The Killer Angels (7 page)

“Sir?”

“Lee’s turned. That’s the main body.”

“You think so?” Gamble mused, wriggling his nose. “Could be. But I would have sworn he was headed for Harrisburg.”

“He was,” Buford said. An idea was blowing in his brain. But there was time to think, time to breathe, and he was a patient man. He sat watching the Rebs withdraw, then he said, “Move your brigades into town. That will make the good citizens happy. I’m going to go have a look.”

He hopped the stone wall, rode down the long slope. He owed a message to Reynolds, back with the infantry, but that could wait until he was sure. He was old army cavalry, Kentucky-born, raised in the Indian wars; he was slow, he was careful, but he sensed something happening, a breathless something in his chest. He rode down through the town and out the road the Rebs had taken. There was no one in the streets, not even dogs, but he saw white faces at windows, a fluttering of curtains. There were no cows anywhere, or chickens, or horses. Reb raiding parties had peeled the land. He rode up toward the brick building with the cupola and topped a crest. Off in the distance there was another rise; he could see the Reb column withdrawing into a blue west. He saw the lone officer, much closer now, sitting regally on horseback, outlined against a darkening sky. The man was looking his way, with glasses. Buford waved. You never knew what old friend was out there. The Reb officer took off his hat, bowed formally. Buford grimaced: a gentleman. A soldier fired at very long range. Buford saw his staff people duck, but he did not hear the bullet. He thought: They’ll
be back in the morning. Lee’s concentrating this way. Only one road down through the mountains; have to come this way. They will all converge here. In the morning.

He turned in his stirrups, looked back at the high ground, the cemetery. The hills rose like watchtowers. All that morning he had seen nothing but flat ground. When the Rebs came in, in the morning, they would move onto those hills. And Reynolds would not be here in time.

Gamble rode up, saluting. Tom Devin, the other brigade commander, arrived with a cheery grin. Gamble was sober sane; Devin was more the barroom type.

Buford walked the horse back and forth along the rise. He said aloud, “I wonder where their cavalry is.”

Devin laughed. “The way old Stuart gets around, he could be having dinner in Philadelphia.”

Buford was not listening. He said abruptly, “Get your patrols out. Scout this bunch in front of us, but scout up north. They’ll be coming in that way, from Carlisle. We’ve got a bit of light yet. I want to know before sundown. I think Lee’s turned. He’s coming this way. If I’m right there’ll be a lot of troops up the northern road too. Hop to it.”

They moved. Buford wrote a message to John Reynolds, back with the lead infantry:

The word would go from Reynolds to Meade. With any luck at all Meade would read it before midnight. From there it would go by wire to Washington. But some of Stuart’s cavalry had cut the wires and they might not be patched yet, so Washington would be in the dark and screaming its head off. God, that miserable Halleck. Buford took a deep breath. The great joy of the cavalry was to be so far away, out in the clean air, the open spaces, away from those damned councils. There were some moments, like now, when he felt no superior presence at all. Buford shook his head. He had been badly wounded in the
winter, and possibly as you got older you had less patience instead of more. But he felt the beautiful absence of a commander, a silence above him, a windy freedom.

The last Reb infantry walked away over the last rise. The Reb officer stood alone for a moment, then waved again and withdrew. The ridge was bare.

Buford sniffed: distant rain. The land around him was hot and dry and the dust of the horses was blowing steadily up from the south as the wind began to pick up, and he could see a darkness in the mountains, black sky, a blaze of lightning. A squadron of Gamble’s cavalry moved slowly up the road. Buford turned again in the saddle, looked back again at the high ground. He shook his head once quickly. No orders: you are only a scout.

Devin rode back, asking for instructions as to where to place his brigade. He had a cheery boyish face, curly yellow hair. He had much more courage than wisdom. Buford said abruptly, accusing, “You know what’s going to happen in the morning?”

“Sir?”

“The whole damn Reb army’s going to be here in the morning. They’ll move right through town and occupy those damned hills—” Buford pointed angrily—“because one thing Lee aint is a fool, and when our people get here Lee will have the high ground and there’ll be the devil to pay.”

