Cain at Gettysburg by Ralph Peters Page A

slighted his genius. He read the law in a gentlemanly fashion, in the office of Charleston relatives, and took that city’s society in thrall. He traveled to Europe, twice, and privately published a handsome account of Spain. A former superior called Pettigrew “the most promising young man of the South.”
    But Pettigrew felt a lack in his lustrous life: military glory.
    An eager member of the Charleston militia, he applied himself to the study of military science. In the course of his European sojourns, which included earning a law degree from Berlin, he first attempted to join the Prussian army, but royal officials found his interest suspect. He later sought to attach himself to the French army as it marched to face the Austrians in Italy, but the Battle of Solferino ended that war before he could find a suitable place among the officers of Napoleon III.
    After returning to Charleston with fewer laurels than hoped, Pettigrew became the colonel of the First Regiment of Rifles, the most fashionable assembly of militia companies. After unsuccessful efforts to cajole the surrender of Ft. Sumter, he faced a setback when General Beauregard’s arrival trimmed his authority. South Carolina seemed not to value his services sufficiently, so he acquired the colonelcy of the 22nd North Carolina. Within months, President Davis bowed to society’s dictates and personally pressed Pettigrew to don a brigadier’s star. After a polite interval of reflection, Pettigrew accepted.
    His reputation grew, but not to the heights of fame scaled by other men. Opportunities for glory flirted, but then fled. Thus, on a gray afternoon in a Pennsylvania hamlet, James Johnston Pettigrew was dismayed by the reaction of his division commander to his report.
    General Heth frowned and said nothing. In the street, commissary wagons roiled the mud.
    â€œThe Union army is at Gettysburg,” Pettigrew repeated. “I refrained from an attempt to enter the town, sir, in accordance with my instructions not to precipitate a battle. But there can be no doubt that the Federals are before us.”
    â€œThe Hell you say,” Heth told him.
    It long since had struck Pettigrew that Heth, although a Virginian, was not quite a gentleman.
    â€œWe observed their cavalry for nearly thirty minutes,” Pettigrew continued. “Their behavior suggested a larger force nearby. I believe, sir, the Yankee army is to our front. General Lee must be informed.”
    Heth shook his head. “Shit for the birds, Pettigrew. There’s nothing out there but militia. You’re seeing hants.”
    James Johnston Pettigrew was mortified. He knew what he had seen. And he was not accustomed to being called a fool, if not a liar. Before the war, such treatment would have merited a visit from his seconds.
    â€œSome of the men reported hearing drums, sir,” he pressed on. “Drums would, of course, mean the presence of infantry.”
    â€œI know what goddamned drums mean.”
    Appearing behind the trail wagon of the train, General Hill, the corps commander, came on at a trot, followed by his retinue. Spying the division and brigade commanders in consultation, he reined in his horse and dismounted.
    â€œGet your new shoes, Harry?” he asked Heth.
    Heth grimaced and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Not by a damned sight. General Pettigrew here didn’t see fit to enter Gettysburg. He reports”—Heth curled his lip—“the presence of Yankee cavalry. Not farmers on mules, the real thing.”
    A. P. Hill snorted. He looked pained, his tall frame cramped up. There were personal matters that did not bear discussion, indelicate considerations, Pettigrew understood. The general’s long, greasy hair repelled him, too.
    â€œWell now,” Hill said, “I’ve just come from General Lee.” He picked at his calico shirt as if hunting a louse. “His staff puts the Yankees down in Maryland. Haven’t