Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [62]
Lee went back to the rocker. Midnight came, and he had not yet slept.
Headquarters grew steadily more still. Lee thought again of Rooney Lee, wounded, and prayed for him. There was no time for a letter to his wife, that troubled woman. He closed his eyes and thought of Meade, out there, gathering the army. John Reynolds was dead. He prayed for the soul of Reynolds. And in the morning?
This is the great battle. Tomorrow or the next day. This will determine the war. Virginia is here, all the South is here. What will you do tomorrow?
No orders were out. Now he was alone. It was cooler.
Taylor came and tucked a blanket around his knees and Lee did not argue. He was drifting off. Longstreet would be up in the morning. Pickett would be up by late afternoon. In the afternoon all the army will be here. And we will hit them. We will hit them with everything and drive them right off that hill and send them running back down the road to Washington. If Stuart's cavalry...
He woke briefly. Without cavalry in the rear no victory would be complete.
Should we attack before Stuart comes?
And if he comes with tired horses and weary men? If he comes at all...
Don't think on that. Lee closed his eyes. And let himself fall into the bright dark. For Thine be the Kingdom, and the Power...
7. BUFORD.
He came back at last to the cemetery on the hill. All down the ridge they were digging in, all around the crest of the hill. He sat on the horse and watched the picks swinging in the moonlight, listened to the sound of shovels in the earth. The army was still coming in, marching by moonlight. It was almost two o'clock in the morning.
He rode slowly along the ridge, looking for headquarters.
He had been hit once in the left arm and the bleeding had stopped but the genuine pain was just beginning. They had wrapped the arm and put his coat back on and he did not show the injury. He rode stiffly, dizzily, looking for someone to give him orders for what was left of his cavalry.
He found a small farmhouse, center of many lights, many horses tethered outside. The musk of cigar smoke was heavy in the warm air. He remembered an old Indian joke: follow cigar smoke; fat men there. Bright moonlight, a warm and cloudless night. They were posting cannon along the ridge by moonlight: pleasant looming shapes, rolling caissons. Buford thought: I need a drink.
Whisky stiffens.
He rode to the farmhouse and stopped in a crowd of horses and sat there.
Rather not get down. Men were passing in and out, much conversation. A cloud of officers had clustered by the small lighted door, looking in. One glanced up, saw him, noted the star, turned, saluted quickly Buford wiggled a finger; the man came forward: a major. Other men were turning. Buford rode the horse almost to the door.
Buford said, "Who's in command, and where do I find him?"
"Good evening, sir," the major said. A very high voice.
A lisp? "The officer in command is General Howard, sir.
He may be found-" "Don't be a damn fool, Edgar," another man said. He saluted Buford. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the truth is that General Hancock is in command, and if you'll-" Another major, skinny, grinning. The first major said angrily, "I must remind you, sir, that General Howard is the senior officer on the field."
"But General Hancock has orders from General Meade himself."
They argued, ignoring Buford. He looked down in wonder. Other officers voiced opinions. Oliver Howard was the commander of the Eleventh Corps. He had arrived this morning with Reynolds. He had fought on the right and been broken, just as he had been broken