With General Lee

The night before the big battle, the gray men spread their tents across the Pennsylvania countryside, west of Gettysburg. Fires burned. Songs were sung. George Pickett, smelling of French perfume, told stories of his friends Dick Garnett and Lo Armistead. Those listening passed around a bottle, laughing long into the early morning hours.

I wandered over to Lee's headquarters. Murmurs rose in the camp that tomorrow the war could be over, by golly, we will have those bluebellies. Lee was standing in the doorway of a single room house, the glow of the light inside around him. Officers walked about. Reporters eagerly awaited a word from the Old Man. Lee inspected a map.

"Sir, I see you are alone. May I have speak with a moment?" I said.

Lee sat down in a rocking chair, slowly. He closed his eyes, tilted his head forward. He looked almost asleep. "Yes, you may," he said. His hat rested on his lap, letting his thick, full gray hair and beard shine with the night stars.

I sat down beside him.

"What are your plans for tomorrow? I gather you will attack."

Wearily, Lee said: "We will attack up the middle. Meade is weak there because he fortified his flanks."

I felt privileged for this moment with General Lee. The men looked at him with respect, admiration. He could not be blamed, not ever, no matter what. Lee was a father to them. The men quieted when he passed, and they fought for him with all their hearts. The pride that inspired the Southern army was due to the Old Man. After all, as they say, Stuart may have descended from an ape, Longstreet may come from an ape, but certainly not General Lee. He was a gentleman.

"Your men say that a final charge could end this war. Tomorrow you may be marching to Washington."

"It is possible," Lee said. "We shall see. It is in God's hands."

A horse snorted, and I looked in its direction. General Longstreet was approaching with a man trailing.

"Freddy, do you know that man with Pete?"

"That is my Dad. He has been spending time talking with the General."

"Right. I met him earlier. Fred is his name, correct?" Lee smiled slightly. "I am not young beneath this beard. The war has gone on too long. Too many good men have died. I am tired. I am ready for this war to end." Lee put a hand to his chest, grimaced, like a pain had shot through his chest.

I knew, like Longstreet, that the big battle will fail. The Union had better ground, the high ground. Walking over a mile, in the face of enemy cannons and rifles, will devastate the men. How will Garnett make it even halfway on a horse? Poor Garnett, always trying to prove his honor. I knew too, like Longstreet, that Lee should not order this attack, he should move the army north and cut the bluebellies off from Washington. Find good ground there. Make them attack. But Lee will not do that. He believes there is an opportunity. He believes too in the prowess of his Southern men, who have always fought outnumbered and outgunned.

And being around General Lee on this night before Gettysburg, which turned the war irrevocably in the Union's favor, I believe a little too. Maybe the South, and its hearty Virginians, can do it. Maybe that can take that ground.

That is what it means to be with General Lee.