Henry nodded his thanks.

Malvern Hill. The mere mention of those two words triggered the memory of that July 1st, a year ago this week, he realized.

Six days of bitter fighting, retreating from the gates of Richmond, crawling and stumbling through the tangle of woods and marshes, McClellan fumbling the battle every step of the way. But at last McClellan had turned and given Henry the ground of an artilleryman's dreams… open fields, a broad crest of a hill, clear fields of interlocking fire. And he had seized the moment, arraying over a hundred guns, bronze twelve-pound smoothbores, three-inch rifles, even a couple of batteries of heavy twenty-pound rifles for counterbattery work.

Lee had walked straight into it

That battle had revealed what Henry knew was perhaps the one weakness of Lee, an aggressiveness that bordered on pure recklessness if his blood was up and he smelled victory.

For a commander who normally planned his actions, Lee had allowed the battle to unfold haphazardly, throwing troops in piecemeal rather than slamming them forward all at once. But even if he had sent a full corps up that hill, rather than a brigade at a time, the result would have been the same, and just as ghastly.

Throughout that long afternoon Henry had worked his guns with finesse, sweeping the open fields, solid shot tearing through the columns as they deployed, canisters tumbling over lines of men who fell like broken toys.

The screams still haunted him; five thousand Confederate infantry, damn fine troops, had gone down in mangled, bloodied heaps. He had been awed by the Rebs' audacity, their relentless will, and the sheer madness of their charge. Though he was a professional, the sight of what his guns could do to packed lines of infantry had stunned him. It was, Henry knew, the finest and most terrifying example of the power of artillery yet seen in this war.

"It's how I want to see artillery used in the next fight," Meade continued, interrupting Henry's memories.

Henry leaned forward slightly. He was called Chief of Artillery for the Army of the Potomac, but that was a title he had held in name only for the last six months. Hooker had always suspected that Henry was a "McClellan man"; and in an army torn by political factionalism, such a suspicion, justified or not, had been a kiss of death when Hooker took over. Though he'd managed to hang onto his title, Hooker had relegated him to a desk-and paperwork.

Damned madness. At Chancellorsville, if he had been given a hundred guns to array around the Fairview clearing, he'd have cut the guts out of Stonewall Jackson's charge. But Hooker hadn't listened. He'd panicked and lost the battle.

It's this damn political infighting that is as much the enemy as the Rebs, Henry thought If only we could get as united as the Army of Northern Virginia was, united with a belief in a single, capable leader, with a single purpose, we could win this war in a month.

"You and Joe Hooker," Meade said, gaze still fixed on his empty glass, "I know what happened between the two of you when Hooker took command of this army back in January."

He stared up at Henry for emphasis. There was no need, Henry thought, for Meade to play this point too hard. There was a lot of grumbling from some about Meade's ascension, especially at this moment. But for Henry the removal of Hooker could only mean the chance to get back his real job as artillery commander in the field, and it was obvious Meade was offering just that

"I'm putting you back in charge of the Artillery Reserve, active field command."

Good enough. Henry nodded his thanks. But if there was any chance for what he truly wanted it was now, and he had to go for it

"Sir, am I to be retained as commander of all artillery," he asked cautiously, "or just the reserve artillery attached directly to army headquarters?"

Meade said nothing for a moment

"What are you pushing for, Hunt?" Meade finally asked.

"Sir, half of our artillery is assigned to the direct command of headquarters as the Artillery Reserve, which means me. But what about the other half, nearly a hundred and fifty guns divided up into small units and assigned to various corps commanders? Do I have control of those batteries as well."

"Don't push it Hunt I was a corps commander until yesterday morning. I didn't take kindly to units being taken from me. Corps commanders like to have a couple of batteries under their direct control."

"In a crisis you need a unified command for artillery" Henry replied. "Allow me to put two hundred, three hundred guns into a unified command, and I'll sweep the field clean. It's concentrated artillery that will decide the next fight sir. The land up here is open, Better fields of fire than in central Virginia."

Henry looked into Meade's eyes, saw the coldness, and fell silent He knew his enthusiasm, his near fanatical belief, had again run into the politics of command.

Meade replied, his voice cold and threatening, "Yesterday you were nothing but a glorified inspector. Hooker wouldn't have given you a pinch of owl shit to command. I've given you back half the artillery of this army. Be satisfied with that"

"Then why the hell have an artillery commander if half his strength is frittered away?" Henry replied, and he instantly regretted his brashness. But it was exactly what was wrong with this damned army; everything was always a compromise, done in half measures, and the men they commanded suffered as a result

Meade bristled and leaned forward menacingly. "Do you want the job or hot, General? You want it, you take it on my terms. If not, I've got fifty men outside this tent who will jump at the chance."

Henry nodded, saying nothing.

"Do we understand each other, General? Corps artillery stays where it is. You may advise in regard to those units, but corps commanders still control their own guns. Take it or leave it"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"That's settled then. There's something else, though, that I want to ask you."

Frustrated that his hopes had been dashed, Henry lowered his gaze for a moment while pouring another drink for himself. He tried to reason that he was a damn sight better off than he had been twenty-four hours ago; but if ever there had been a chance to create a true unified command it was now, and the chance had slipped away.

'It's the real reason I asked you to come here."

"Sir?" Henry looked back at Meade, wondering what else he wanted.

"You served under Lee before the war in Mexico, didn't you?'

Surprised, Henry nodded. "Yes, we were stationed together at Fort Hamilton in New York City."

"I never knew him that well. I understand the two of you were close."

Henry hesitated for a second. "Professionally, yes."

'Tell me about him."

"Sir?"

"Just that, Hunt. Tell me about him."

Henry looked down at his glass. Lee, in his fatherly way, had chided him on his drinking more than once.

What can I tell him? Henry wondered. If ever an army held an opposing general in awe, it was the Army of the Potomac and Robert E. Lee. He was an endless source of speculation, comment, damning, and grudging praise.

Lee was a hard man to get close to. He had many acquaintances but few true friends. Was I that, Henry wondered, just another acquaintance?

No, it was different, a sense in a way of being a younger brother to an elder, or a favored student to a mentor. They shared a love of the precision of engineering, the bringing of order out of chaos, and a love for gunnery, its history and practice.

Curious, for both of them saw it as an abstraction, an intellectual exercise of trajectories, rates of fire, and the beautiful ritual of drill. Neither of them wanted to think about the end result when it was done for real, the shredded human flesh blasted and burned, the way both of them would see it done a few years later at Chapultepec.