The commander of U.S. forces in Canada was scribbling changes on a report Dowling had typed. Some of them, Dowling saw, reversed changes he’d made in an earlier report. Usually, that would have infuriated Custer’s adjutant—not that Dowling could do anything about it. Today, though, he felt uncommon sympathy for his vain, irascible superior.“Sir?” he said. Custer didn’t look up. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he didn’t want to hear. Dowling could hardly have blamed him were that so. But he had to make Custer notice him. “Sir!”“Eh?” With surprise perhaps genuine, perhaps well feigned, Custer shoved the papers aside. “What is it, Dowling?”Either he’d entered his second childhood the night before or he knew perfectly well what it was. Dowling didn’t think senility had overcome the old coot as suddenly as that. He said, “Sir, Mr. Thomas is here to see you. He’s from the War Department.” He added that last in case Custer had gone around the bend in the past twenty-four hours.Custer sighed, his wrinkled features drooping.
