Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [39]
As Lee’s coach rolled into the dusty walls of Fort Mason, he did not wait for the escort to open the door or even the coach to stop before he was out, moving across the hard dirt of the compound. He needed no greetings, no introductions. It was all too familiar. He reached the door to the headquarters offices, paused, looked around. He was surprised there were not more troops around. Only a few groups of men were scattered about, and no formations of drilling squadrons. The fort was a good deal quieter than he had left it more than a year ago.
He pushed open the door and walked into a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Behind the small desk sat a corporal reading a newspaper, feet up on the desk. The man had a huge cigar stuffed in one side of his mouth, did not look at Lee.
Lee waited, felt an unusual lack of patience, drained away by the heat and dust of his trip.
“On your feet, soldier.”
“What . . . ?” The man looked up, annoyed at the interruption, did not recognize Lee’s face, finally absorbed his rank, and placed the paper gently across the desk. He stood noisily then, pushing back the chair.
Lee stared at the cigar, still poking through the man’s mouth, and the man caught Lee’s look, removed the cigar, raised his hand in a sloppy salute, and dropped it down prematurely, not waiting for Lee’s response.
“Excuse me, Colonel. We don’t get many visitors around here.”
Lee felt a hot rush, a sudden impatient anger, wanted to tell the man who he was, how long he had served this army, all the good things he had done, only to be treated with such lazy lack of respect. Seconds passed, and the man looked down at the cigar, then reached for it, and Lee suddenly felt great despair. He continued to watch as the man grew impatient, painfully wanting to return to the chair and his newspaper.
Looking around, Lee felt embarrassed now at his anger, saw the door to the smaller office open, his office, asked, “Is Major Thomas here?”
“No sir, he’s out right now. But if you would like to leave your name, I’ll see he gets your message. You do have a message for him, sir?”
“Yes, Corporal, you may tell Major Thomas that Colonel Lee has returned. And if you don’t mind, Corporal, you may retrieve my bags from the coach outside, put them in my quarters, and then—”
“Right . . . Colonel . . . Lee . . .” The man was writing on a corner of the newspaper; Lee’s name meant nothing to him.
Lee wanted to say more, to put this arrogant little man in his place, remind him he was in the army, but he sensed the futility, felt swallowed up in the heat, abruptly had no energy.
“Uh, Colonel, you want me to get those bags now?”
“Now would be helpful, Corporal. If you don’t mind telling me, just when may we expect Major Thomas to return?”
“Any time now. He’s gone over to find a bite to eat, at the mess. Do you know where the mess is, Colonel?”
“Yes, I do, Corporal. Thank you for your help.”
Lee turned and walked back into the sun. He saw a few men moving about now, followed a young lieutenant into a low white building. The man did not see him until they were inside, then said, “Oh, sir,” and saluted.
Lee saw recognition, a familiar face, tried to think of the man’s name.
“Welcome back to Fort Mason, Colonel. Please, would you join . . .” The man looked around, tried to find reinforcements, saw one table in the rear with a group of officers and motioned nervously for Lee to follow. “This way, sir. Please, join us.”
Around the table were four men, faces Lee did not know, except for his old friend and second in command, George Thomas. They were quietly arguing, had not noticed him.
The lieutenant spoke up. “Gentlemen, please. It’s Colonel Lee.”
Thomas turned around, surprised, rose suddenly, knocking his chair back, a noisy clatter. “Colonel, forgive me. I didn’t know you had arrived. Good to see you