The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

  “They do,” Pickett admitted, nodding. “They do indeed.”

  “General Pickett’s record at West Point is still the talk of the army.”

  Armistead hawed.

  “It is unbecoming to a soldier, all this book-learning,” Pickett said haughtily.

  “It aint gentlemanly, George,” Armistead corrected.

  “Nor that either,” Pickett agreed.

  “He finished last in his class,” Longstreet explained. “Dead last. Which is quite a feat, if you consider his classmates.”

  “The Yankees got all the smart ones,” Pickett said placidly, “and look where it got them.”

  Fremantle stood grinning vaguely, not quite sure how to take all this. Lew Armistead came forward and bowed slightly, delicately, old courtly Lo, giving it a touch of elegance. He did not extend a hand, knowing the British custom. He said, “Good evening, Colonel. Lo Armistead. The ‘Lo’ is short for Lothario. Let me welcome you to ‘Lee’s Miserables.’ The Coldstream Guards? Weren’t you fellas over here in the discussion betwixt us of 1812? I seem to remember my daddy telling me about … No, it was the Black Watch. The kilted fellas, that’s who it was.”

  Fremantle said, “Lee’s Miserables?”

  “A joke,” Longstreet said patiently. “Somebody read Victor Hugo—believe it or not I have officers who read—and ever since then we’ve been Lee’s Miserables.”

  Fremantle was still in the dark. Longstreet said, “Victor Hugo. French writer. Novel. Les Misérables.”

  Fremantle brightened. Then he smiled. Then he chuckled. “Oh that’s very good. Oh, I say that’s very good indeed. Haw.”

  Pickett said formally, “Allow me to introduce my commanders. The elderly one here is Lewis Armistead. The ‘Lothario’ is a bit of a joke, as you can see. But we are democratic. We do not hold his great age against him. We carry him to the battle, and we aim him and turn him loose. His is what we in this country call an ‘Old Family’—” Armistead said briefly, “Oh God” “—although doubtless you English would consider him still an immigrant. There have been Armisteads in all our wars, and maybe we better change the subject, because it is likely that old Lo’s grandaddy took a potshot at your grandaddy, but anyway, we had to let him in this war to keep the string going, do you see? Age and all.”

  “Creak,” Armistead said.

  “The next one here is Dick Garnett. Ah, Richard Brooke Garnett.”

  Garnett bowed. Pickett said, “Old Dick is a good lad, but sickly. Ah well—” Pickett made a sad face “—some of us are born puny, and others are blessed with great natural strength. It is all God’s will. Sit down, Dick. Now this next one here—” he indicated stoic Jim Kemper “—this one is not even a soldier, so watch him. Note the shifty beady eye? He’s a politician. Only reason he’s here is to gather votes come next election.”

  Kemper stepped forward, hand extended warily. He had been speaker of the Virginia House and he was not fond of foreigners. Fremantle took the hand with forced good will. Kemper said brusquely, “Look here now, Colonel. Been wondering when you people were going to get out and break that damned Yankee blockade. How about that?”

  Fremantle apologized, grinning foolishly. Now the Prussian was here and the Austrian, Ross. A crowd was forming. Pickett went on to introduce some of his staff: Beau Harrison, his IG, and Jim Crocker. Crocker was moodily sentimental, already a bit drunk. He was returning now after an absence of thirteen years to his old alma mater, Pennsylvania College, in Gettysburg. Someone suggested they drink to that, but Pickett reminded one and all soulfully of his oath to Sallie, schoolgirl Sallie, who was half his age, and that brought up a round of ribald kidding that should have insulted Pickett but didn’t. He glowed in the midst of it, hairy, happy. Fremantle looked on, never quite certain what was kidding and what wasn’t. He produced some brandy; Armistead came up with a flask; Kemper had a bottle of his own. Longstreet thought: Careful. He sat off to one side, withdrawing, had one long hot swig from Armistead’s flask, disciplined himself not to take another, withdrew against the trunk of a cool tree, letting the night come over him, listening to them talk, reminiscing. He knew enough to stay out of it. The presence of the commander always a damper. But after a few moments Pickett detached himself from the group and came to Longstreet.

