Michael Shaara - The Killer Angels

by The Killer Angels(Lit)

"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 any more." 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 was 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, Peter, 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 started 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 stubbomest 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, Scheiber, 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."

  They stood up as Longstreet approached. Sorrel's face was flushed. Jim Kemper was not finished with the argument, Longstreet or no. To Fremantle he went on: "You must tell them, and make it plain, that what we are fighting for is our freedom from the rule of what is to us a foreign government. That's all we want and that's what this war is all about. We established this country in the first place with strong state governments just for that reason, to avoid a central tyranny-"

  "Oh Lord," Armistead said, "the Cause."

  Fremantle rose, trying to face Longstreet and continue to listen politely to Kemper at the same moment. Pickett suggested with authority that it was growing quite late and that his officers should get back to their separate commands.

  There were polite farewells and kind words, and Longstreet walked Pickett and Armistead to their horses. Kemper was still saying firm, hard, noble things to Sorrel and Sorrel was agreeing absolutely-mongrelizing, money-grubbing Yankees-and Longstreet said, "What happened?"

  Pickett answered obligingly, unconcerned, "Well, Jim Kemper kept needling our English friend about why they didn't come and join in with us, it being in their interest and all, and the Englishman said that it was a very touchy subject, since most Englishmen figured the war was all about, ah, slavery, and then old Kemper got a bit outraged and had to explain to him how wrong he was, and Sorrel and some others joined in, but no harm done."

  "Damn fool," Kemper said. "He still thinks it's about slavery."

  "Actually," Pickett said gravely, "I think my analogy of the club was best. I mean, it's as if we all joined a gentlemen's club, and then the members of the club started sticking their noses into our private lives, and then we up and resigned, and then they tell us we don't have the right to resign. I think that's a fair analogy, hey, Pete?"

  Longstreet shrugged. They all stood for a moment agreeing with each other, Longstreet saying nothing. After a while they were mounted, still chatting about what a shame it was that so many people seemed to think it was slavery that brought on the war, when all it was really was a question of the Constitution. Longstreet took the reins of Pickett's horse.

  "George, the army is concentrating toward Gettysburg.

  Hill is going in in the morning and we'll follow, and Ewell is coming down from the north. Tomorrow night we'll all be together."

  "Oh, very good." Pickett was delighted. He was looking forward to parties and music.

  Longstreet said, "I think that sometime in the next few days there's going to be a big fight. I want you to do everything necessary to get your boys ready."

  "Sir, they're ready now."

  "Well, do what you can. The little things. See to the water. Once the army is gathered in one place all the wells will run dry. See to it, George."

  "I will, I will."

  Longstreet thought: don't be so damn motherly.

  "Well, then. I'll see you tomorrow night."

  They said their good nights. Armistead waved farewell.

  "If you happen to run across Jubal Early, Peter, tell him for me to go to hell."

  They rode off into the dark. The moon was down; the night sky was filled with stars. Longstreet stood for a moment alone. Some good men there. Lo had said, "Best defensive soldier." From Lewis, a compliment. And yet, is it really my nature? Or is it only the simple reality?

  Might as well argue with stars.

  The fires were dying one by one. Longstreet went back to his place by the camp table. The tall silent aide from Texas, T. J. Goree, had curled up in a bedroll, always near, to be used at a moment's notice. For "The Cause." So many good men. Longstreet waited alone, saw one falling star, reminding him once more of the girl in a field a long time ago.

  Harrison came back long after midnight. He brought the news of Union cavalry in Gettysburg. Longstreet sent the word to Lee's headquarters, but the Old Man had gone to sleep and Major Taylor did not think it important enough to wake him. General Hill had insisted, after all, that the reports of cavalry in Gettysburg were foolish.

  Longstreet waited for an answer, but no answer came. He lay for a long while awake, but there was gathering cloud and he saw no more falling stars.

