Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [47]
“Mr. Lorman, you and I are from one country. Maybe your lieutenant from Alabama doesn’t see it that way. These people here, these Californians, don’t seem to see it that way. I don’t know how you change that.”
Lorman turned, and Hancock saw a man running over, calling out.
“Captain, a rider . . . a courier.”
They turned toward the sound of hoofbeats, saw a blue uniform riding up, but from a different direction, not the road to Tejon.
The two officers moved toward the gate, and Lorman said, “He’s not cavalry—the uniform, infantry.”
The man dismounted, looked around, saw the officers approaching, saluted and said, “Lieutenant Phillips, sirs, Sixth Regiment of Infantry. Begging your pardon, I have a message for Captain Hancock.”
Lorman gestured in Hancock’s direction. “Right here, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, Major Armistead sends his compliments, wishes me to inform you that units of the Sixth Regiment will be camping just north of town this evening. He also requests . . .” The man felt in his pocket, pulled out a rumpled piece of yellow paper. “Major Armistead respectfully requests an invitation to dinner with the captain and his commanding officer, Mrs. Hancock.”
Hancock laughed, startling the dusty lieutenant, who said, “Excuse me, sir, but may I assume that the captain understands the major’s message?”
“Quite well, Lieutenant. Please pay my respects to your major. Tell him . . . the commander will expect his presence at seven o’clock. It’s all right, I’m authorized to speak for my . . . commanding officer.”
The man saluted, climbed back on his horse, and with a quick graceful spin, a self-conscious move in the face of a crowd of cavalrymen, spurred the horse down the road, into a dusty cloud.
Lorman waved his hat at the dust. “I assume, Captain, we may begin to break camp. Sounds like you are in capable hands. And, forgive the personal observation,” he said, smiling, “it sounds like this Major Armistead is a good friend of yours.”
Hancock watched the dust rising on the road, turned, looked at the young man from Illinois.
“That he is, Captain.”
9. LEE
February 1861
AT FORT Mason the officers had given up on maintaining good order and discipline in the troops. The tensions were high, fights were common, and it seemed that no one gave much thought to Indians, or any other aspect of their duty.
Lee sat alone in the commander’s office. He still allowed Major Thomas to share the small space, felt it relieved the boredom by having a companion, especially someone from Virginia. But Thomas was away now, and Lee passed the days in painful ignorance. Occasional newspapers would make it to the fort, passed through San Antonio, and always now the news was bad.
He turned his chair toward the small window, looked out beyond the wall and saw the Lone Star, the flag of an independent Texas flying from a high pole, placed purposely, defiantly, where the soldiers would see it.
What will happen? he wondered. Will we become prisoners, or will they simply tell us to leave? He reached out, ran his finger along the windowsill, pushed up a small line of gray dirt, the dust of the frontier. He felt a part of some great disaster, some great piece of history, and yet, he was not part of it, was not connected. He turned back to his desk, wiped his hand on his pants, said aloud, “I have always been too far away.”
He suddenly felt very lonely, thought of Mary, his family, wondered what they knew, what news they heard, what wild rumors were cascading through Virginia. Of course, there would be rumors. There were always rumors. But no rumor could be any worse than what already was, nothing could make less sense. The country was falling apart, and he was helpless, could do nothing, was stuck in Indian country.
“Sir?”
It was the voice of Sergeant Morgan, a small, cheerful man who did not seem affected by all this, which Lee found curious and a bit entertaining. He simply loved being a soldier.
“Yes, Sergeant, come in.” Lee leaned back in the chair, stretched, did not feel