottles, and now there was laughter, words Lee did not understand. He stared at the boots, all gathered beside the spring, saw two of the men moving away. The talk was cheerful, friendly good-byes, and the two men moved up the trail, out of Lee’s sight. Thank God, he thought. He felt his breathing calm, his chest not pressed as hard into the log. Patience, he thought. Just two more. Now one man called out, and Lee felt his heart freeze. He gripped the pistol, but the words were a greeting, not a call of alarm. Then there were more voices, moving closer, and Lee closed his eyes, heard the footsteps in the rocks. Eyes open now, he saw more boots, different this time, one man in gray, one in shiny black. He tried to count. Four more men, maybe five.
There was laughter again, more canteens filled, one man kneeling, suddenly leaning down, and Lee’s heart jumped. He could see the man’s face, dark red skin, a black mustache, his coal-black eyes looking straight at Lee, then away. The man plunged his face into the water. Lee watched him splashing the water, saw a brief glimpse of the face again, then the man was up, moving toward the log. Lee felt the log move slightly, a sudden hard pressure against his chest, the man leaning against the log, the heels of his boots inches from Lee’s face. Lee felt the pistol again, thought, If one of them should come around … take a walk back here. He suddenly thought of the map in his pocket. You cannot be captured. He felt his breathing again, his lungs filled with the damp smell of his own sweat, his chest pushing painfully against the gray wood above him. No. Patience, he thought. They’re just socializing, getting water. But if they have nothing better to do … you could be here for a long time.
The man above him was telling a story now, the others listening, small comments. There was laughter, the man pausing, continuing now, and Lee thought, It would be nice to understand this. Who would ever have thought we’d have a war with someone who spoke Spanish? We all learned French. Not much good now. If I knew Spanish, I might learn something, pick up some piece of information. He listened to the words, heard more laughter, the storyteller growing more enthusiastic. One word was repeated now, emphasized, esposa. Lee knew that one. Wife. No military secrets there. There was a great burst of laughter, the story concluded. The man stood, moved away from the log, and for a moment the voices grew quiet. Lee heard footsteps on rocks, thought, They’re moving away, but no, not all of them. The spring was blocked from his view again, another man bending low, another conversation.
His left leg had grown numb. He closed his eyes again, blinked through more sweat. Turning his head slightly, he looked up, straight at the gray wood above his face. If I am to be here a long time, I had better be comfortable. He tried to flex his left hand, pressed hard into wet dirt between his leg and the ancient wood, the fingers barely able to move. No, nothing I can do a
bout that. He could feel the sweat now, blending with the dampness beneath him, soaking his uniform. He began to feel a coolness. At least you’re in the shade. He shivered, a sharp chill, felt his nose twitch. No, God, no, there will be no sneeze. He flexed the free hand, thought, Bring it up slowly, you can reach your nose. But he could not see his right arm, was not sure how much of his right side was exposed. If the right arm moved … no, keep it still. He clenched his face into a tight frown. There will be no sneeze.
He concentrated on trying to relax, conscious of his breathing. He could hear the steady, low voices of a simple conversation between friends. He was suddenly aware of a pain in his back, between his shoulders. He had not noticed it before, tried to shift his weight slightly, and the pain suddenly knifed into him. No, he thought, don’t move that way. He flexed his shoulders. What is it? A rock? Some small pointed thing in just the wrong place. He shifted his weight again, felt the rock settle slowly into his back, the pain now just a dull stab. I could have swept that rock away, he thought, just one more second. Another message from God. You will stay awake.
HE HAD LOST TRACK OF TIME, COULD FEEL SUNLIGHT WARMING his right arm, thought of the watch in his pocket, unreachable now. The numbness in his leg was now complete, his left hand ached with crushing agony. He faced straight up, his eyes closed, opened them when there was a change in the voices, when the boots moved away on the rocks, or worse, when more of them came down the trail to the spring.
His mind had taken him away, drifting off into darkness, the pains and the agonizing stiffness held aside whenever his mind would allow. He had stopped listening to the blur of meaningless words, just the dull sound of the voices kept rolling through his mind, holding him there, tight against the ancient log. He thought of the log itself, began to wonder, how old? He thought of the taller trees he had seen, but this was much larger, fatter, two and a half, maybe three feet across. And very old.
He had seen nothing else this size in the area, and he thought, Maybe … they were all cut, when the Indians were here, maybe even before Cortez. This land might have been thick woods, changed now, by time, by man’s hand, or, by the hand of God. If this was Virginia, it would be a mass of rot, soft and crumbling, full of bugs, might not even be here at all, long gone, eaten away by weather. He stared up into the dark, tried to see detail in the wood, but it was too close, too dark. It’s almost petrified, rock hard, he thought. Probably hollow. How old, I wonder?
His eyes began to close, and he felt himself slip into a light sleep, then the pain from the small rock dug into him, jarring him into awareness. No, he thought, you cannot slip away. Stay here, stay alert. All it would take is one man, one observant soldier, catching a glimpse of blue behind the log. He gripped the pistol again, thought, Would I have time? I’d take one of them for sure. They would be surprised, off guard. They might not even have weapons, maybe a knife. He felt his stomach curl into a knot. Not a knife, God help me, not a knife. He could not help it, his mind holding the awful image, imagined the blade pushing, slicing inside his gut. He shuddered, blinked hard, No, I do not want to die like that, to feel it like that, the slow, painful horror. No knife, no bayonet. His mind was filled with the awful images, something he had never actually seen, the stuff of nightmares, and he fought it, tried to push it away.
