by Jeff Shaara
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s good.” Longstreet meditated. “Well, don’t worry on it. Probably won’t hear another thing if you didn’t kill him. Probably forgotten in the morning. One thing: I want no duels. No silly damn duels.”
“Yes, sir. Thing is, if anything bad happens now, they all blame it on you. I seen it comin’. They can’t blame General Lee. Not no more. So they all take it out on you. You got to watch yourself, General.”
“Well,” Longstreet said. “Let it go.”
“Yes, sir. But it aint easy. After I saw you take all morning trying to get General Lee to move to the right.”
“Let it go, T. J. We’ll talk on it after the fight.”
Goree moved out. There goes a damn good man. Longstreet felt the warmth of unexpected gratitude. He swung the black horse toward Lee’s headquarters back on the road to Cashtown. Time now to talk. Good long talk. Watch the anger. Careful. But it is true. The men shied from blaming Lee. The Old Man is becoming untouchable. Now more than anything else he needs the truth. But … well, it’s not his fault, not the Old Man. Longstreet jerked the horse, almost ran into Sorrel. They came out into a patch of bright moonlight. Longstreet saw: The man was hurt.
“Major,” Longstreet said harshly. “How are you?”
“Sir? Oh, I’m fine, sir. Juss minor problem.”
“That’s a godawful piece of horse you’ve got there.”
“Yes, sir. Lost the other one, sir. They shot it out from under me. It lost both legs. I was with Dearing’s battery. Hot time, sir.” Sorrel bobbed his head apologetically.
Longstreet pointed. “What’s the trouble with the arm?”
Sorrel shrugged, embarrassed. “Nothing much, sir. Bit painful, can’t move it. Shrapnel, sir. Hardly broke the skin. Ah, Osmun Latrobe got hit too.”
“How bad?”
“Just got knocked off the horse, I believe. This fighting is very hard on the horses, sir. I was hoping we could get a new supply up here, but these Yankee horses are just farm stock—too big, too slow. Man would look ridiculous on a plow horse.”
“Well,” Longstreet grumbled vaguely. “Take care of yourself, Major. You aint the most likable man I ever met, but you sure are useful.”
Sorrel bowed. “I appreciate your sentiments, sir. The General is a man of truth.”
“Have you got the casualty figures yet?”
“No, sir. I regret to say. Just preliminary reports. Indications are that losses will exceed one third.”
Longstreet jerked his head, acknowledging.
Sorrel said carefully, “Possibly more. The figures could go …”
“Don’t play it down,” Longstreet said.
“No, sir. I think that casualties were much worse in Hood’s division. Won’t have an exact count for some time. But … it appears that the Yankees put up a fight. My guess is Hood’s losses will approach fifty percent.”
Longstreet took a deep breath, turned away. Eight thousand men? Down in two hours. His mind flicked on. Not enough left now for a major assault. No way in the world. Lee will see. Now: the facts.
“I need a hard count, Major. As quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir. But, well, it’s not easy. The men tend to suppress the truth. I hear, for example, that Harry Heth’s division was badly hurt yesterday, but his officers did not report all the losses to General Lee because they did not want General Heth to get into trouble.”
“I want the truth. However black. But hard facts. Soon as you can. I rely on you. Also, I want an account of artillery available, rounds remaining, type of rounds, et cetera. Got that? Get out a note to Alexander.”
Up the road at a gallop: a handsome horseman, waving a plumed hat in the night. He reined up grandly, waved the hat in one long slow swoop, bowed halfway down off the horse—a bored sweeping cavalier’s gesture. Fairfax, another of Longstreet’s aides.
“General Pickett’s compliments, sir. He wishes to announce his presence upon the field.”
Longstreet stared, grunted, gave an involuntary chuckle. “Oh grand,” Longstreet said. “That’s just grand.” He turned to Sorrel. “Isn’t that grand, Major? Now, let the battle commence.” He grimaced, grunted. “Tell General Pickett I’m glad to have him here. At last.”
Fairfax had a wide mouth: teeth gleamed in moonlight. “General Pickett is gravely concerned, sir. He wishes to inquire if there are any Yankees left. He says to tell you that he personally is bored and his men are very lonely.”
Longstreet shook his head. Fairfax went on cheerily: “General Pickett reported earlier today to General Lee, while General Longstreet was engaged in the entertainment on the right flank, but General Lee said that General Pickett’s men would not be necessary in the day’s action. General Pickett instructs me to inform you that his is a sensitive nature and that his feelings are wounded and that he and his division of pale Virginians awaits you in yon field, hoping you will come tuck them in for the night and console them.”