  Just before dawn the rain began: fine misty rain blowing cold and clean in soft mountain air. Buford's pickets saw the dawn come high in the sky, a gray blush, a bleak rose. A boy from Illinois climbed a tree. There was mist across Marsh Creek, ever whiter in the growing light. The boy from Illinois stared and felt his heart beating and saw movement. A blur in the mist, an unfurled flag. Then the dark figures, row on row: skirmishers. Long, long rows, like walking trees, coming up toward him out of the mist. He had a long paralyzed moment, which he would remember until the end of his life. Then he raised the rifle and laid it across the limb of the tree and aimed generally toward the breast of a tall figure in the front of the line, waited, let the cold rain fall, misting his vision, cleared his eyes, waited, prayed, and pressed the trigger.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 1, 1863 The First Day

  ... of the coming of the Lord

  1. LEE.

  He came out of the tent into a fine cold rain. The troops were already up and moving out on the misty road beyond the trees. Some of them saw the white head and came to the fence to stare at him. The ground rocked. Lee floated, clutched the tent. Got up too quickly. Must move slowly, with care. Bryan came out of the mist, bearing steaming coffee in a metal cup. Lee took it in pained hands, drank, felt the heat soak down through him like hot liquid sunshine. The dizziness passed. There was fog flat and low in the treetops, like a soft roof. The rain was clean on his face. He walked slowly to the rail where the horses were tethered: gentle Traveler, skittish Lucy Long. Stuart had not come back in the night. If Stuart had come they would have wakened him. He said good morning to the beautiful gray horse, the great soft eyes, said a silent prayer. He thought: tonight we'll all be together.

  Troops were gathering along the rail fence, looking in at him. He heard a man cry a raucous greeting. Another man shushed him in anger. Lee turned, bowed slightly, waved a stiff arm. There was a cluster of sloppy salutes, broad wet grins under dripping hats. A bareheaded boy stood in reverent silence, black hat clutched to his breast. An officer moved down the fence, hustling the men away.

  Lee took a deep breath, testing his chest: a windblown vacancy, a breathless pain. He had a sense of enormous unnatural fragility, like hollow glass. He sat silently on a rail, letting the velvet nose nuzzle him. Not much pain this morning. Praise God. He had fallen from his horse on his hands and the hands still hurt him but the pain in the chest was not bad at all. But it was not the pain that troubled him; it was a sick gray emptiness he knew too well, that sense of a hole clear through him like the blasted vacancy in the air behind a shell burst, an enormous emptiness. The thing about the heart was that you could not coax it or force it, as you could any other disease. Will power meant nothing. The great cold message had come in the spring, and Lee carried it inside him every moment of every day and all through the nights-that endless, breathless, inconsolable alarm: there is not much time, beware, prepare.

  "Sir?"

  Lee looked up. Young Walter Taylor. Lee came slowly awake, back to the misty world. Taylor stood in the rain with inky papers-a cool boy of twenty-four, already a major.

  "Good morning, sir. Trust you slept well?"

  The clear black eyes were concerned. Lee nodded. Taylor was a slim and cocky boy. Behind Lee's back he called him "The Great Tycoon." He did not know that Lee knew it. He had a delicate face, sensitive nostrils. He said cheerily, "Nothing from General Stuart, sir."

  Lee nodded.

  "Not a thing, sir. We can't even pick up any rumors. But we mustn't fret now, sir." A consoling tone. "They haven't got anybody can catch General Stuart."

  Lee turned to the beautiful horse. He had a sudden rushing sensation of human frailty, death like a blowing wind: Jackson was gone, Stuart would go, like leaves from autumn trees. Matter of time.

  Taylor said airily,
"Sir, I would assume that if we haven't heard from the general it is obviously because he has nothing to report."

  "Perhaps," Lee said.

  "After all, sir, Longstreet's man is a paid spy. And an actor to boot." Taylor pursed his lips primly, nicked way from a gray cuff.

  Lee said, "If I do not hear from General Stuart by this evening I will have to send for him."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We'll send the Maryland people. They'll be familiar with the ground."

  "Very good, sir." Taylor shifted wet papers. "Message here from General Hill, sir."

  "Yes."

  "The General wishes to inform you that he is going into Gettysburg this morning with his lead Division." Taylor squinted upward at a lightening sky, "I expect he's already under way He advises me that there is a shoe factory in the town and his men intend to, ah, requisition some footgear."