Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [80]
“Well, my husband, this is not at all what you expected, is it?”
He looked around, saw people in all forms of dress, some hurrying, some in a leisurely stroll through the square, down the broad streets of Washington.
“No. This is . . . strange.”
From the moment of their arrival in New York, and all during the train trip to the capital, they had heard the rumors: a city under siege, the savage rebel army on the outskirts, a general panic. Hancock knew not to trust rumors, but in some ways they made sense. He had read of the early skirmishes, unprepared armies colliding in sloppy battles like two small children in a fistfight, swinging wildly, arms flapping in a flurry of misdirected motion. But then there were the reports from Manassas, what the northern papers called Bull Run, where there were too many troops and too many bad generals, and one general in particular, Irvin McDowell, who believed the cocky assurances from the men in expensive suits, the congressmen and dignitaries who happily followed the army in grand carriages, who brought along their women, sitting under brightly colored parasols, watching the splendid event from a hillside; an eager audience, picnicking and partying as their gallant heroes under fluttering flags would crush the dirty riffraff of the rebellion.
It was McDowell who learned that the dirty little rebel army had come to fight, would not run from the loud brass bands or the neat lines of blue troops, and were not there to perform for his audience. The bloody rout sent the Union troops back through their admirers in a panic, and the stunned audience was swarmed by the real sounds of war, loud piercing screams, the cries of wounded and terrified men. They saw blood, great bursts of red covering the troops and the ground, and the men in the fancy suits did not cheer, but pulled their women back, moving with the great flow of panic back into the city, pursued by the brutal honesty of death.
And so, the rumors had flown. This army of savages was on the brink, ready to overwhelm the decent people of Washington. But the attack hadn’t come, and while Hancock had not expected the rumors to be accurate, he was amazed at the calmness, the jovial mood of the people, still so close to the bloody fields.
“Very strange.” He moved around the carriage. Mira took his arm and they went up into the hotel.
The man behind the desk glanced at his uniform, noticed it was not new, seemed surprised, and Hancock now saw that the lobby was filled with officers, men with loud voices, crisp blue coats, the men of the new army. No one noticed him, and he did not think of saluting anyone, though he passed by men of high rank, men who were strutting about like swollen birds.
“Excuse me, we have sent word . . . we have a room, I believe?”
The clerk looked at him again, then saw Mira. His eyes brightened and he nodded in her direction. “Name?”
“Captain Winfield Hancock. And Mrs. Hancock.”
“Hmmm, let’s see . . . oh, here. Yes, you have Room 6D.”
The man motioned to a waiting bellman, another black man in a formal gray suit and red hat, who had been waiting for the cue. The man picked up their bags and led them to the stairway. Hancock paused, glanced out through the noisy throng of uniforms, thought there might be someone he knew, some familiar face. But he recognized no one, saw officers speaking to civilians, men with pads of paper, reporters, of course. He turned back to Mira, who was waiting for him, smiling.
“Let’s go up to the room, please. I’m covered with dust.”
He felt her arm in his again, and she pulled him along, following the bellman. The man led them up to their room, pushed open the heavy oak door and led them inside. Mira directed the placement of the bags, and Hancock went to the window, looked