Lee took a quick nap. He was awakened by the arrival of Ewell. He rose and went out into the night. The strange beaked figure waited with deference. Lee said, “How are you, sir?”

”I am fine, sir. The leg troubles me a bit.”

Lee suggested a doctor. Ewell shook his head. “Drugs injure a man’s thinking. The leg is minor. Sir?”

”Johnson’s men are in position now. He is very optimistic, much more than Early. I believe we ought to attack there, sir.”

”Attack the hill?”

”Yes, sir. Gulp’s Hill or Cemetery Hill, or both, sir.”

There was a new certainty in his voice. Lee was very glad to hear it. A small relief blossomed like a flower. Lee said only, “I have made no decision yet. But in your opinion, we should attack on your flank.”

”Yes, sir.”

Lee nodded. “I will consider it. I am glad to hear you are well.”

”General,” Ewell said. His face was not clear in the evening light, the lamplight from inside, the moon from the heavens, but there was a sadness in his voice, regret apparent in the motion of his head, the beak above the wild mustache bobbing. “I think I was too slow today, sir. I regret that very much. I was trying to be… careful. I may have been too careful.”

Lee was moved. My good old soldier. He was embarrassed. He said quickly, “You won a victory, General.”

Ewell looked up. His eyes were strained. “It was not a large victory, it might have been larger, we might have pushed harder. But it was a victory. I am satisfied. The men fought well. This was your first day. It is not as easy as it sometimes appears.”

”No, sir,” Ewell said.

”Now get some rest.” Lee sent him off. He went back into the house feeling much better. The old man had been a good soldier for too long; you cannot worry about Ewell.

And then Lee thought: but sometimes I have seen it happen.

A man loses part of himself, an arm, a leg, and though he has been a fine soldier he is never quite the same again; he has lost nothing else visible, but there is a certain softness in the man thereafter, a slowness, a caution. I did not expect it with Ewell. I do not understand it. Very little of a man is in a hand or a leg. A man is in his spirit and he has that in full no matter what part of his body dies, or all of it. But, Lee thought, you may not understand. It has not happened to you, so you don’t understand. So don’t judge. He was a good soldier. He is not Jackson. Jackson is gone-not entirely gone; Jackson was there today watching, and Ewell sees his eyes-but you cannot blame him for not being Jackson. You must make do with the tools God has given for the job. Richard Ewell, old Baldy… and his ridiculous horse.

Lee went back to the rocker. Midnight came, and he had not yet slept. Headquarters grew steadily more still. Lee thought again of Rooney Lee, wounded, and prayed for him. There was no time for a letter to his wife, that troubled woman. He closed his eyes and thought of Meade, out there, gathering the army. John Reynolds was dead. He prayed for the soul of Reynolds. And in the morning?

This is the great battle. Tomorrow or the next day. This will determine the war. Virginia is here, all the South is here. What will you do tomorrow?

No orders were out. Now he was alone. It was cooler.

Taylor came and tucked a blanket around his knees and Lee did not argue. He was drifting off. Longstreet would be up in the morning. Pickett would be up by late afternoon. In the afternoon all the army will be here. And we will hit them. We will hit them with everything and drive them right off that hill and send them running back down the road to Washington. If Stuart’s cavalry…

He woke briefly. Without cavalry in the rear no victory would be complete. Should we attack before Stuart comes?

And if he comes with tired horses and weary men? If he comes at all…

Don’t think on that. Lee closed his eyes. And let himself fall into the bright dark. For Thine be the Kingdom, and the Power…

7. BUFORD.

He came back at last to the cemetery on the hill. All down the ridge they were digging in, all around the crest of the hill. He sat on the horse and watched the picks swinging in the moonlight, listened to the sound of shovels in the earth. The army was still coming in, marching by moonlight. It was almost two o’clock in the morning.

He rode slowly along the ridge, looking for headquarters.

He had been hit once in the left arm and the bleeding had stopped but the genuine pain was just beginning. They had wrapped the arm and put his coat back on and he did not show the injury. He rode stiffly, dizzily, looking for someone to give him orders for what was left of his cavalry.

He found a small farmhouse, center of many lights, many horses tethered outside. The musk of cigar smoke was heavy in the warm air. He remembered an old Indian joke: follow cigar smoke; fat men there. Bright moonlight, a warm and cloudless night. They were posting cannon along the ridge by moonlight: pleasant looming shapes, rolling caissons. Buford thought: I need a drink. Whisky stiffens.

He rode to the farmhouse and stopped in a crowd of horses and sat there. Rather not get down. Men were passing in and out, much conversation. A cloud of officers had clustered by the small lighted door, looking in. One glanced up, saw him, noted the star, turned, saluted quickly Buford wiggled a finger; the man came forward: a major. Other men were turning. Buford rode the horse almost to the door.

Buford said, “Who’s in command, and where do I find him?”

”Good evening, sir,” the major said. A very high voice.

A lisp? “The officer in command is General Howard, sir.

He may be found-“ “Don’t be a damn fool, Edgar,” another man said. He saluted Buford. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the truth is that General Hancock is in command, and if you’ll-“ Another major, skinny, grinning. The first major said angrily, “I must remind you, sir, that General Howard is the senior officer on the field.”

”But General Hancock has orders from General Meade himself.”

They argued, ignoring Buford. He looked down in wonder. Other officers voiced opinions. Oliver Howard was the commander of the Eleventh Corps. He had arrived this morning with Reynolds. He had fought on the right and been broken, just as he had been broken at Chancellorsville.

He was a one-armed man for whom Buford had no admiration. The majors confronted like wispy chickens; it was very strange. Behind them Buford saw suddenly a familiar face: John Gibbon, of Hancock’s corps. Infantry. A cold, silent man. His brothers fought for the other side.

Buford nodded. Gibbon nodded. A major was giving a lecture on military precedence: Howard could not be relieved except by written order or by Meade in person.

Gibbon came up and took the reins.

”Evenin’, John.”

Buford bowed.

”A hard day?”

”Long,” Buford admitted.

”Hancock’s inside, if you want to see him.” Gibbon led the horse out of the crowd. The argument went on behind them. Buford watched it with awe. Never get used to it, the mind of headquarters, not if I live a thousand years.

Gibbon said, “That’s been going on all night.”

”I gather Meade’s not here yet. Who’s in command?”

”Take your choice.” Gibbon grinned. But he was one of Hancock’s fanatics. Good soldier.

”I have to refit my outfit,” Buford said. “I need orders.”

”Hancock got here late this afternoon, just as Howard’s Corps was falling apart. They ran, them Dutchmen, just like they did at Chancellorsville. Hancock took command and reformed them on this hill, along with the First, and ever since then everybody’s been coining to him for orders, and not Howard, and he’s hopping mad. Kind of funny. He claims he’s senior officer.” Gibbon chuckled. “But Hancock has a verbal order from Meade. It’s all very funny.