If there is an officer, he would have a pistol, and he felt better now, thought, Yes, there must be an officer, coming to the spring with his men, sending them back up to their posts. Maybe … these are all officers, the privilege of rank, and this spring is their social gathering place. He took a deep breath, quietly exhaled, licked his lips, felt their dryness. At least Fitzwalter got a good drink of water. He felt his heart jump: Fitzwalter, did he get away? There was nothing from the voices to hint that a prisoner had been captured, surely there would have been excitement. He felt relief, thought, He probably made his way back. It might be the only chance I have, the only way anyone will find me. There would be no search party, not out here, not in this place. Silence, discretion, was still important. It would be too risky, could reveal the army’s plans. One engineer was not worth that.
He could feel the warmth again on his right arm, thought, Surely the sun is going down. If I don’t return to camp by dark, they will have to assume I’m captured, or worse. And so, tomorrow, another engineer will follow the same trail, maybe Fitzwalter will lead Lieutenant Beauregard again. Maybe they will get as far as the main road. It doesn’t appear I’m going any farther than this.
He opened his eyes again, focused again on the voices, the sounds of the water. He heard small splashes, a cruel tease, and he opened his mouth slightly, felt the crusty dryness. He moved his tongue, a stump of dried leather, the inside of his mouth like rough wool. Stop this, you cannot think on that. Focus on something … anything else. He tried to turn his head, to see the boots, but his neck was stiff, a twist of pain moved down the wetness of his back. No, just stay still. Patience. His eyes closed, and he suddenly thought of Mary, the sound of the water taking him back to the fountain, the gardens of their lovely mansion. It was high above the Rappahannock River, and across, you could see Fredericksburg.
He was there now, the broad grassy hill, great oak trees, walking with Mary down along the river, tall, thin Mary, walking with that regal stiffness, always on parade. We were so very young, too young for her father. He did not approve of this soldier coming to call on his only daughter. I suppose he expected someone more fitting to his heritage. George Washington Parke Custis, the grandson of Martha Washington, and painfully aware of the responsibility of that. His house was more of a museum than a home, a storehouse for the artifacts of Washington’s presidency. No, Lee thought, Mr. Custis wanted a caretaker for the legacy, someone worthy of the honor. Thank God for Mrs. Custis. Women have a different view of marriage. It has to begin with romance, soft words and tenderness. That is what mattered to Mary, and to her mother.
Lee smiled now, could not help it, remembered the nervousness, his hands and voice shaking, catching her alone, a brief moment without supervision in the kitchen, and the awkward proposal. Her face, the shy smile … the moment began to fade and he thought, What would she say to me now? Robert, you are filthy and you will not come through that door until you have seen the washtub.…
He worried about her, even now, thought, She was sick again this winter. How much of that is my fault? I missed being home for Christmas. The first time, since the beginning, since the wedding. No matter the duty, no matter how far away, there was always a way to get home. There was never anything so important that I would not spend Christmas with my family. Until now. And it seemed … He smiled again, could hear the teasing, his friends at the different posts, Fort Monroe, Fort Hamilton. Every visit home seemed to produce another child, another Lee, seven now, and he remembered the joke, “Captain, you’re producing your own army.” He focused again. The first Christmas apart. God cannot be pleased.
He tried to clear his head, opened his eyes, felt all the pains come back, the awful thirst, growing worse now, his breathing painful, labored, the awful stiffness in his chest. He tried to open his mouth again, but the numbness had come up his back into his neck, his jaw. He tried to think about that. It’s better than pain, I suppose. God’s gift. The body grows quiet, still, numb, like … dying. Perhaps this is the way, the blessing God gives us when death comes, the relief from the awful pain. He blinked, scolded himself. Stop this, Captain. You are not dying. You’re supposed to be a soldier. You must endure this. He blinked again, felt something flicker into his eye, dust, some piece of the wood finding the vulnerable place.
He held his eyes closed, but there were no tears, nothing to help. All right, use this. It is another distraction. Perhaps … He felt suddenly like laughing. It is another test. God is playing with you. What have I done, why this torment? He fluttered his eyes, tried to brush away the piece of debris, felt angry now. Please. He fought it again, tried to calm himself, scolded again.
Patience, Captain. That
is the test. Patience. Nothing has changed. The voices were still there, and he flexed the fingers of his right hand, felt the pistol again, thought, If they find me now … how much good will this do? Can I even grip the handle, pull the trigger? I’m as petrified as this log. He suddenly felt a great sadness, thought, This is how it will end, under a log at the feet of the enemy. Even Fitzwalter doesn’t know where I am by now.
He began to drift again, could hear a strange voice, far away, a dream from some deep place. He tried to see the face, but there was no one there, the old man’s voice a strange echo. He tried to remember to picture the face with the voice, thought, Yes, I know it’s you, it has to be. The old man’s words were a jumble, nonsense, and Lee fought through it, tried to see his father’s face. He never dreamed about his father, did not recall much of the early days, the old man rarely around, always in some kind of trouble, some shameful scandal. I wish I had known him back then, the old days, the Revolution. He was a hero to his country, Light-Horse Harry. I could use a hero right now.
The old man’s voice was gone, and now Lee saw the face of his mother, it came to him in a sudden shock of recognition, and he felt light-headed now, dizzy. He tried to hear the voice of his father again, did not want to see her, but he could not push her image away. She was staring at him, calm, clear-eyed, and he was suddenly very small, and very ashamed. I do not have the right, he thought. I cannot feel sorry for myself. I must be … He held the word away, did not want to hear it, his mind fighting her image. She seemed to smile at him now, and he could not fight it, felt the great awful sadness, could see her in the bed, so fragile. He leaned over her, held her, her eyes still looking at him, the only piece of her still alive, and he knew what she was saying. I must be … strong. Because she cannot, because there is no one else now. It is my duty. It will always be my duty.