  “General? A few words?”

  “Sure, George. Fire.”

  “By George you’re looking well, sir. Must say, never saw you looking better.”

  “You look lovely too, George.” Longstreet liked this man. He was not overwhelmingly bright, but he was a fighter. Longstreet was always careful to give him exact instructions and to follow him to make sure he knew what to do, but once pointed, George could be relied on. A lovely adventurous boy, forty-two years old and never to grow older, fond of adventure and romance and all the bright sparkles of youth. Longstreet said happily, “What can I do for you, George?”

  “Well, sir, now I don’t mean this as a reflection upon you, sir. But, well, you know, sir, my division, my Virginia boys, we weren’t at Chancellorsville.”

  “No.”

  “Well, you know we were assigned away on some piddling affair, and we weren’t at Fredericksburg either; we were off again doing some other piddling thing, and now they’ve taken two of my brigades, Corse and Jenkins, and sent them off to guard Richmond—Richmond, for the love of God—and now, General, do you know where I’m placed in line of march? Last, sir, that’s where. Exactly last. I bring up the damned rear. Beg pardon.”

  Longstreet sighed.

  Pickett said, “Well, I tell you, sir, frankly, my boys are beginning to wonder at the attitude of the high command toward my division. My boys—”

  “George,” Longstreet said.

  “Sir, I must—” Pickett noted Longstreet’s face. “Now, I don’t mean to imply this command. Not you, sir. I was just hoping you would talk to somebody.”

  “George.” Longstreet paused, then he said patiently, “Would you like us to move the whole army out of the way and let you go first?”

  Pickett brightened. That seemed a good idea. Another look at Longstreet’s face.

  “I only meant, sir, that we haven’t—”

  “I know, George. Listen, there’s no plot. It’s just the way things fell out. I have three divisions, right? There’s you, and there’s Hood and McLaws. And where I go you go. Right? And my HQ is near the Old Man, and the Old Man chooses to be here, and that’s the way it is. We sent your two brigades to Richmond because we figured they were Virginia boys and that was proper. But look at it this way: if the army has to turn and fight its way out of here, you’ll be exactly first in line.”

  Pickett thought on that.

  “That’s possible?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well,” Pickett mused. At that moment Lew Armistead came up. Pickett said wistfully, “Well, I had to speak on it, sir. You understand. No offense?”

  “None.”

  “Well then. But I mean, the whole war could be damn well over soon, beg pardon, and my boys would have missed it. And these are Virginians, sir, and have a certain pride.” It occurred to him that Longstreet not being a Virginian, he might have given another insult.

  But Longstreet said, “I know I can count on you, George, when the time comes. And it’ll come, it’ll come.”

  Armistead broke in, “Sorry to interrupt, but they’re calling for George at the poker table.” He bowed. “Your fame, sir, has preceded you.”

  Pickett excused himself, watchful of Longstreet. Pickett was always saying something to irritate somebody, and he rarely knew why, so his method was simply to apologize in general from time to time and to let people know he meant well and then shove off and hope for the best. He apologized and departed, curls a jiggle.

  Armistead looked after him. “Hope he brought some money with him.” He turned back to Longstreet, smiling. “How goes it, Pete?”

  “Passing well, passing well.” An old soldier’s joke, vaguely obscene. It had once been fun
ny. Touched now with memories, sentimental songs. Longstreet thought: He’s really quite gray. Has reached that time when a man ages rapidly, older with each passing moment. Old Lothario. Longstreet was touched. Armistead had his eyes turned away, following Pickett.

  “I gather that George was trying to get us up front where we could get shot. Correct? Thought so. Well, must say, if you’ve got to do all this damn marching at my age there ought to be some action some time. Although—” he held up a hand “—I don’t complain, I don’t complain.” He sat, letting a knee creak. “Getting rickety.”

  Longstreet looked: firelight soft on a weary face. Armistead was tired. Longstreet watched him, gauging. Armistead noticed.

  “I’m all right, Pete.”

  “Course.”

