Morgan saw the reality of Meredith’s comments about Lee’s love for horses as they neared that all-important boundary, the Potomac River.
It had been raining steadily for three days and two nights, and the roads were like mucky bogs. In some places the artillery caissons sank to the wheel hubs.
Morgan was following Lee and his officers, having pulled up closer behind than usual because the general was riding right through the marching men. They always pressed him, the boldest reaching out to simply touch Traveler, who always bore such adulation with great dignity. Many times the men would fall into step behind General Lee, and Morgan had been obliged to push through them so that he wouldn’t fall far behind.
They passed the marching infantry and began to ride alongside the road because the artillery wagons were strung out in a long line. The second caisson they approached was stuck, its left wheel canted down into a deep rut, the cannon muzzle pointed crazily up toward the nearby hills.
Morgan heard shouting and cursing, and as he came around the caisson, he saw a man beating a horse. Instantly he spurred Vulcan and flew to a stop just beside the man. Morgan opened his mouth to shout at him, but behind his left ear he heard, “You, sir! Stop beating that horse this instant!”
Morgan saw the man freeze, stick in midair, staring in horror, his mouth open.
Morgan turned to see General Robert E. Lee, his eyes flashing dark fire, his mouth set in a thin grim line. Righteous indignation seemed to form a red aura around him. It grew strangely quiet.
General Lee spoke again, and his voice was quieter, but his face was still flushed with anger. “You are doing no good to your horse, your men, or your army, Sergeant.” Sharply he turned Traveler and rode past the caisson.
After a moment, Morgan recovered himself and followed him. He looked back at the man, whose face was such a tragic mask that he looked more like he’d been gut-shot than reprimanded. Morgan knew exactly how he felt but had little sympathy for him. Mostly he was happy that the man had suffered such shame. Personally Morgan thought all men who beat horses should be beaten themselves.
All that long march, Morgan reflected upon the incident. It was a side of Robert E. Lee that he had never seen, never even imagined. To him, Lee had always been the perfect picture of a gentleman, unfailingly courteous, diplomatic, tactful, gallant to women, patient and kind to children, and longsuffering with the burdens of being a leader of men.
Finally Morgan came to realize that, yes, Lee had all those virtues, but he must also feel the heat of strong emotions, because he would not be a whole man if he did not. He just kept his temper tightly controlled, because that was the kind of man that he was. It was very rare for Lee to allow that temper to show, and Morgan was convinced that when he did, it was because he chose to do so. Morgan valiantly swore to himself that he would never ever do anything to deserve that kind of treatment from Lee. He had seen that there were worse things than beatings after all.
The Army of Northern Virginia marched into Maryland, fifty thousand strong. General George McClellan, back in command, marched south with ninety thousand men. They met at a little town called Sharpsburg. By it ran a lazy stream, Antietam Creek. After three days in September of 1862, Sharpsburg in the South and Antietam in the North automatically conjured up visions of piles of dead bodies. September 17th came to be known as the Bloodiest Day.
General McClellan, true to form, could not bring himself to order his troops to fight the fast-maneuvering Confederates in a large-scale attack. He threw in his men piecemeal. He sent Joe Hooker in here, and Stonewall Jackson furiously beat him back. McClellan ordered Burnside to cross Antietam by that bridge, and his troops were mercilessly slaughtered. Two fresh divisions arrived over there, but McClellan said they should not engage until they had received “rest and refreshment.”
No one could ever figure out why McClellan simply would not order his army to fight the kind of all-out battles that were crucial for victory in the field. It was not that he was personally a coward. He had served with distinction in the Mexican War. He had even served briefly with Robert E. Lee, surveying Tolucca. For his service he was twice brevetted.
Little Mac did have a tendency to procrastinate and dawdle, but this still did not explain why, when he finally did have a superb army fielded, he would not fight the enemy. Some suggested that he was simply intimidated by Robert E. Lee, and this may have very well been true. But particularly at Sharpsburg, where he had the advantage in numbers of almost two to one, it would seem that he could have rock-solid confidence enough to simply overrun the ragtag horde of screaming rebels.
