Cain at Gettysburg Read Free

Hooker, I beg your indulgence.” Addressing the little group again, Meade continued, “I have twenty-five minutes past six. Let us reconvene in one hour. General Butterfield, is there a place where I can write without interruption?”
    And write Meade did. He knew Halleck’s temperament and the backbiting in the War Department well enough to make himself two pledges. First, he would see that each message from his headquarters would be as clear as the English language could make it, even if he had to write every last one himself. Second, he would keep Halleck so well-informed that he’d have no excuse for meddling. He was not going to make Hooker’s mistake. At least, not that one.
    Left alone in Butterfield’s personal tent, he paused and held the pen suspended an inch above the paper. The army’s dispersion haunted him. The first order of business would be to concentrate his force so every corps could rush to support another. He was not going to let Lee eat him one bite at a time. The first of them to concentrate might well emerge the victor.
    Nor did Meade intend to let his adversary surprise him. He remembered the follies of past commanders too well. If George Meade had any say in it, the next time Robert E. Lee fought the Army of the Potomac, he was going to have to fight all of it.
    It was all a matter of time. And how could there be enough time now? He began to write:
    The order placing me in command of this army is received. As a soldier, I obey it, and to the utmost of my ability will execute it. Totally unexpected as it has been, and in ignorance of the exact condition of the troops and position of the enemy, I can only now say that it appears to me I must move toward the Susquehanna, keeping Washington and Baltimore well covered, and if the enemy is checked in his attempt to cross the Susquehanna, or if he turns toward Baltimore, to give him battle.
    On the edge of his consciousness, horses galloped off. But there was more to write. He wished to complain, but did not. He remembered Hardie’s remarks about Hooker sounding too much like McClellan. Lincoln read the telegrams received by the War Department.
    When he finished, he blotted the paper, wiped the ink from his fingers, and stepped out of the tent. The morning was bright, hot, fierce. Terrible marching weather. But the men would have to march, and more than one of the marches would be long. He handed the message to the waiting courier, who leapt to the saddle and spurred his mount toward Frederick. The man’s alacrity drew a faint smile from Meade, who saw that his reputation as “Old Snapping Turtle” was already having its effect on the headquarters.
    Enjoying a new pulse of confidence, he returned to the tent where the staff awaited him. The canvas sides had been rolled up to let the air pass through.
    Hooker wasn’t there. And several officers were missing. Meade turned a quizzical look on Butterfield, but the chief of staff remained mute.
    Meade’s son, face pale, spoke up. “General Hooker’s gone, sir. He just rode off. Colonel Hardie left with him.”
    Suppressing a burst of fury at the snub, Meade told himself that it was better so. Now he could get down to the business of organizing the army, without unnecessary niceties. If Hooker had funked it, good riddance.
    He allowed himself a single sigh as he strode to the table that still bore the map of Maryland. “Butterfield? Have one of your officers fetch a map of Pennsylvania. There’s work to be done, man. We need to designate points of concentration for this army.”
    Butterfield passed on the order to a major, who stood close enough to have heard each word the new commanding general had spoken.
    Meade glanced around the reduced group of officers. “Would you gentlemen excuse us? General Butterfield and I have a few affairs to discuss.”
    Obedience wasn’t a problem. The big tent emptied rapidly.
    Meade stepped