The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [24]
He was in possession of good ground at Gettysburg. If Reynolds came quick, first thing in the morning, Buford could hold it. If not, the Rebs would take it and there was no ground near that was any good. Buford did not know how long his two brigades could hold. Urgent reply.
It was too formal. He struggled to make it clear. He stared at it for a long while and then sealed it slowly, thinking, well, we aren’t truly committed, we can still run, and gave the message to the buck-toothed lieutenant, who took it delightedly off into the night, although he’d been in the saddle all that day.
Buford felt the pain of old wounds, a sudden vast need for sleep. Now it was up to Reynolds. He said to Devin, “How many guns have we got?”
“Sir? Ah, we have, ah, one battery, sir, is all. Six guns. Calef’s Battery, that is, sir.”
“Post them out along that west road. The Cashtown Road.”
Buford tried to think of something else to do but it was all suspended again, a breezy vacancy. Rest until Reynolds sends the word. He sat down once more, back against a gravestone, and began to drift slowly away, turning his mind away as you shift a field of vision with your glasses, moving to focus on higher ground. He remembered a snowstorm. Young lieutenant delivering military mail: days alone across an enormous white plain. Lovely to remember: riding, delivering mail. He dreamed. The wound began to hurt. He woke to the sergeant, bowlegged Corse: The man dragged drearily by on a spattered horse, raised disgusted eyes.
“The husband, by God, is an undertaker.”
He rode mournfully off. The sound of music began to drift up the hill from Gettysburg. A preacher from the seminary began a low, insistent, theological argument with a young lieutenant, back and forth, back and forth, the staff listening with admiration at the lovely words. The staff began to bed down for the night. It was near midnight when the buck-toothed boy came back from Reynolds, panting down from a lathered horse. Buford read: General Buford: Hold your ground. I will come in the morning as early as possible. John Reynolds.
Buford nodded. All right. If you say so. The officers were up and gathering. Buford said to the buck-toothed boy, “Did he say anything else?”
“No, sir. He was very busy.”
“How far back is he?”
“Not ten miles, sir, I don’t think.”
“Well,” Buford said. He faced the staff: the eager, the wary. “We’re going to hold here in the morning.” He paused, still fuzzy-brained. “We’ll try to hold long enough for General Reynolds to come up with some infantry. I want to save the high ground, if we can.”
There was a breathy silence, some toothy grins, as if he had announced a party.
“I think they’ll be attacking us at dawn. We ought to be able to stop them for a couple of hours.”
At Thorofare Gap we held for six. But that was better ground.
Devin was glowing. “Hell, General, we can hold them all the long damned day, as the feller says.”
Buford frowned. He said slowly, “I don’t know how long will be necessary. It may be a long time. We can force them to deploy, anyway, and that will take up time. Also, that’s a narrow road Lee’s coming down, and if we stack them up back there they’ll be a while getting untracked. But the point is to hold long enough for the infantry. If we hang onto these hills, we have a good chance to win the fight that’s coming. Understood?”
He had excited them. They were young enough to be eager for this. He felt a certain breathless quality himself. He ordered a good feed for the night, no point now in saving food. They moved out to give their orders. Buford rode out once more, in the dark, to the picket line.
He posted the lead pickets himself, not far from the Rebel line. There were four men along the bridge: New York and Illinois, two of them very young. They were popeyed to be so near the Rebs. Closer than anybody in the whole dang army.
Buford said, “They should come in just at about first light. Keep a clear eye. Stay in there long enough to get a good look, then