Cain at Gettysburg by Ralph Peters Page B

even struck their tents.” He smirked. “Scared, most like. Got a new commander. George Meade, the glorious builder of lighthouses.”
    â€œHow current is the staff’s information, sir?” Pettigrew asked.
    That annoyed Hill. “Current enough, I expect.”
    â€œI told him it had to be militia,” Heth explained, as if Pettigrew were no longer present. “Just farmers got up to parade around on their mules, then run like Hell.”
    â€œWith respect, sir,” Pettigrew said, “the cavalrymen we saw were not about to run away.”
    Hill shifted from one leg to the other, as if feeling the need to relieve his body. His tone grew conciliatory, though, indulging a child. “Well, now … we all know it’s easy enough to get excited. Everybody’s looking forward to a fight, not just you, General Pettigrew. Get excited, your eyes play tricks.”
    Suppressing his sense of ill-treatment as best he could, Pettigrew turned and waved to his aide-de-camp, who had kept a respectful distance across the road.
    â€œCaptain Young!” he called. “Come here.”
    Young had served under Hill during the Seven Days. Hill knew him and liked him. Perhaps the corps commander would listen to Young.
    The captain sloshed across the ravaged street, high boots and spurs digging deep. It was hard to move with dignity.
    The young man saluted the generals as he approached, tilting his saber out of the mud with his other hand.
    â€œCaptain Young, would you please report what you saw on the ridge before Gettysburg today?”
    â€œYes, sir. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Immediately to the west of Gettysburg, we observed Union cavalry vedettes. They moved in good order and were reinforced with additional elements as we watched.”
    â€œMilitia. On mules,” Heth said.
    Young’s expression instantly grew wary. But he, too, had seen what he’d seen. “I didn’t judge them to be militia, sir. They appeared extremely well-drilled.”
    Hill nudged a torn-up clot of grass with his toe. “I cannot believe that any portion of the Army of the Potomac is up. A patrol, maybe.…”
    â€œGoddamned militia,” Heth insisted. “Nothing but.”
    Hill thought about it. “Most like, Harry, most like.” He inspected the weather, judged the hour. “Find out in good time, I suppose.”
    â€œWell, if there’s no objection, then,” Heth said, “I’ll take my division tomorrow, go to Gettysburg, and get those shoes.”
    Hill pulled at his trousers and shifted his weight again. “No objection,” he said. “None in the world.”
    Heth’s irritation had not been quelled, though. Rather too loudly, he said, “I’ll put Archer’s brigade in front this time. He won’t shy.” The division commander turned his eyes on Pettigrew. “That will be all, sir.”
    Pettigrew saluted and plodded off through the mire, flushed and humiliated. The suggestion that want of valor had deterred him from entering Gettysburg was as unbearable as it was unjust. His orders had been clear: He was not to bring on an engagement. And the Federal cavalry had been right there in front of them, for any man to see.
    General Heth would learn who was brave and who was not.
    Pettigrew snapped his horse’s reins from the orderly sergeant’s hand. Leaping into the saddle, he took care, even now, to show a good seat. His aide aped his every gesture.
    Pettigrew did not turn his mount eastward to where his brigade had camped, on picket duty for the corps that night. Instead, he rode for General Archer’s headquarters. He felt it his duty to pass on to his fellow brigade commander all that he had seen, not only regarding the Union cavalrymen, but the problem of the terrain, the way the ridges running perpendicular to the pike offered a succession of fine defensive positions to a skillful enemy. He would not bear