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By Root 327 0

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 rail. In a moment he looked up and there was Hancock.

“How are you, John?”

Handsome face, watching. Buford focused. Hancock looked down with bright dark eyes. Buford said, “I’m all right.”

“Heard you were with John Reynolds when he died.”

“I was.”

“Tell me.”

Buford told him. Hancock would write the letter. Good, very good. Hancock was older since last time Buford saw him. Calm and cocky, damned good-looking man. Buford felt suddenly better. Cool, clean air.

Hancock said, “I’m sending the body back to his folks in Lancaster. They might appreciate a note from you.”

“I’ll send it.”

“How’s your division?”

Buford told him. Hancock was surprised. He hadn’t known Buford was that involved. Buford said, “We were involved.”

“Well, get yourself refitted. May need you in the morning.”

There was commotion behind him. A mass of aides were riding up. Somebody blew a discordant bugle. Hancock stood up, grinned. Buford noted: why, Hancock’s wearing a clean white shirt. Isn’t that amazing. Clean as a whistle. Hancock said, “Here’s Meade.”

They all came out to meet him, the angry man with the squeaky voice. They gathered around him as he dismounted. Buford was pushed to the side. He heard Meade greet Hancock.

“Damn dark. I can’t see a damn thing.”

Hancock said he was very glad to see the General. Meade said, with great disgust, “Well, I hope to God this is good ground, General. Is it good ground?”

“Very good ground, General.”

“Well, by God it better be, because we’re going to have to fight here sure enough in the morning.”

Buford was pushed too far away. Meade went on into the house. Flocks of officers gathered at the windows. Buford had enough; he had his orders. He got back on his horse and rode slowly back toward the cemetery. He had not much strength left. He called for one of his aides, but the buck-toothed boy was dead, and the yellow-haired boy was dead, and the sergeant was down and would never recover. Buford stopped in the cemetery. He could not find the white angel. But he looked out across the town and he could see a great ocean of Rebel campfires, flooding the town, with fire burning all over those ridges to the west, flooding fire right up to the base of the hill. Buford took off his hat, looked up to the stars. He said to John Reynolds, “Well, John, we held the ground.” He wiped his eyes. He thought: Have to get some more lieutenants. Then he rode off down the hill into the black beneath the trees.

THURSDAY,

JULY 2, 1863

THE SECOND DAY

He hath loosed the fateful lightning …

1.

FREMANTLE

Awake in the dark, the stars still brightly shining. Fremantle, a slow riser, staggered into the dawn not quite knowing where he was. These people might conduct these things at a civilized hour. Three in the morning. Incredible. He washed in dirty water. Came vaguely awake. War!

The army awakened around him. He could sense the red battle forming today, coming like the sun. His senses shocked him awake. He expected cannon at any moment. He saw the first light of dawn a dusky rose in the east, the sun coming up from the direction of the enemy. He felt sleepily marvelous. He bid a cheery hello to Sorrel, Longstreet’s aide.

“Major Sorrel, sir, good morning! I say, could you direct me to the battle?”

Sorrel, a neat and natty person, smiled and bowed. “Would