Pull out before then. Save something. He rode back toward the Seminary. He climbed the cupola, looked out across the field of war. Wreckage everywhere, mounded bodies, smoking earth, naked stumps of trees. He could see a long way now, above the rolling smoke which had replaced the mist, and the road coming down from the faroff mountains was packed with soldiers, thousands of soldiers, sunlight glittering on jeweled guns. He looked toward the south-and there was Reynolds.
He was coming at a gallop across the fields to the south, a line of aides strung out behind him, cutting across the field to save time. No mistaking him: matchless rider gliding over rail fences in parade-ground precision, effortless motion, always a superb rider. Buford blinked, wiped his face, thanked God. But the road behind Reynolds was empty.
The General rode into the yard below, dismounted.
Buford waited in the cupola, weariness suddenly beginning to get to him in waves. In a moment Reynolds was up the ladder.
”Good morning, John.”
An immaculate man, tidy as a photograph, soft-voiced, almost elegant. Buford put out a hand.
”General, I’m damned glad to see you.”
Reynolds stepped up for a look. Buford explained the position. In all his life he had never been so happy to see anybody. But where was the infantry? Reynolds swung, pointed a gloved hand.
The blue line had come around the bend. Buford saw with a slight shock the first column of infantry, the lovely flags. Reynolds said softly, “That’s the First Corps. The Eleventh is right behind it.”
Buford watched them come. He leaned against the side of the cupola. Reynolds had turned, was surveying the hills to the south. There was a set, hard, formal look to him, but a happiness in his eyes. Buford thought: he has brains to see.
Reynolds said, “Good job, John.”
”Thank you.”
”This is going to be very interesting.”
”Yes,” Buford said.
”They seem to be forming for another assault. That’s Harry Heth, isn’t it? Very good. He’ll come in here thinking he’s up against two very tired cavalry brigades, and instead he’ll be hitting two corps of fresh Union infantry.”
Reynolds smiled slightly. “Poor Harry,” he said.
”Yes, sir,” Buford said.
”You can start pulling your boys out. As soon as we set up. Well done. Well done indeed. You can put them out on my flanks. Keep an eye on that north road. I expect Dick Ewell to be coming in shortly.”
”Yes, sir.”
They went down out of the cupola. Reynolds mounted a beautiful black horse. Buford came out into the open, saw his staff tidying itself up, combing hair, buttoning buttons.
Shells were falling on the ridge nearby and bullets were slicing leaves, but Reynolds sat astride the horse in a motionless calm, looking out toward the fight, picture of a soldier, painted against the trees. Reynolds called in one of his officers. He said slowly, somewhat delicately, pronouncing each word in turn, evenly, machinelike, “Captain, I want you to ride as fast as you can to General Meade. Tell him the enemy is advancing in strong force and that I am afraid they will get the heights beyond the town before I can. We will fight them here inch by inch, through the town if necessary, barricading the streets. We will delay them as long as possible. I am sending messages to all my commanders to come to this place with all possible speed.
Repeat that.”
The Captain did, and was gone. Reynolds sent messages to other commanders: Doubleday, Sickles. Then he said, to Buford, “I think I’ll move over and hurry the boys along.”
”Obliged,” Buford said.
”Not at all.” He wheeled the horse gracefully, still something of that elegant quality of display in the fluid motion, and rode off. In the direction he took Buford heard music. A blue band was playing. Buford issued his own orders. The great weight was off him. Now it belonged to Reynolds. And there was no regret. Through most of his life he had resented the appearance of higher command. Now it came to save him. A new thing. He did not mind at all.
Must be the age. Well, you have gone to the limit, lad. You have reached your own personal end.
Tom Devin was up. He was annoyed to be pulled out.
Buford looked at him, shook his head. In a moment Reynolds was back, leading blue troops at double time through the fields, tearing down rail fences as they came.
Buford’s heart was stirred: the Black Hats, Simon Cutler’s Iron Brigade, best troops in the Union Army. An omen. They began to move out onto the road by the Seminary, regiment after regiment, moving with veteran gloom, veteran silence, steady men, not many boys. One man was eating cherries hurriedly from a mess tin; another had a banjo on his back, which was bothering him, and he swung it around to cover his front and banged the man in front of him, who complained, to peculiar laughter. One man asked one of Buford’s aides loudly which way was the war and offered to go the other way, and an officer turned and began sending them into line along the crest Gamble had held.
Then Reynolds was back.
The Rebel shells were beginning to pass overhead. They had seen new troops coming and some of the fire was falling now on Gettysburg. Reynolds summoned another aide.
”Lieutenant, get on into town and tell these people to stay in off the streets. There’s liable to be a fair-sized dispute here today, and give anyone you meet my compliments, along with my suggestion that every person stay indoors, in cellars if possible, and out of harm’s way. Especially children.” He peered at the aide. “Joe, how do you see with those things on?” The aide wore glasses that were very muddy. He took them and tried to clean them and smeared them with jittery fingers. A shell hit a treetop across the road and splinters flickered through the grove and spattered against the brick wall. Reynolds said pleasantly, “Gentlemen, let’s place the troops.”
He motioned to Buford. They rode out into the road.
Buford felt a certain dreamy calm. Reynolds, like Lee before him, had once commanded the Point. There was a professional air to him, the teacher approaching the class, utterly in command of his subject. Reynolds said, “Now, John, he’s got a good fifteen thousand men out there, wouldn’t you say?”
”Yes. Be a lot more in a little while.”
”Yes. Well, between us we can put almost twenty thousand in the field in the next half hour. We’re in very good shape, I think.”
”For a while,” Buford said.
Reynolds nodded.
He turned in his saddle, looked back toward the hills.
”Isn’t that lovely ground?” he said.
”I thought so.”
”Keep at it, John. Someday, if you’re spared, you may make a soldier.” He bowed his head once slightly. It came over Buford like a sunrise that he had just received Reynolds’ greatest compliment. At that moment it mattered very much. “Now,” Reynolds said, “let’s go surprise Harry Heth.”
They rode out together, placing the troops. The First Corps moved into line on the left. The Eleventh Corps moved in behind them, swung out to the right. Through all that the Reb cannon were firing steadily and smoke was filling up the hollow between the armies and no one could see the motion of the troops. The Eleventh was still not in line when the new Reb attack came rolling up out of the smoke. Reynolds moved off to the left, close to the line.
Buford heard music, an eerie sound like a joyful wind, began to recognize it: “The Campbells Are Coming.” He recognized Rufus Dawes and the Sixth Wisconsin moving up, more Wisconsin men behind them, deploying in line of skirmishers and firing already as they moved up, the line beginning to go fluid as the first Reb troops poured over a partly deserted crest, and met the shock of waves of new troops coming up from the south.
Buford got one last glimpse of Reynolds. He was out in the open, waving his hat, pointing to a grove of trees. A moment later Buford looked that way and the horse was bare-backed. He did not believe it. He broke off and rode to see. Reynolds lay in the dirt road, the aides bending over him. When Buford got there the thick stain had already puddled the dirt beneath his head. His eyes were open, half asleep, his face pleasant and composed, a soft smile.