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Robert Lee would not be convinced. Not with Poe’s reputation for hysteria, for seeing Yankees everywhere he looked. The army commander would just assume his high-strung imagination created illusory armies behind every swirl of mist. As much as Poe hated it, he had to acknowledge this prejudice on the part of the army commander.
    “General Lee has made his plans for today,” he said. “He will attack to the west, where he conceives General Grant to be. He may not choose to believe any message from his other wing that the Yanks are moving.”
    Poe waited for a moment for a reply from the cavalryman. Fitz Lee was the commanding general’s nephew; perhaps he could trade on the family connection somehow. But the bearded man remained silent.
    “They are going to strike us, that is obvious,” Poe said. “Grant has his back to the bend of the river, and he’ll have to fight his way into the clear. But his men will have to struggle through the woods, and get across that swamp and the little creek, and they’re doing it at night, with a heavy mist. They will not be in position to attack at first light. I suggest, therefore, that we attack him as soon as the mist clears, if not before. It may throw him off balance and provide the evidence we need to convince the high command that Mr. Grant has stolen a march upon us.”
    “Nevermore,” said the ravens. “Nevermore.”
    Poe looked at Sextus, who was standing respectfully behind the half-circle of officers. “Feed the birds.” he said. “It may keep them quiet.”
    “Yes, massa.”
    “General Poe.” Fitz Lee was speaking. “There are two bridges across that creek—— small, but they’ll take the Yankees across. The water won’t hold up the Yanks as long as you might think.”
    Poe looked at him. “The bridges were not burned after Hancock crossed the North Anna?”
    Lee was uneasy. “General Ewell may have done it without my knowledge.”
    “If the bridges exist, that’s all the more reason to attack as soon as we can.”
    “General.” Clingman raised a hand. “Our brigades marched up in the dark. We ain’t aligned, and we’ll need to sort out our men before we can go forward.”
    “First light, General,” said Poe. “Arrange your men, then go forward. We’ll be going through forest, so give each man about two feet of front. Send out one combined company per regiment to act as skirmishers− we’ll want to overwhelm their pickets and get a look at what lies in there before your main body strikes them.”
    Another brigadier piped up. “What do we align on, sir?”
    “The rightmost brigade of the division− that’s Barton’s?” Heads nodded. Poe continued, gesturing into the mist with his stick, sketching out alignments. “Barton will align on the creek, and everyone will guide on him. When Barton moves forward, the others will move with him.” He turned to Gregg and Law, both of whom were looking dubious. “I cannot suggest to Generals Gregg and Law how to order their forces. I have not been over the ground.”
    Law folded his arms. “General. You’re asking us to attack a Yankee corps that’s had two days to entrench.”
    “And not just any corps,” Gregg added. “This is Hancock .”
    “We’ll be outnumbered eight to one,” Law said. “And we don’t have any woods to approach through, the way y’all do. We’ll have to cross a good quarter mile of open ground before we can reach them.”
    Poe looked at him blackly. Frustration keened in his heart. He took a long breath and fought down his growing rage.
    Winfield Scott Hancock, he thought, known to the Yanks as Hancock the Superb. The finest of the Yankee commanders. He thought about the Ravens going up that little green slope toward the cemetery, with Hancock and his corps waiting on top, and nodded.
    “Do as best as you can, gentlemen, he said. “I leave it entirely to you. I wish only that you show some activity. Drive in his pickets. Let him see some regimental flags, think