Free Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich

against it, and puffed yet another cigar to life.
    It was good to be alone for a few minutes. He looked back at the barracks, aglow with light, staff inside, couriers riding up to the veranda, dismounting, and rushing inside, other couriers coming out, mounting, and galloping off.
    He smiled. So many of them were boys, playing at this game, actually enjoying it. The day had been a good one, a fairly good march, though he would have preferred to make a few more miles.
    He looked off to the southeast. Over there, just about a hundred miles away, was Lee.
    Lee.
    He wished for a moment that the old stories were true, the stories of Napoleon, Caesar, and Alexander, how they could slip into the mind of their opponents, sow doubt, and learn the deepest of secrets. It would be wonderful to turn the tables on this legendary soldier, to get into his mind as easily as he infiltrated the minds of so many of his opponents.
    Foolishness, of course. This was an age of science, of machines, not of magic, and to waste another thought on such foolery was indeed a waste.
    As he could not slip into the mind of Lee, he must ensure that Lee could never slip into his, never read his heart, never stir a note of discord or, worst of all, fear.
    No, by simply doing that alone I can unnerve him. I've set my plans, made so hurriedly, thanks to that fool Sickles. I'd have preferred another three weeks, a month, to marshal more strength, but to have waited after the debacle by Sickles would have played against us, given Lee time to rest, to re-gather his strength and his nerve for the next encounter.
    He sensed that just this move alone had most likely caught him off guard. Every other general whom Lee had faced, excepting Sickles, had always erred on the side of caution. Even Meade, in his blind panic to attack at Union Mills, was ultimately driven by caution, fear of how Washington would respond to his being outflanked and cut off.
    Out west, in California, Grant had heard stories from mountain men who had seen wolves bring down their prey, elk, even old grizzlies. They did not charge in blindly, nor did they run away. Always they lurked, dashing in, pulling back, dashing in, in a hunt that might last for days, wearing their victim down to exhaustion. Always circling, always moving, never letting their victim rest, closing in, limiting their prey's movements, exhausting them—until at last the throat was bared and the kill made.
    He continued to gaze southeastward, toward Baltimore. Chances were that Lee had forced marched back from the Susquehanna this day, concerned by word of the crossing at Harrisburg. He will have to rest for a few days while I am fresh. He will have to refit, reorganize, rest his men after their mad dash and brilliant campaign of the last week; then they will venture out to meet me.
    He took another puff on his cigar, coughing slightly as he took it out of his mouth and looked at the glowing tip.
    And yet I know this, he realized. Even as I plot my moves, Lee will plot his. Neither of us will get fully what we want. In war one never does until the very last day, when the guns finally fall silent and one side submits.
    We both seek the submission of the other, and it won't come in one battle, one sharp moment of combat. It will be a grinding down, and tens of thousands will die in the weeks to come. I can move along several paths now, but then again so can he.
    Was Lee sleeping now? He doubted it. Most likely, even at this moment he is looking toward me, thinking the same thoughts I do.
    Grant let his cigar drop, and rubbed out the glowing embers with his foot. Turning, he went into his headquarters to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a very long day.
    CHAPTER FOUR
    Ten Miles North ofHanov er, Pennsylvania
    August 23, 1863 6:00 A.M.
    C aptain, rider coming in." Capt. Phil Duvall looked up from the simmering campfire where he and Sergeant Lucas had been frying some fresh-cut pork, requisitioned from the farmer whose yard they were