The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [22]
He rode by one porch and there was a woman in a dress of rose, white lace at the throat, a tall blond woman with a face of soft beauty, so lovely that Buford slowed the horse, staring, before taking off his hat. She stood by a vined column, gazing at him; she smiled. There was an old man in the front yard, very old and thin and weak; he hobbled forward, glaring with feeble, toothless rage. “They’s Johnny Rebs eva-where, eva-where!” Buford bowed and moved on, turned to look back at the beautiful woman, who stood there watching him.
“Go back and say hello, General.”
A coaxing voice, a grinning tone: lean Sergeant Corse, a bowlegged aide. Buford smiled, shook his head.
“Widow woman, I betcha.”
Buford turned away, headed toward the cemetery.
“If ye’d like me to ride back, General, I’m sure an interduction could be arranged.”
Buford chuckled. “Not tonight, Sergeant.”
“The General could use a di-version. Beggin’ yer pardon, General. But ye’r too shy a lad, for yer age. Ye work too hard. These here now quiet towns, now, nothin’ ever happens here, and the ladies would be so delighted to see you, an important adventurous man such as you, who has seen the world, now, ye’d be doin’ ’em a gracious favor, just wi’ yer presence.”
Buford smiled. “I’m about as shy as a howitzer.”
“And similarly graceful. Begging yer pardon.”
“Zackly.” Buford began the slow ride up the hill to the cemetery.
“Ah,” the sergeant said sadly, “but she was a lovely lass.”
“She was that.”
The sergeant brightened. “Well, then if the General does not mind, I may just ride on over there meself, later on, after supper, that is, if the General has no objections.” He pushed the glasses back up on his nose, straightened his hat, tucked in his collar.
Buford said, “No objections, Sergeant.”
“Ah. Um.”
Buford looked.
“And, ah, what time would the General be having supper, now?”
Buford looked at the staff, saw bright hopeful eyes. The hint finally got to him. They could not eat until he had eaten. They trailed him wherever he went, like a pennant; he was so used to their presence he did not notice their hunger. He was rarely hungry himself these days.
The sergeant said woefully, “The folks in this here town been after us for food. The Rebs didn’t leave them much. The General ought to eat what we got while we got it, because the boys is givin’ it away.” He glared reproachfully at the other officers.
“Sorry,” Buford said. He pointed to the cemetery. “I’ll eat right here. A little dried beef. You gentlemen have some supper.”
They rode on into the cemetery. He dismounted at last, first time in hours, sat down on stone in silent pain. He thought: Body not much good but the mind works well. Two young lieutenants sat down near him, chewing on corn dodgers. He squinted; he did not remember their names. He could remember if he had to, duty of a good officer; he could fish in the memory for the names and pull them up out of the darkness, after a while, but though he was kind to young lieutenants he had learned a long time ago it was not wise to get to know them. One of these had wispy yellow hair, red freckles, he had a strange resemblance to an ear of corn. The other was buck-toothed. Buford suddenly remembered: The buck-toothed boy is a college boy, very bright, very well educated. Buford nodded. The lieutenants nodded. They thought he was a genius. He had thrown away the book of cavalry doctrine and they loved him for it. At Thorofare Gap he had held against Longstreet, 3,000 men against 25,000, for six hours, sending off appeal after appeal for help which never came. The lieutenants admired him greatly, and he could sometimes overhear them quoting his discoveries: Your great fat horse is transportation, that’s all