But he did not, and after three days of fighting, Lee was withdrawing back across the Potomac, his walking wounded and ambulances and slow supply train completely unmolested.
General Lee’s plan of invading the North had failed. Though the Army of Northern Virginia had a tactical victory over the Union Army, they could not hold the ground, and so in reality the outcome was inconclusive. The North had won a strategic victory because the rebels had to withdraw.
And so General Lee led his men back to blessed Virginia, to the fertile and peaceful Shenandoah Valley to rest and refit. It was fall when they came back home, and it was beautiful. For this, and for many other things, General Robert E. Lee gave simple thanks to God.
Morgan Tremayne found himself in a singular position in the Army of Northern Virginia. He was certain that no other private was as fortunate. As they readied to march, he reflected that the thousands of lowly privates, corporals, and sergeants couldn’t possibly be as well-informed as he was. He knew exactly where they were going—Fredericksburg—and exactly what they were facing—125,000 Yankees. He knew that again General Robert E. Lee was outnumbered, because Morgan understood that once the two corps of the thinly-stretched army gathered together to face this new threat, there would barely be seventy-eight thousand Rebels.
The average man in the field never had such information until he was looking across some creek or pasture at another average man in blue. In fact, Stonewall Jackson was so secretive that even his brigade commanders sometimes did not know where they were going. Stonewall had a habit of going around, loudly asking if anyone had good maps of the roads to X when their destination was actually Y.
“Hit don’t fool nobody no more,” Meredith had told Morgan with amusement. “Wherever Ol’ Blue Light’s axing for maps, they knows that’s the place where they can’t be found.”
“True, but I guess they still don’t know the place where they can be found,” Morgan had said, chuckling.
Meredith and Perry were half of the reason Morgan was so well-informed. Most of the officers had their own cooks, and cooks talk. Morgan reflected wryly that if a spy was smart, he’d forget trying to infiltrate the upper echelon of officers and just become a cook. They heard everything, and they told each other everything.
Perry, on the other hand, was stubbornly closemouthed. He heard practically every meeting that General Lee had at his headquarters. For months he wouldn’t tell Morgan anything, and it frustrated Morgan to no end, but he finally gave up trying to weasel information out of the silent, somber man.
However, Morgan was as fully dedicated as Perry in ensuring that General Lee never had to worry about his clothing, personal equipment, and supplies. Morgan made sure that Perry had chalk for white gauntlets, boot polish, leather soap and conditioner, valet brushes, laundry soap, plenty of needles and thread, and brass and silver polish. Whenever Morgan had time after caring for the horses, he would help Perry mend or launder General Lee’s clothing, linens, and blankets.
It was during these quiet nights in winter camp that Perry began to talk to Morgan about the events of the day. Morgan determined to keep Perry’s confidences and never spoke to anyone else about things Perry had told him, not even Meredith.
And, too, Morgan himself became party to many of General Lee’s talks with his officers. Lee rode Traveler every day, and often his commanders and staff accompanied him. Over tim
e they began to regard Morgan much as they did Meredith and Perry, as a useful servant tending the horses but not as a person that would have any interest in matters above their station. They talked freely while he stood, mutely holding the horses or riding just behind General Lee and overhearing every word.
When he wrote to Jolie, Morgan was always extremely careful never to reference exactly where the army was, and particularly any future plans that he learned of. He knew all too well that this, not enemy spying, was the way word got around the country about the army’s movements. The mail was running faithfully, and practically every home, plantation, or shack in Virginia had someone’s mother, father, sister, or brother there. Men who would rather die a torturous death than betray the Confederacy unwittingly mailed out all kinds of information every day. Morgan made certain that he was never guilty of this.
On October 6th, General Lee got word that the Yankees had crossed the Potomac and were heading south. That day Morgan wrote a long letter to Jolie, telling her all about the beautiful fall hardwoods in the mountains and about all the horses he cared for.
But on November 6th, when Perry told Morgan that the Army of the Potomac was at full strength and heading for Fredericksburg, Morgan agonized over the letter he wrote to Jolie that day. He ached to warn her that apparently a big battle was going to be fought just ten miles from Rapidan Run. At the end of the day, his letter was all about the gallons of maple syrup he’d found at a nearby farm and the kind farmer who had happily sold it to him for practically worthless Confederate money.
