Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [187]
“Hello . . . you’re . . . a general. One of the leaders of our fine young men.” There was heavy sarcasm in his voice, and Hancock let it pass, nodded.
“Hancock. Winfield Hancock.”
The man looked up again, wide eyes, said, “Oh, General Hancock. It is a pleasure to meet you. Not too many generals on this field to whom I could say that. You are very highly regarded, General . . . which is also a rare comment.”
Hancock watched the man, who kept writing; a small man, older, thin gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t know you, sir. Are you an artist?”
The man laughed, put down the pen, said, “Well, yes, certainly I am. In the same way as you, I suppose. Anyone who rises to the top of his profession must have some artistry. In fact, I am a reporter. Have you heard of the Cincinnati Commercial?”
“No, sorry, I’m from Pennsylvania.”
“No matter. There’s a good many in Cincinnati who haven’t heard of her either.”
“You’re writing about what happened here?”
“What happened here has already been dispatched. By this morning my paper, and most others, have already given the people the news. Another chapter of disaster in the ever lengthening tragedy. No, General, I am writing a column, a commentary. From time to time there are people in Cincinnati who actually seem to care about what I think.”
“So, may I ask?”
“What I think? What does it matter, General? You have only one duty, only one opinion to guide you, that of your commander. We civilians have little influence over either your actions or your thoughts. My audience is interested in hearing the point of view that does not flow through a headquarters, is not censored by the official rationale that, alas, war is a necessary evil, and thus any tragedy or idiocy is just a small part of the greater curse, which of course you all deplore. The people have heard all that, General. What they do not often hear is some honesty, the uncensored view of someone outside of your bloody little fraternity.”
“I assure you, Mister . . .”
“Bolander, Cyrus Bolander.”
“I assure you, Mr. Bolander, we do not all share the same official view of events. The commanding general has a responsibility to speak for his army, but he does not tell us what to think.”
The man looked at his pad, then back at Hancock, said, “Hmmm, well that may be, General. All right, fine. Here.” He handed the pad up to Hancock. “That’s my column. Forgive me if you find my words a bit harsh.”
Hancock turned the pad around, saw the writing of a skilled hand, neat straight lines, and he began to read. “It has never been possible for men to show more valor, or generals to manifest less judgment . . .”
He stopped, looked at Bolander, said, “No, sir. I do not find your words too harsh. Perhaps they are not harsh enough.”
PART
FOUR
39. CHAMBERLAIN
January 1863
CHRISTMAS HAD been white and cold, and they did not talk about the men who were no longer there. Griffin’s division moved out away from the river, spread out into winter quarters around an obscure place known as Stoneman’s Switch.
They had dug shallow pits in the hard ground, piled logs around for short walls, then capped the huts with what had been their tents. It was cramped and dark, but it kept them warm. But the warmth also softened the ground beneath them, and so the huts became soggy dens of mud and sickness.
They did not celebrate the New Year. Burnside would not allow the army to sit quietly while his great failure haunted him, and so he sent troops out, up the river, small reconnaissance patrols and larger probes, as though by the effort he could somehow discover some soft vulnerability in Lee’s lines, some undiscovered part of the countryside where the army could redeem itself, and thus redeem him. Chamberlain led the regiment on such a probe, had done nothing to create any miracle, only the men having passed the time over the New Year without having to huddle together