”Yes, sir. Colonel, sir.”
Chamberlain reached the head of the column. The road ahead was long and straight, rising toward a ridge of trees.
He turned in his saddle, looked back, saw the entire Fifth Corps forming behind him. He thought: 120 new men. Hardly noticeable in such a mass. And yet… he felt a moment of huge joy. He called for road guards and skirmishers and the Twentieth Maine began to move toward Gettysburg.
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.