  “No, really I …” He stopped in midsentence. “I am getting a little old for it. To tell the truth. It, ah …” He shrugged. “It isn’t as much fun when your feet hurt. Ooo.” He rubbed his calf. He looked away from Longstreet’s eyes. “These are damn good cherries they grow around here. Wonder if they’d grow back home.”

  Laughter broke from Pickett’s group. A cloud passed over the moon. Armistead had something on his mind. Longstreet waited. Harrison had to be back soon. Armistead said, “I hear you have some word of the Union Army.”

  “Right.” Longstreet thought: Hancock.

  “Have you heard anything of old Win?”

  “Yep. He’s got the Second Corps, headed this way. We should be running into him one of these days.” Longstreet felt a small jealousy. Armistead and Hancock. He could see them together—graceful Lo, dashing and confident Hancock. They had been closer than brothers before the war. A rare friendship. And now Hancock was coming this way with an enemy corps.

  Armistead said, “Never thought it would last this long.” He was staring off into the dark.

  “Me neither. I was thinking on that last night. The day of the one-battle war is over, I think. It used to be that you went out to fight in the morning and by sundown the issue was decided and the king was dead and the war was usually over. But now …” He grunted, shaking his head. “Now it goes on and on. War has changed, Lewis. They all expect one smashing victory. Waterloo and all that. But I think that kind of war is over. We have trenches now. And it’s a different thing, you know, to ask a man to fight from a trench. Any man can charge briefly in the morning. But to ask a man to fight from a trench, day after day …”

  “Guess you’re right,” Armistead said. But he was not interested, and Longstreet, who loved to talk tactics and strategy, let it go. After a moment Armistead said, “Wouldn’t mind seeing old Win again. One more time.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Really? I mean, well, Pete, do you think it would be proper?”

  “Sure. If the chance comes, just get a messenger and a flag of truce and go on over. Nothing to it.”

  “I sure would like just to talk to him again,” Armistead said. He leaned back, closing his eyes. “Last time was in California. When the war was beginning. Night before we left there was a party.”

  Long time ago, another world. And then Longstreet thought of his children, that Christmas, that terrible Christmas, and turned his mind away. There was a silence.

  Armistead said, “Oh, by the way, Pete, how’s your wife? Been meaning to ask.”

  “Fine.” He said it automatically. But she was not fine. He felt a spasm of pain like a blast of sudden cold, saw the patient high-boned Indian face, that beautiful woman, indelible suffering. Children never die: they live on in the brain forever. After a moment he realized that Armistead was watching him.

  “If you want me to leave, Pete.”

  “No.” Longstreet shook his head quickly.

  “Well, then, I think I’ll just set a spell and pass the time of day. Don’t get to see much of you anymore.” He smiled: a touch of shyness. He was five years older than Longstreet, and now he was the junior officer, but he was one of the rare ones who were genuinely glad to see another man advance. In some of them there was a hunger for rank—in Jubal Early it was a disease—but Armistead had grown past the hunger, if he ever had it at all. He was an honest man, open as the sunrise, cut from the same pattern as Lee: old family, Virginia gentleman, man of honor, man of duty. He was one of the men who would hold ground if it could be held; he would die for a word. He was a man to depend on, and there was this truth about war: it taught you the men you could depend on.

  He was saying, “I tell you one thing you don’t have to worry on, and that’s our division. I never saw troops anywhere so ready for a brawl. And they’re not just kids, either. Most of them are veterans and they’ll know what to do. But the morale is simply amazing. Really is. Never saw anything like it in the old army. They’re off on a Holy War. The Crusades must have been a little like this. Wish I’d a been there. Seen old Richard and the rest.”

  Longstreet said, “They never took Jerusalem.”

  Armistead squinted.

  “It takes a bit more than morale,” Longstreet said.

  “Oh sure.” But Longstreet was always gloomy. “Well, anyhow, I’ve never seen anything like this. The Old Man’s accomplishment. Incredible. His presence is everywhere. They hush when he passes, like an angel of the Lord. You ever see anything like it?”

  “No.”

  “Remember what they said when he took command? Called him Old Granny. Hee.” Armistead chuckled. “Man, what damn fools we are.”