On November 9th, it was reported to headquarters that for some reason the Union army had come to an abrupt stop in their march to the Rappahannock River. The next day—within twenty-four hours after the Army of the Potomac itself had found out—Lee knew the reason for the halt. Little Mac had been replaced by General Ambrose E. Burnside, and the transfer of command had taken place on that day.
As they washed General Lee’s dishes that night, Perry told Morgan, “Gen’ral Longstreet had supper with Marse Robert tonight, you know.”
“Yes, I saw him ride up,” Morgan said. “How is Old Pete these days?”
Perry appeared to be considering a very complex question, for he sucked on his lower lip for a time then said, “D’ ye know, Marse Robert calls him ‘My Old War Horse.’”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Morgan said with interest. Such were priceless tidbits that he often gleaned from Perry.
“Yassuh, he does,” Perry asserted. “Marse Robert, he can talk to Gen’ral Longstreet easier than some of them younger, flightier officers. They say Gen’ral Longstreet is slow, but I’m of a mind that he’s careful. Anyways, Marse Robert tole him tonight at supper what he thought of this new man Mr. Linkum is a-throwin’ at him now.”
Perry had very complex unwritten and unspoken rules for his conversations, and Morgan knew them now. If he showed too much eagerness to hear this conversation repeated, Perry would stubbornly clam up. If, however, Morgan showed only mild interest, Perry would repeat the conversation or the comment, sometimes word for word. So Morgan kept vigorously scrubbing a pillowcase on the scrubboard and said carelessly, “Is that right.”
“Dat’s right. Gen’ral Longstreet tole Marse Robert that this man named Burnside is the Yankee gen’ral now, and he was glad ’bout it. Said this Burnside weren’t near as good as Gen’ral McClellan. But seems like Marse Robert was sorry to hear him go. ‘We always understood each other so well. I fear they may continue to make these changes till they find someone whom I don’t understand,’ said Marse Robert.”
Morgan almost smiled. It was a typically genteel comment Robert E. Lee would make about a deadly enemy. It was funny, too, because whenever Perry quoted Lee, his speech became flawless, as Lee’s was. Morgan liked the old servant and had come to enjoy his company greatly, whether he was telling Morgan crucially sensitive information or just discussing which kind of laundry soap he had found most effective.
Somewhat to Morgan’s surprise, he realized that he thought of Perry and Meredith not as servants or as two more of hundreds of black men he had known but as valued friends.
The Army of Northern Virginia left the pastoral hills around Culpeper and marched east. On the storm-swept afternoon of November 20, 1862, General Lee handed Traveler’s reins to Morgan and took half a dozen steps up to the crest of a hill. He took out his field glasses and studied the ground.
Below him lay the old picturesque hamlet of Fredericksburg, nestled in neat squares along the flat west bank of the Rappahannock River. The east bank rose up into a range of hills called Stafford Heights, and this was where the enemy was encamped. But behind Fredericksburg, the land sloped up gently to this long wooded ridge that was about the same elevation as Stafford Heights. Lee knew that Union artillery could not reach his army, but they could rain down mortars on the town below. Lee wondered if this could possibly be a feint, but the numbers arrayed on the hills across the river convinced him that it was not. Still he was puzzled. What could this new general be thinking?
Even Morgan, who knew nothing of military strategy or tactics, wondered the same thing. It was simple, really. The Yanks were on the offensive, so they were going to make the first move; they would attack. But that meant that somehow Burnside would have to throw tens of thousands of men across the river, and then they would be down in a valley with Robert E. Lee holding the priceless high ground above them.
Morgan reflected that perhaps the generals might know something that he did not, and he stopped wondering about it to turn and look longingly to the north. If I were a bird, and I flew straight north, I would fly over the plains and the Wilderness until I got to the Rapidan River, and then I would see Rapidan Run and Jolie. Even though he was so close to home, naturally Morgan wouldn’t ask for a leave. Battle was coming.
