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The ghost of Jackson passed between them. “I have a sense of Hooker now. He’ll worry about having his flank turned again. And he has to cover Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. So he’ll spread out his corps and weaken himself. He’ll weaken his center to brace his flanks.” Lee punched a fist into his open palm, entranced by what he foresaw. “And then we’ll have him. We’ll pick his apples one at a time, instead of shaking the entire tree at once.”
    â€œWe didn’t know Hooker had his army in Maryland until Harrison showed up. We need Stuart.”
    At the mention of the spy, Lee had lifted his nose, but Longstreet drove on. “You heard what he had to say about the rumors that Reynolds may replace Hooker. John Reynolds is a different proposition.”
    Lee shook his head. “Those people won’t do that. The campaign’s too far along.” He gave Longstreet a sideward look. “I trust General Halleck to make a bounteous share of poor decisions, but nothing so madcap as that. No, we’ll fight Hooker again. And whip him again.” Lee reached out and patted Longstreet’s forearm. “My old warhorse,” he said, voice as warm as ever it could grow. “It’ll be Hooker. And our victory again. And then we’ll see if their president chooses peace.”
    Longstreet almost brought up Vicksburg, which was likely to fall by summer’s end, if not sooner. But he chose not to spoil the old man’s better mood. The thought of Vicksburg brought Grant to mind, though. Longstreet loved Grant. As deeply as he could love any man. And he feared the degree to which Virginia’s cavaliers underestimated him. Sam had needed only a war to bloom.
    Overhead, dark clouds thickened. Thunder neared. But the heat refused to weaken.
    Longstreet recalled the last time he and Grant had been together. In St. Louis, before the war, at the Planters’ Hotel. Out of the army, Grant had fallen low, reduced to selling firewood in the streets. But people kept in touch with him, and mutual friends called him in as a fourth at cards. The evening had gone well enough, but with no time for private talk or displays of sentiment. Grant was threadbare, but unashamed, and pleased as could be to see Longstreet. When Grant returned to the hotel the next morning and thrust a five-dollar gold piece into his hand, Longstreet had tried to decline it. “No,” his ragged friend had told him, “you take it, Pete. I’ve owed you that for years, and it’s gnawed me.”
    Now Grant was far away, on the Mississippi, a conqueror making a fool of Joe Johnston, a fine general, and cornering Pemberton like a cat backs up a mouse. Even a victory on Pennsylvania’s soil might not end the war so soon as the old man hoped.
    And whether they faced Hooker or Reynolds, it was bound to be a tougher fight than the old man would admit. Jackson was gone, along with so many other capable men. Now a third of the army fell under Dick Ewell, with his peg leg and thinned bravado, and another third had gone to Hill, who was meant to command a division, not a corps. Hill was a fighter, that was true enough. But only when he wasn’t laid up by the aftereffects of a loathsome disease no gentleman would mention. And the last third of the army fell to him, Pete Longstreet, Old Dutch. Before the reorganization in the wake of Chancellorsville, he had commanded half of the Army of Northern Virginia. Now his command was reduced to three divisions. But the old man still clung to him.
    â€œI believe we will have three days yet,” Lee said out of the blue. “Perhaps a fourth. That will be enough. Ewell starts south, and Hill will be there to greet him. You, General, will have time to lead your corps across the mountains. Then we shall pay a call on General Hooker.” The old man’s brows tightened. “How far back is Pickett?”
    â€œTwo days. I’ve