"The Killer Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Shaara Michael)

3. BUFORD.

The land west of Gettysburg is a series of ridges, like waves in the earth. The first Rebel infantry came in that way, down the narrow gray road from the mountain gap. At noon they were in sight of the town. It was a small neat place: white board houses, rail fences, all in order, one white church steeple. The soldiers coming over the last ridge by the Lutheran Seminary could see across the town to the hills beyond and a winding gray road coming up from the south, and as the first gray troops entered the town there was motion on that southern road: a blur, blue movement, blue cavalry. They came on slowly around the last bend, a long blue smoking snake, spiked with guns and flags. The soldiers looked at each other across vacant fields. The day was very hot; the sky was a steamy haze. Someone lifted a gun and fired, but the range was too long. The streets of Gettysburg were deserted.

Just beyond the town there were two hills. One was wooded and green; the other was flat, topped by a cemetery.

The Union commander, a tall blond sunburned man named John Buford, rode up the long slope to the top of the hill, into the cemetery. He stopped by a stone wall, looked down across flat open ground, lovely clear field of fire. He could see all the way across the town and the ridges to the blue mountains beyond, a darkening sky. On the far side of the town there was a red brick building, the stately Seminary, topped with a white cupola. The road by the building was jammed with Rebel troops. Buford counted half a dozen flags. He had thought it was only a raiding party. Now he sensed power behind it, a road flowing with troops all the way back to the mountains.

The first blue brigade had stopped on the road below, by a red barn. The commander of that brigade. Bill Gamble, came up the hill on a muddy horse, trailed by a small cloud of aides, gazed westward with watery eyes. He wheezed, wiping his nose.

”By God, that’s infantry.”

Buford put the glasses to his eyes. He saw one man on a black horse, waving a plumed hat: an officer. The Rebel troops had stopped. Buford looked around, searching for other movement. He saw a squad of blue troopers, his own men, riding down into deserted streets. Still no sound of gunfire.

Gamble said, “That’s one whole brigade. At least one brigade.”

”Do you see any cavalry?”

Gamble swept the horizon, shook his head.

Strange. Infantry moving alone in enemy country. Blind. Very strange.

Gamble sneezed violently, wiped his nose on his coat, swore, wheezed. His nose had been running all that day He pointed back along the ridge beyond the cemetery.

”If you want to fight here, sir, this sure is lovely ground.

We tuck in here behind this stone wall and I’d be proud to defend it. Best damn ground I’ve seen all day.”

Buford said, “It is that.” But he had only two brigades.

He was only a scout. The big infantry was a long day’s march behind him. But Gamble was right: it was lovely ground.

”By God, I think they’re pulling back.”

Buford looked. The gray troops had turned; they had begun to withdraw back up the road. Slowly, very slowly.

He could see back-turned faces, feel the cold defiance. But he felt himself loosen, begin to breathe.

”Now that’s damned strange.” Gamble sniffled. “What do you make of that?”

Buford shook his head. He rode slowly along the stone wall, suspending judgment. There was no wind at all; it was exactly noon. It was very quiet among the gravestones.

Superb ground. He thought: they must have orders not to fight. Which means they don’t know who we are or how many. Which means they have no cavalry, no eyes. He stopped by a white angel, arm uplifted, a stony sadness. For five days Buford had been tracking Lee’s army, shadowing it from a long way off as you track a big cat. But now the cat had turned.

Buford said aloud, “He’s coming this way.”

”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 into 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 patrol 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: Have occupied Gettysburg. Contacted large party of Reb infantry. I think they are coming this way.

Expect they will be here in force in the morning.

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 ain’t 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, saber 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 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. Urn.”

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 have 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 genuis. 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.

He sat watching the lights come on in Gettysburg. The soldiers bordered the town along the west and the north in two long fire-speckled fences-a lovely sight in the gathering dusk. The last light of June burned in the west. He had one marvelous smoke-a dreamy cigar. Tomorrow he will come, old Bob Lee himself, down that western road, on a gray horse. And with him will come about seventy thousand rnen.

One of the Lieutenants was reading a newspaper. Buford saw rippled black headlines:

CITIZENS OF PENNSYLVANIA: PREPARE TO DEFEND YOUR HOMES!

A call for militia. He smiled. Militia would not stop old Bobby Lee. We have good old George Meade.

Now, now. Have faith. He might be very good.

The hell he is.

Buford peered quickly around, not knowing if he had said that out loud. Damned bad habit. But the Lieutenants were chatting. Buford looked past them to the silent town. Pretty country. But too neat, too tidy. No feel of space, of size, a great starry roof overhead, a great wind blowing. Well. You are not a natural Easterner, that’s for sure. Extraordinary to think of war here. Not the country for it. Too neat. Not enough room. He saw again the white angel. He thought: damn good ground.

He sat on a rail fence, watching the night come over Gettysburg. There was no word from the patrols. He went around reading the gravestones, many Dutch names, ghostA ly sentinels, tipped his hat in respect, thought of his own death,, tested his body, still sound, still trustable through a long night, but weaker, noticeably weaker, the heart uneven, the breath failing. But there was at least one good fight left. Perhaps I’ll make it here. His mind wandered. He wondered what it would be like to lose the war. Could you ever travel in the South again? Probably not for a while. But they had great fishing there. Black bass rising in flat black water: ah. Shame to go there again, to foreign ground.

Strange sense of enormous loss. Buford did not hate. He was a professional. The only ones who even irritated him were the cavaliers, the high-bred, feathery, courtly ones who spoke like Englishmen and treated a man like dirt. But they were mostly damn fools, not men enough to hate. But it would be a great shame if you could never go south any more, for the fishing, for the warmth in winter. Thought once of retiring there. If I get that old.

Out of the dark: Devin.

”Sir, the scouts are in. You were right, sir. Lee’s coming this way all right.”

Buford focused. “What have you got?”

”Those troops we ran into today were A. P. Hill. His whole Corps is back up the road between here and Cashtown. Longstreet’s Corps is right behind him. Ewell’s Corps is coming down from the north. They were right in front of Harrisburg but they’ve turned back. They’re concentrating in this direction.”

Buford nodded. He said absently, “Lee’s trying to get around us, between us and Washington. And won’t that charm the Senate?”

He sat down to write the message to Reynolds, on a gravestone, by lantern light. His hand stopped of itself. His brain sent nothing. He sat motionless, pencil poised, staring at the blank paper.

He held good ground before and sent off appeals, and help never came. He was very low on faith. It was a kind of gray sickness; it weakened the hands. He stood up and walked to the stone fence. It wasn’t the dying. He had seen men die all his life, and death was the luck of the chance, the price you eventually paid. What was worse was the stupidity. The appalling sick stupidity that was so bad you thought sometimes you would go suddenly, violently, completely insane just having to watch it. It was a deadly thing to be thinking on. Job to be done here. And all of it turns on faith.

The faces were staring at him, all the bright apple faces.

He shuddered with vague anger. If Reynolds says he will come, Reynolds will come. An honorable man. I hope to God. Buford was angry, violently angry. But he sat down and wrote the message.

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 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 shoot and run. Give us a good warning, but fire only a few rounds. Don’t wait too long before you pull out.”

A corporal said stiffly, “Yes, sir. General, sir.” He broke into a giggle. Buford heard a boy say, “Now aint you glad you jined the calvry?”

Buford rode back to the Seminary. He made his headquarters there. In the morning he would have a good view from the cupola. He dismounted and sat down to rest. It was very quiet. He closed his eyes and he could see fields of snow, miles and miles of Wyoming snow, and white mountains in the distance, all clean and incredibly still, and no man anywhere and no motion.