Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [81]
He did not notice the bellman leave, suddenly felt her hand, sliding up his back to his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in tightly, and she said, “It seems so quiet . . . like there is no war at all.”
“I know. A few weeks ago, the bloodiest battle ever fought on this land took place a few miles from here, and they have already forgotten.”
“Maybe it’s better forgotten.”
“No, it is better remembered. Because if they don’t, it will happen again, and keep on happening until they realize . . . this is a war. The Southerners are not an unruly mob that comes at us with sticks and torches. They have leaders, men who know how to take men into combat. Those men downstairs . . . in the lobby . . . those men have never led anything . . . and they will learn what that can cost.”
She looked up at him, saw his hard stare, and she felt him tighten, his jaw clench. She said, “You won’t be content to be a supply officer. . . .”
There was a long pause, and he took a deep breath. “I have never been content to be a supply officer.”
“Then tell them. Volunteer for something else.”
He dropped his arm, turned away from her, from the window. “I’m not a politician. I don’t have the friends, the pull, that those people . . . downstairs have. I have been given a job, and ultimately it comes down to that, to do what the army orders me to do.”
She moved toward him, and the sun came in behind her, silhouetting her. He reached out, touched her face with gentle hands, and there was a knock at the door.
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned, pulled open the heavy door, and was surprised to see an older man, an officer.
“Forgive me . . . are you Captain Hancock?”
“Yes, please come in.”
The man moved quickly, then saw Mira and looked uncomfortable. “Forgive the intrusion, Captain, they told me downstairs you just arrived. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“We, being . . . ?”
“I am Colonel Randolph Marcy, General McClellan’s chief of staff.”
“General McClellan?”
“Yes, Captain. The general has sent me to request that you not report anywhere until the general can see you.”
“Forgive me, Colonel Marcy, but I am not familiar with a General McClellan. I knew of a McClellan in Mexico, knew him at the Point. . . .”
“You have had a long journey, Captain. General George McClellan has been appointed Commander of the Army, to assume those duties General Scott is . . . no longer . . .” He paused, did not want to say the words. “You are familiar with General Scott?”
Hancock nodded. “Of course, sir. Forgive me. I have been out of touch.”
“Quite all right, Captain. Events occur at a rapid pace these days. The President feels that General McClellan is more suited to the operation of an effective fighting force than is General Scott. General Scott is . . . beyond his time, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If that is the President’s judgment.”
“General McClellan will send word to you here. Again, forgive the intrusion.” He turned to Mira, bowed, said a curt “Madam,” and backed out the door.
Hancock went back to the window, began to feel hot, blood rising in the back of his neck. “So, we have a real war, and they shove aside the only real warrior we have.”
“What do you suppose General McClellan wants with you, dear? He said they were waiting for you. It sounds terribly important.”
“McClellan. I remember him now, feisty little fellow, a couple years behind me. Brilliant . . . graduated at the top of his class,