Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [77]
He reached into his coat, pulled the envelope from his pocket, opened it again, held the letter up to the sunlight behind him, read it again, calmer this time, no surprises.
Captain Winfield S. Hancock, Chief Quartermaster, Department of Southern California.
You are hereby ordered to report to the Quartermaster General, Washington, pursuant to your assignment as Supply Officer, the Department of Kentucky, General Robert Anderson, Commanding.
He read it again, stared at the words “Supply Officer.” He looked up, stared out at the wide, clear space, said aloud, “Damn!”
He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, thought of Mira. She had always been right, always said, “You are too good at your job.” He wondered how many old soldiers, former soldiers, friends of politicians—anyone looking for a place in the new pages of glory—how many had volunteered to be supply officers? And worse, Hancock knew that without good supply officers, the army would not function, and so, of course, that was where they would send him. But it was not where he wanted to go.
He thought of Mexico, of his long fight to be sent there. He had been assigned as a recruitment officer, to sign up new volunteers for the war, and he was too good at that as well, made himself indispensable. Finally, after long months of tormenting his superiors, he had been assigned to the Sixth, and had accompanied some of his recruits south to join Scott’s army. He’d been in the good fight too, the key battles around Mexico City, had led infantry into stupid assaults, ordered by bad generals who did not understand that you did not push your outnumbered troops straight into fortified positions, and so many had died. Hancock had brought that home with him, would always know what it was like, out there, in front of the lines. And so it was difficult to live with the peace, more difficult than he could ever admit to Mira. He tried not to see Armistead’s face—he was gone, probably in Virginia by now—but Hancock knew: Armistead would fight, it was all he was, and unless Washington noticed him in the great crowd of the growing army, Hancock would have to settle for being a supply officer.
He stood up, high on the perch, felt a sudden breeze, balanced himself, could see down, through a small canyon, sharp, steep rocks. Steady, he thought. No need to end up down there. He eased himself down from the big rock. The mule was ignoring him, had found a small patch of coarse grass, tugged at it noisily, and Hancock put his hand on the animal’s back, looked back to the town, thought, I suppose we will miss it here, the weather, good friends. But I have never been in one place for long, that’s just not the way the army works.
He climbed up on the mule, which raised its head and turned to look at him. Hancock saw something that looked like annoyance, and he laughed, patted the animal’s neck, said aloud, “Yes, my friend, you have your duty as well. Now, I would appreciate it if you would remove us from this big damned hill without any major injury. Then you may carry me home. I have to tell my wife we’re leaving.”
15. LEE
July 21, 1861
LIEUTENANT TAYLOR moved with noisy haste, bounded up the stairs to the old office building, his boots echoing in heavy steps down the wide hallway to Lee’s office. Lee heard him coming, looked up from his writing to see the young man stumble around the corner, supporting himself against the doorway, gasping for breath.
“Lieutenant, are you all right?”
“Sir . . . the War Department . . . it’s an attack . . .”
“Slowly, Lieutenant. There’s been an attack on the War Department?”
“No, sir . . .” Taylor panted, then adjusted himself, took a long, deep breath. “Sir, I was just at the War Department, delivering the dispatches as you requested. There is a great deal of . . . activity there. I stayed as close as I could, and heard the staff relaying messages from General Beauregard. It seems, sir, that he is being attacked.