Cain at Gettysburg Read Free Page A

closer to the man on whom he would have to rely. The chief of staff smelled of cologne water. “Well, Dan, we’ll have to make the best of things, you and I.”
    Butterfield’s face was a mask without emotion.
    â€œI know I haven’t been in the good graces of this headquarters of late,” Meade went on.
    â€œNor I in yours, General Meade.”
    â€œBut I think we shall manage. We must.”
    Butterfield remained impassive. It exasperated Meade, who had reached the limit of his affability. He didn’t like Butterfield, never had. He only hoped he could trust him to do the right thing for the army, if not for its new commander.
    The major sent for the Pennsylvania map returned, hesitating at the entrance to the tent. Meade beckoned him inside.
    â€œSpread it on top of the Maryland map,” Meade told him. “General Butterfield and I will need them both. Then tell the rest of the staff to come back in.”
    The major did as ordered, then eased away. Meade stepped to the table.
    â€œMajor!” he called after the man. “Major!”
    â€œWhat is it?” Butterfield asked calmly.
    Meade turned on his chief of staff. “Damn me to bloody blue blazes, I asked for a map of southern Pennsylvania.”
    Butterfield considered the map. “That’s southern Pennsylvania,” he told Meade.
    â€œI need a topographical map, man. This is nothing but a sketch of towns and roads. I need to see the terrain, the relief, the watercourses. That major should know as much.”
    â€œThat’s the only Pennsylvania map we have,” Butterfield said.
    Meade looked at the man in astonishment.
    The chief of staff shrugged. “We never expected to give battle in Pennsylvania, there seemed no need. Proper maps have been ordered, of course. They just haven’t arrived.”
    Once again, Meade managed to rein in his temper. “All right, Butterfield. I’ll speak to Warren, he’ll see to the business. Just start at the beginning and explain General Hooker’s plan of campaign to me. I need every detail, no matter how small.”
    â€œI can’t do that,” Butterfield said.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you can’t?”
    The staff officers had gathered outside of the tent, but waited to be bidden to come back in.
    â€œHe kept it all in his head,” Butterfield told him.
    *   *   *
    â€œYou seen it, too. Ain’t I right?” Cobb asked. “All through the preaching, Colonel Burgwyn had the look of death on him. He’s a marked man, Quaker. I know you seen it. I seen you looking. Things don’t get past you.” Cobb widened his grotesque smile.
    Sergeant Blake buttoned up his trousers and kept his breathing shallow. After one night, the green glade close to the regiment’s camp smelled foul. Cobb reeked, too, but that was his normal condition. This grove, where the morning coolness had drawn up its weakened lines for one last stand, deserved better.
    â€œShut your mouth,” Blake said. “You’re talking craziness.”
    â€œHell I am,” Cobb said, still spraying the ferns. “Hell, if you don’t know it, either. I seen you looking right at him. Plain as day, Quaker, that man ain’t long for this world.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Pretty fellow, too. And so young. Going to be a shame to see him go, a crying shame.”
    In the distance, the regimental band started up, instantly recognizable by the music’s precision. Moravians from Salem, the musicians were the pride not only of the 26th North Carolina, but of the entire brigade. General Pettigrew was fond of calling them up to the head of the column whenever his men were about to march through a town. Even Yankees came out to listen, some of them.
    â€œGuess the praying’s over,” Cobb said as the band leapt through a polka. “They’re meaning to cheer us up, I expect. But you and