Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [46]
“No problem, Captain,” Hancock replied. “Some of them are here, underneath. It would be helpful if your men could lend a hand, moving this stack, maybe . . . over there, that empty corner.”
“Sure thing, Captain.” Lorman turned, moved back outside, called to his men, and instantly soldiers were around Hancock, waiting for instructions. He stood up, pointed to the tents, and the men began to work, lifting boxes, shifting piles. He could feel the energy, a new eagerness. The men knew they would not be here much longer, had begun to itch for a change, the return home to Tejon, or a new assignment.
Hancock watched the labor, saw it was handled, began to leaf through the inventory sheets, and Lorman said, “Captain, a minute, if you don’t mind?”
“Certainly.” They walked outside, Hancock following Lorman’s lead. Lorman was a younger man, clean-shaven, smaller than Hancock, with a sturdy build and the compact stance of a good horseman. They walked out to the picket fence, and Hancock saw the men moving about, tending their horses, cleaning rifles, the daily chores of camp.
“We received new orders, Captain,” Lorman said. “This morning. Colonel Blakely is sending us to the coast, south of here a ways. The navy has been losing some property to bandits around the San Diego Mission. They don’t have the manpower, or the inclination, to chase them around the countryside. The colonel has told me specifically to defer to your judgment. If you feel it is too dangerous for us to leave just yet, we can delay a few days.”
“That’s very good of the colonel. But . . . it seems a little unusual to send your men out without returning to Tejon first. Other units could—”
“Captain,” Lorman said, “I don’t question the colonel’s orders.”
“No, certainly, I didn’t mean that. I just—” He stopped, could see the look on Lorman’s face, knew there was more, something the young man was not saying. Hancock glanced around the depot, waited.
Lorman said, quietly, barely above a whisper, “Captain, we don’t need to go back to Tejon, not now. The colonel feels we need to keep the men moving, keep them out in the field. Until . . . the tempers calm down.”
“Do you think they will calm down?”
“As long as my men stay busy, they don’t talk. As long as they have a mission, they all point in the same direction.”
Hancock listened to the man’s words, tried to hear an accent. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Lorman, where are you from?”
“Illinois. My family’s up near Lake Michigan.”
“Pennsylvania, myself. Please, forgive my personal question. I was just . . . well . . .”
“You were wondering if I was one of the Southerners. It’s all right, Captain. We’re all asking the same questions. I have men I’ve served with for five years, men I thought I could always depend on, who were always where you put them, doing their job. I have a lieutenant, there, that tall fellow with the red beard, Calloway, been with me from the beginning. He says he’s going home, quitting, says he has to defend Alabama. I ask him, defend them from what? He says, Lincoln. Do you understand this, Captain? What are they defending?”
Hancock looked at the ground, thought of Hamilton, the fierce oratory, pulling people along by their fears.
Lorman put a hand out, rested it on the fence rail. “You know, I thought it would be best if I supported Mr. Lincoln, nice to see someone from Illinois that made good like that. I never gave much thought to being a Republican or a Democrat or anything else, I figured it was the right thing to do, and now I hear men talking like he’s the devil. I don’t see what it is he’s done that people hate him so.”
Hancock saw the innocence, saw himself, a soldier who learns late the dangerous power of politics, said, “There’s been too much talk, I think. Too many loud voices. If someone disagrees with you, you shout back a little louder, and so he does the same. The words get nastier, the threats grow . . . and that’s how wars start.”
Lorman looked at him, and Hancock said the word again, to himself: war.
“But .