Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [63]
He was a one-armed man for whom Buford had no admiration. The majors confronted like wispy chickens; it was very strange. Behind them Buford saw suddenly a familiar face: John Gibbon, of Hancock's corps. Infantry. A cold, silent man. His brothers fought for the other side.
Buford nodded. Gibbon nodded. A major was giving a lecture on military precedence: Howard could not be relieved except by written order or by Meade in person.
Gibbon came up and took the reins.
"Evenin', John."
Buford bowed.
"A hard day?"
"Long," Buford admitted.
"Hancock's inside, if you want to see him." Gibbon led the horse out of the crowd. The argument went on behind them. Buford watched it with awe. Never get used to it, the mind of headquarters, not if I live a thousand years.
Gibbon said, "That's been going on all night."
"I gather Meade's not here yet. Who's in command?"
"Take your choice." Gibbon grinned. But he was one of Hancock's fanatics. Good soldier.
"I have to refit my outfit," Buford said. "I need orders."
"Hancock got here late this afternoon, just as Howard's Corps was falling apart. They ran, them Dutchmen, just like they did at Chancellorsville.
Hancock took command and reformed them on this hill, along with the First, and ever since then everybody's been coining to him for orders, and not Howard, and he's hopping mad. Kind of funny. He claims he's senior officer." Gibbon chuckled. "But Hancock has a verbal order from Meade. It's all very funny.
Thing is, when Hancock's on the field the men naturally turn that way. Old Howard's really steamed."
"I just want orders," Buford said. "I'm kind of weary."
He was thinking: need the long quiet again, want to get away from here. He dismounted, held briefly to the horse.
Gibbon called a man to take the reins. He said, "I'll get your orders. Why don't you wait out here?"
Buford sat on a rail. The arm was alive with pain. He said, "Is the army here?"
"Just about. All but Sedgewick. We've got Sykes and Geary and Sickles, along with Hancock. And Howard. Sedgewick will be here tomorrow, but he has a long march."
"Good," Buford said. He nodded, closed his eyes. Can relax now. He felt the beginning of sleep, even among the pain, the quiet dark coming, the soft rolling dreamless rest.
Gibbon said, "They're all inside."
Buford stirred, began to head toward the door. Gibbon said casually, "Why don't you stay out here?"
Buford moved sleepily toward the door. Need one last order, then a good long sleep. The aides near the door were parting, but something in Gibbon's voice caught him. He stopped, turned. Gibbon was there.
"Howard has made a complaint against you, John. He says you should have supported him on the right."
Buford nodded dumbly, then blinked. He raised the pained arm. Gibbon said, "He lost half his strength. Most of them got taken prisoner. He's mad as a hornet, lookin' for somebody to blame it on. I think he's picked you."
Buford felt nothing for a moment, a sort of sodden silence all through his brain, then the anger began to rise like a metal wave, like a hot tide in the dark. Buford could say nothing. No words came. Gibbon said softly, "Stay out here, John. I'll tell Hancock you're here."
He moved past Buford into the room. Buford blinked and blinked again and then began moving, pushing his way into the light, the smoke of the room. It was jammed with officers, all the brass. The anger made Buford dizzy. He tried to push his way through and the pain went all the way up his arm and into his chest and shocked him stiff. He could see faces: Sickles, the bully boy, the bright politician, a fat cigar clamped in a fat mouth, the man who was famous for having shot his wife's lover. Geary and Sykes were sitting, brooding; that damned Howard was making a speech. And there was Hancock against a wall, writing a note, talking to aides, issuing orders. Buford's vision blurred. The room was very hot and there was too much smoke. He had to push his way back out of the room into the open air. He kept saying aloud. God damn him. God damn him. He sat on a