  “There’s talk of making him President, after the war.”

  “They are?” Armistead considered it. “Do you suppose he’d take it?”

  “No, I don’t think he would take it. But, I don’t know. I like to think of him in charge. One honest man.”

  “A Holy War,” Longstreet said. He shook his head. He did not think much of the Cause. He was a professional: the Cause was Victory. It came to him in the night sometimes with a sudden appalling shock that the boys he was fighting were boys he had grown up with. The war had come as a nightmare in which you chose your nightmare side. Once chosen, you put your head down and went on to win. He thought: Shut up. But he said:

  “You’ve heard it often enough: One of our boys can lick any ten of them, that nonsense.”

  “Well.”

  “Well, you’ve fought with those boys over there, you’ve commanded them.” He gestured vaguely east. “You know damn well they can fight. You should have seen them come up that hill at Fredericksburg, listen.” He gestured vaguely, tightly, losing command of the words. “Well, Lo, you know we are dying one at a time and there aren’t enough of us and we die just as dead as anybody, and a boy from back home aint a better soldier than a boy from Minnesota or anywhere else just because he’s from back home.”

  Armistead nodded carefully. “Well, sure.” He paused watchfully. “Of course I know that. But then, on the other hand, we sure do stomp them consistently, now don’t we, Pete? We … I don’t know, but I feel we’re something special. I do. We’re good, and we know it. It may just be the Old Man and a few other leaders like you. Well, I don’t know what it is. But I tell you, I believe in it, and I don’t think we’re overconfident.”

  Longstreet nodded. Let it go. But Armistead sat up.

  “Another thing, Pete, long as the subject is up. I’ve been thinking on your theories of defensive war, and look, Pete, if you don’t mind the opinion of an aging military genius, just this once? Technically, by God, you’re probably right. Hell, you’re undoubtedly right. This may be a time for defensive war. But, Pete, this aint the army for it. We aren’t bred for the defense. And the Old Man, Lord, if ever there was a man not suited for slow dull defense, it’s old R.E.”

  Longstreet said, “But he’s a soldier.”

  “Exactly. And so are you. But the Old Man is just plain, well, too proud. Listen, do you remember when he was assigned to the defense of Richmond and he started digging trenches, you remember what they start
ed calling him?”

  “The King of Spades.” God, the Richmond newspapers. “Right. And you could see how hurt he was. Most people would be. Stain on the old honor. Now, Pete, you’re wise enough not to give a damn about things like that. But Old Robert, now, he’s from the old school, and I’ll bet you right now he can’t wait to get them out in the open somewhere where he can hit them face to face. And you know every soldier in the army feels the same way, and it’s one of the reasons why the morale here is so good and the Union morale is so bad, and isn’t that a fact?”

  Longstreet said nothing. It was all probably true. And yet there was danger in it; there was even something dangerous in Lee. Longstreet said, “He promised me he would stay on the defensive. He said he would look for a good defensive position and let them try to hit us.”

  “He did?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, maybe. But I tell you, Pete, it aint natural to him.”

  “And it is to me?”

  Armistead cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled, shook his head, and reached out abruptly to slap Longstreet’s knee.

  “Well, might’s well be blunt, old soul, and to hell with the social graces. Truth is, Peter, that you are by nature the stubbornest human being, nor mule either, nor even army mule, that I personally have ever known, or ever hope to know, and my hat is off to you for it, because you are also the best damn defensive soldier I ever saw, by miles and miles and miles, and that’s a fact. Now—” he started to rise “—I’ll get a-movin’, back to my virtuous bed.”

  Longstreet grunted, found himself blushing. He rose, went silently with Armistead toward the crowd around Pickett. Moxley Sorrel was on his feet, pounding his palm with a clenched fist. The Englishman, Fremantle, was listening openmouthed. The Prussian, Scheibert, was smiling in a nasty sort of way. Longstreet caught the conclusion of Sorrel’s sentence.

  “… know that government derives its power from the consent of the governed. Every government, everywhere. And, Sir, let me make this plain: We do not consent. We will never consent.”