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through Poe. Conspire though Moses might, Poe would be too crafty for him.
    “When will the attack begin, Major?” Poe asked.
    “It has already begun, sir. The mist cleared early to the west of us. The men were moving out just as I left General Anderson’s headquarters.”
    Poe cocked his head. “I hear no guns, Major Moses.”
    “Perhaps there has been a delay. Perhaps−” Moses shrugged. “Perhaps the wet ground is absorbing the sound. Or there is a trick of the wind−”
    “Nevertheless,” Poe said, “I hear no guns.”
    “Yes, sir.” Moses cleared his throat. “It is not unknown, sir.”
    “Still, Major Moses,” said Poe. “I hear no guns.”
    Moses fell silent at this self-evident fact. Poe whirled around, his black cape flying out behind him, and stalked toward his tent. He could hear Moses’s soft footsteps following behind.
    Men on horseback came, reporting one brigade after another ready to move forward. Poe told them to wait here for the word to advance, then return to their commanders. Soon he had heard from every brigade but those of Gregg and Law− a messenger even came from Fitz Lee, reporting the cavalryman’s readiness to move forward at Poe’s signal. After ten minutes of agitated waiting, while the sky grew ever paler and the mist retreated to lurk among the trees, Poe sent an aide to inquire.
    Poe gave an irritated look at his division waiting in their ranks for the signal. If the enemy had scouts out this way, they’d see the Confederates ready for the attack and warn the enemy.
    Go forward with the four brigades he had? he wondered.
    Yes. No.
    He decided to wait till his aide came back. He looked at his watch, then cast a glance over his shoulder at Major Moses.
    “I hear no guns, Major,” he said.
    “You are correct, sir.” Moses smiled thinly. “I take it you intend to enlighten me as to the significance of this?”
    Poe nodded benignly. “In time, Major.”
    Moses swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. “You are known as the master of suspense, sir. I take my hat off to you, sir, I positively do.”
    Poe smiled. The Jew was amusing. He tipped his own hat. “Thank you, Major.”
    Moses put on his hat. “I am an enthusiast of your work, sir. I have a first edition of the Complete Tales . Had I known I would encounter you, I would have had my wife send it to me and begged you to inscribe it.”
    “I should be glad to sign it,” Poe said, surprised. The Complete and Corrected Tales and Poems of Edgar A. Poe had been published at his own expense six years ago and had sold precisely two hundred and forty-nine copies throughout the United States—— he knew precisely, because the rest of the ten-thousand-copy edition was sitting in a lumber room back home at Shepherd’s Rest.
    “Before the war,” Moses said, “I used to read your work aloud to my wife. The poems were particularly lovely, I thought—— so delicate. And there was nothing that would bring a blush to her lovely cheek—— I particularly appreciate that, sir.” Moses grew indignant. “There are too many passages from poets that one cannot in decency read to a lady, sir. Even in Shakespeare——” Moses shook his head.
    “Fortunately,” said Poe, “one has Bowdler.”
    “I thank that gentleman from my heart,” said Moses. “As I thank Tennyson, and Mr. Dickens, and Keats.”
    “Keats.” Poe’s heart warmed at the mention of the name. “One scarcely could anticipate encountering his name here, on a battlefield.”
    “True, sir. He is the most rarified and sublime of poets− along, I may say, with yourself, sir.”
    Poe was surprised. “You flatter me, Major.”
    “I regret only that you are not more appreciated, sir.” His tiny hands gestured whitely in the air. “Some of my correspondents have informed me, however, that you are better known in Europe.”
    “Yes,” Poe said. A dark memory touched him. “A London publisher has brought out an edition of the Complete Tales .