The Killer Angels

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 begi

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 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, gri

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. Rocks 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 bucktoothed 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 ca

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 you care for a bite to eat before the assault? We can serve Yankees done to order, before or after breakfast.”

Fremantle could not suppress a yawn, smothered it politely with his hand. “I suppose there is time for a bun or two. How’s General Longstreet this morning? My compliments, and I trust he slept well.”

”Doubt if he slept at all. He’s gone over to speak with General Lee.”

”Does the man ever sleep? Amazing. He rarely even sits down.”

Sorrel smiled. A bird, a

Ross boomed happily, patting himself fat-handedly across the stomach. “C’est le sanglant appel-de Mars, eh, old chap?” He popped the slender Fremantle on the arm, unsettling him.

Fremantle said with distaste, “Early in the morning for that, old friend. Could you wait until after tea?”

The others were gathering around the breakfast table.

Scheibert, the beardless Prussian, moody, prim, was dressed all in white, white coat, floppy white hat, the inevitable glittering monocle. While most of the officers of the army could speak French, few could speak German, and Scheibert’s pride was continually offended, but he went on stubbornly using German military terms in conversation, was not understood, would not explain, sat fatly, whitely to the side, a rare sight, oddly comical in that company.