"Walter Jon Williams - No Spot of Ground" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

"Share some cider with me? That and some biscuits are all the rafra├Г┬оchissements I can manage."

"You're very kind." Sorrel looked at the uncleared table. "I've brought your orders from General
Anderson."

Poe pushed aside his gold-rimmed dinner plate and moved a lantern onto the table. Sorrel pulled a
folded map out of his coat and spread it on the pale blue tablecloth. Poe reached for his spectacles and
put them on his nose. The map gave him, for the first time, an accurate look at his position.

This part of the Southern line stretched roughly northwest to southeast, a chord on the arc of the North
Anna. The line was more or less straight, though it was cut in half by a swampy tributary of the North
Anna, with steep banks on either side, and at that point Poe's entrenchments bent back a bit. The division
occupied the part of the line south of the tributary. In front of him was dense hardwood forest, not very
useful for maneuver or attack.

"We're going on the offensive tomorrow," Sorrel said, "thank the lord." He gave a thin smile. "Grant's
got himself on the horns of a dilemma, sir, and General Lee intends to see he's gored."

Poe's temper crackled. "No one's going to get gored if division commanders don't get their instructions!"
he snapped.

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 No Spot of Ground




Sorrel gave him a wary smile. "That's why I'm here, sir."

Poe glared at him, then deliberately reined in his anger. "So you are." He took a breath. "Pardon my"┬ж
display."

"Staff work, as I say, sir, has been a mite precarious of late. General Lee is ill, and so is General Hill."

Poe's anxiety rose again. "Lee?" he demanded. "Ill?"

"An intestinal complaint. We would have made this attack yesterday had the general been feeling better."

Poe felt his nervousness increase. He was not a member of the Cult of Lee, but he did not trust an army
without a capable hand at the top. Too many high-ranking officers were out of action or incompetent.
Stuart was dead, Longstreet was wounded, Lee was sick--great heavens, he'd already had a heart attack--
Ewell hadn't been the same since he lost his leg, Powell Hill was ill half the time"┬ж And the young ones,
the healthy ones, were as always dying of bullets and shells.

"Your task, General," Sorrel said, "is simply to hold. Perhaps to demonstrate against the Yanks, if you
feel it possible."

"How am I to know if it's possible?" He was still angry. "I don't know the ground. I don't know where
the enemy is."