Devil's Battle (Artillerymen Book, #3)

by Taylor Anderson

But I’m no General Scott, Lewis confessed to himself. Not even a General Taylor, though I suppose I’m more inclined toward the latter’s easiness with the men and almost . . . fraternal approach to commanding them. Even though he was perhaps more “dressed for battle” today than he’d ever been, at least in the sense he was clean and polished and his everyday red-trimmed shell jacket had been carefully brushed, that was as far as he could bring himself to go. He commanded this army, but wasn’t “over” it. He was still “of” it. Maybe Zachary Taylor felt the same way—unless his rough dress and behavior was as much an affectation as Scott’s fine dress and formality. Lewis didn’t really know. He did know it wasn’t like that with him.

“Offa one o’ them dead Dom officers. Didn’t loot him,” Willis added defensively, “just took this here sword, seein’ as how he didn’t need it no more.”