The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [64]
“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 at Chancellorsville. 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 re-formed them on this hill, along with the First, and ever since then everybody’s been coming 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