Devin’s eyes were wide. Buford turned. The moods were getting out of hand. He was no man for war councils, or teaching either, and no sense in brooding to junior officers—but he saw it all with such metal brilliance: Meade will come in slowly, cautiously, new to command, wary of reputation. But they’ll be on his back from Washington, wires hot with messages: attack, attack. So he will set up a ring around the hills and when Lee’s all nicely dug in behind fat rocks Meade will finally attack, if he can coordinate the army, straight up the hillside, out in the open in that gorgeous field of fire, and we will attack valiantly and be butchered valiantly, and afterward men will thump their chests and say what a brave charge it was.

The vision was brutally clear: he had to wonder at the clarity of it. Few things in a soldier’s life were so clear as this, so black-line etched that he could actually see the blue troops for one long bloody moment, going up the long slope to the stony top as if it were already done and a memory already, an odd, set, stony quality to it, as if tomorrow had occurred and there was nothing you could do about it, the way you sometimes feel before a foolish attack, knowing it will fail but you cannot stop it or even run away but must even take part and help it fail. But never this clearly. There was always some hope. Never this detail. But if we withdraw—there is no good ground south of here.
This
is the place to fight.

Devin was watching him warily. Buford was an odd man. When he rode off there by himself he liked to talk to himself and you could see his lips moving. He had been too long out in the plains.

He looked at Devin, finally saw him. He said abruptly, “No orders yet. Tell your men to dismount and eat. Rest. Get some rest.”

He rode slowly away to inspect the ground in front of him, between him and the Rebels. If we made a stand here, how long do you think we could hold? Long enough for John Reynolds to get here with the infantry? How long would that take? Will Reynolds hurry? Reynolds is a good man. But he might not understand the situation. How do you make him understand? At this distance. But if you hold, you at least give him time to see the ground. But how long can you hold against Lee’s whole army? If it is the whole army. These are two very good brigades; you built them yourself. Suppose you sacrifice them and Reynolds is late? For Reynolds will be late. They’re always late.

Think on it, John.

There’s time, there’s time.

The land was long ridges, with streams down in the dark hollows. Dismounted, along a ridge, with all night to dig in, the boys could hold for a while. Good boys. Buford had taught them to fight dismounted, the way they did out west, and the hell with this Stuart business, this glorious Murat charge. Try that against an Indian, that glorious charge, sabers a-shining, and he’d drop behind a rock or a stump and shoot your glorious head off as you went by. No, Buford had reformed his boys. He had thrown away the silly sabers and the damned dragoon pistols and given them the new repeating carbines, and though there
were only 2,500 of them they could dig in behind a fence and hold
anybody
for a while.

But could they hold long enough?

Wherever he rode he could look back at the hills, dominant as castles. He was becoming steadily more nervous. Easy enough to pull out: the job is done. But he was a professional. Damned few of them in this army. And he would not live forever.

Rain clouds blotted the western sun. The blue mountains were gone. Gamble’s first scouts rode back to report that the Rebs had gone into camp just down the road, about three miles out of Gettysburg. Buford rode out far enough to see the pickets for himself, then he rode back toward the green hills. He stopped by the seminary and had a cup of coffee. The staff left him alone. After that he deployed the brigades.

He had made no plans, but it didn’t hurt to prepare. He told Gamble to dismount and dig in along the crest of the ridge just past the seminary, facing the Rebs who would come down that road. He posted Devin in the same way, across the road from the north. Three men in line, every fourth man to fall back with the horses. He watched to see that it was done. They were weary men and they dug in silently and there was no music. He heard an officer grumbling. The damned fool wanted to charge the Reb picket line. Buford let loose a black glare. But it was a good line. It would hold for a while, even old Bobby Lee. If John Reynolds got up early in the morning.

It was darker now, still very quiet. No need to make the decision yet. They could always pull out at the last minute. He grinned to himself, and the staff noticed his face and relaxed momentarily. Buford thought: One good thing about cavalry, you can always leave in a hell of a hurry.

Buford turned and rode back through the town, anxious for news from his scouts. People were moving in the streets. He collected a small following of happy boys, one small ragged girl with a beautiful, delicate face. He smiled down, but in the square ahead he saw a crowd, a speaker, a circle of portly men. He turned quickly away. He was no good with civilians. There was something about the mayors of towns that troubled him. They were too fat and they talked too much and
they did not think twice of asking a man to die for them. Much of the east troubled Buford. A fat country. Too many people talked too much. The newspapers lied. But the women … Yes, the women.

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 he is, with no more place on a modern battlefield than a great fat elephant
. He turned from eager eyes, remembering the cries for help that never came. That time it was General Pope. Now it was General Meade. Make no plans.