General Lee’s headquarters tent was pitched underneath a stand of Virginia pine trees that soared forty feet, forming a lush green bower. The staff tents sprang up like mushrooms around him.
Morgan was glad to find that about thirty feet behind the tent line was a long row of smaller trees, perfect for picketing the horses. He, Meredith, and Perry pitched their tent close by.
It was about midnight when they were awakened by a persistent hissing from the tent flap opening. “SSSSTTT! SSSSTTT! Is dis you, Mr. Tremayne?”
Meredith and Perry looked up quizzically, but Morgan jumped out of his cot and ran to the opening. “Rosh! I thought that was you!” He hugged the boy hard. “What are you doing here? How’d you find me?”
“I almost didn’t,” Rosh said mournfully. “I’ve had about fifty people yellin’, ‘Halt! Who goes there!’ at me in the last two hours. Took me longer to get to this tent than it did to get to the camp.”
“I’m surprised they let you through,” Morgan said, throwing his arms around Rosh’s shoulders and pulling him into the tent. “General Lee’s headquarters are just up there, on top of the ridge. Here, give me that oilskin and your hat. Come over here and stand by the stove.”
It was still raining, a cold, cutting November storm, and Rosh’s cape and hat were dripping. Morgan shook them, scattering icy drops, and hung them up on the clothesline they always kept up behind the stove. Meredith and Perry were already asleep again, with Meredith snoring softly.
Morgan said anxiously, “How’s Jolie?”
“She’s doing real good, Mr. Tremayne, considering. We all worry ’bout you all the time, of course.” He pointed to the east. “All them fires over there on the other side of the river. That’s Yankees, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Morgan said soberly. “I don’t know when they’re going to cross that river, but for sure they are.”
Rosh nodded. “Figured that. Daddy came to town this morning and saw ’em over there like a big ol’ anthill. He rushed back home, and we loaded up the wagon to bring you some things.”
“That’s good of you, Rosh, but there’s going to be a big battle here any time now,” Morgan said worriedly. “I w
ant you to go back home and help take care of the farm.”
Rosh’s face wrinkled with worry. “You—you don’t think them Yankees is going to get to Rapidan Run, do you?”
“No,” Morgan said vehemently. “I think General Lee is going to stop them right here. But still, with over a hundred thousand bluebellies wandering around, I want you to be at home to take care of everything just in case.”
“Yes, sir,” Rosh said, sighing. “Do you want me to go ahead and unload the wagon and go on back tonight?”
Morgan saw that he was exhausted and said, “No, no. Is Calliope pulling the wagon? She still hitched up?”
“Yes, sir, I still wasn’t sure which of these hunnerd tents you was in,” Rosh answered with annoyance.
Morgan nodded. “C’mon, we’ll go rub her down and get her with the other horses. They stay warmer that way. Unloading the wagon can wait until morning. When we get Calliope settled, we’ll get a cot for you, and you can sleep for whatever’s left of the night.”
They got Calliope bedded down, and then Rosh bedded down. Morgan went back to sleep instantly as soon as he lay down. He had found that, like any good soldier, he slept hard when he could.
In the morning, he was delighted to find that Amon had mixed up twelve buckets of hot mash for the horses. Morgan and Rosh heated water on the camp stove and fed the horses first thing. Meredith fussed at them and made them sit down and eat breakfast, for Rosh had also brought four dozen eggs, a side of bacon, grits, a wheel of sharp cheese, and two smoked hams.
“Best breakfast I’ve had for a while,” Morgan said with appreciation. “How are the stores at the farm holding out, Rosh?”
“Still seems to me like we got as much as we ever started out with,” he said with a big grin. “Daddy says we’re livin’ in the Land o’ Goshen.”
Morgan had intended to send Rosh back as soon as the wagon was unloaded, but Rosh said, “You know, Mr. Tremayne, now I can see my hand in front of my face, they’s lots of big branches that got blowed down in the storm. It wouldn’t take me and you but a coupla hours to build a brush shelter for them horses, with the wagon to haul and all.”
Last Cavaliers Trilogy Page 88