Cain at Gettysburg by Peters Ralph

Author:Peters, Ralph [Peters, Ralph]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2012-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

July 2, Afternoon

Major General Lafayette McLaws rode at the head of his division, gnawing on a chicken leg. He ate when he was unhappy, and he ate when he was mad. Now he was mad and unhappy. Longstreet had handled him as he might a schoolboy. In front of at least a dozen fellow officers, to say nothing of General Lee. Such behavior was not merely ungentlemanly, it was unforgivable.

As his mount bore his bulk forward, flanked by the horses of Captain Johnston, Lee’s scout, and General Kershaw, who commanded his leading brigade, McLaws yearned to get at the Yankees. He felt plain cussed toward his West Point classmate Pete Longstreet, who was a bigger humbug than any Mormon out in the territories. But Longstreet could not be touched, so the Federals would have to do. For now. But Longstreet would get his comeuppance, in good time.

When he finally came down to give the order to march, Longstreet had taken pains to behave civilly. He knew damned well that he had been in the wrong. But making up wasn’t that easy: The damage was done. Laff McLaws was not a forgiving man.

At times he wished he’d just stayed home with Emmy.

He’d taken one small revenge on Longstreet, though. He’d defied the order not to conduct his own reconnaissance and had ridden as far as he’d dared toward the Union flank. Now Captain Johnston had led them past that point and McLaws wished he had gone farther on his own. He didn’t like the look of the ground, it broke all wrong. He felt the weight of the column stretching behind him, his own division hurrying along—after a string of infuriating delays—and Hood’s bunch hard on his rear. Alexander had gotten his guns out early, which kept down the dust, but the batteries had been swallowed by the earth. McLaws could only hope they’d appear where they were meant to be and when they were meant to be there. The afternoon fled like a thief.

Riding through a shallow valley, he couldn’t see much at all. And he didn’t like it. Lee’s young engineer looked full of confidence, but McLaws didn’t share it. Probably another damned Virginian, he told himself. Then he corrected his judgment: If Johnston had been a Virginian, he’d be a damned general.

They passed a shut-up tavern. The engineer paid it no mind.

McLaws would have complained about the meandering to Longstreet, but the humbug was back with Hood, whom he always favored. McLaws felt badly treated and half-abandoned. And this flank march was interminable. The landscape seemed to weave like a battered pugilist.

He tossed the sucked-out bones into the dust and licked his fingers. Captain Johnston led the way up a ridge, but McLaws was determined to head his own division. Just as they reached the crest, he overtook the engineer.

They both stopped. Mortified. Riding up behind them, Kershaw spoke for all:

“Jesus Christ almighty.”

Like Barksdale, another politician jumped up to brigade command, Kershaw had the gift of loading the briefest exclamation with a stage actor’s emotion.

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