“Well,” Longstreet mused. “Fairfax, are you drunk?”
“No, sir. I am quoting General Pickett’s exact words, sir. With fine accuracy, sir.”
“Well.” Longstreet smiled once slightly, shrugged. “You can tell General Pickett I’ll be along directly.”
Fairfax saluted, bowed, departed. Longstreet rode on into the dark. Pickett’s division: five thousand fresh men. Damn fine men. It was like being handed a bright new shiny gun. He felt stronger. Now talk to Lee. He spurred the horse and began to canter toward the lights on the Cashtown Road.
Headquarters could be seen from a long way off, like a small city at night. The glow of it rose above the trees and shone reflected in the haze of the sky. He could begin to hear singing. Different bands sang different songs: a melody of wind. He began to pass clusters of men laughing off in the dark. They did not recognize him. He smelled whisky, tobacco, roasting meat. He came out into the open just below the seminary and he could see Headquarters field filled with smoke and light, hundreds of men, dozens of fires. He passed a circle of men watching a tall thin black boy dressed in a flowing red dress, dancing, kicking heels. There was a sutler’s store, a white wagon, a man selling a strange elixir with the high blessed chant of a preacher. He began to see civilians: important people in very good clothes, some sleek carriages, many slaves. People come up from home to see how the army was doing, to deliver a package to a son, a brother. He rode out into the light and heads began to turn and fix on him and he felt the awkward flush come over his face as eyes looked at him and knew him and fingers began to point. He rode looking straight ahead, a crowd beginning to trail out after him like the tail of a comet. A reporter yelled a question. One of the foreigners, the one with the silver helmet like an ornate chamber pot, waved an intoxicated greeting. Longstreet rode on toward the little house across the road. Music and laughter and motion everywhere: a celebration. All the faces were happy. Teeth glittered through black beards. He saw pearl stickpins, silky, satiny clothing. And there against a fence: Jeb Stuart.
Longstreet pulled up.
The cavalier, a beautiful man, was lounging against a fence, a white rail fence, in a circle of light, a circle of admirers. Reporters were taking notes. Stuart was dressed in soft gray with butternut braid along the arms and around the collar and lace at his throat, and the feathered hat was swept back to hang happily, boyishly from the back of the head, and curls peeked out across the wide handsome forehead. Full-bearded, to hide a weak chin, but a lovely boy, carefree, mud-spattered, obviously tired, languid, cheery, confident. He looked up at Longstreet, waved a languid hello. He gave the impression of having been up for days, in the saddle for days, and not minding it. Longstreet jerked a nod, unsmiling. He thought: we have small use for you now. But you are Lee’s problem. Longstreet slowed, not wanting to speak to Stuart. The crowd was beginning to press in around his horse, shouting congratulations. Longstreet looked from face to breathless face, amazed. Congratulations? For what? The crowd had moved i
n between him and Stuart. He pressed stubbornly forward toward Lee’s cottage. It was impossible to answer questions: too much noise. He wished he had not come. Ride back later, when it’s quiet. But too late to go now. One of Lee’s people, Venable, had taken the reins of his horse. Someone was yelling in an eerie wail, “Way for General Longstreet, way for the general!” And there across the crowd he saw an open space by the door of the little house, and there in the light was Lee.
Quiet spread out from Lee. The old man stepped out into the light, came forward. Stuart swung to look. Longstreet saw men beginning to take off their hats in the old man’s presence. Lee came up to Longstreet’s horse, put out his hand, said something very soft. Longstreet took the hand. There was no strength in it. Lee was saying that he was glad to see him well, and there was that extraordinary flame in the dark eyes, concern of a loving father, that flicked all Longstreet’s defenses aside and penetrated to the lonely man within like a bright hot spear, and Longstreet nodded, grumbled, and got down from the horse. Lee said accusingly that he had heard that Longstreet had been in the front line again and that he had promised not to do that, and Longstreet, flustered by too many people staring at him, too many strangers, said, well, he’d just come by for orders.
Lee said watchfully, smiling, “General Stuart is back.”
The crowd opened for Jeb. He came forward with extended hand. Longstreet took it, mumbled, could not meet the younger eyes. Jeb was grinning a brilliant grin; hands were patting him on the back. Longstreet felt mulish. Damn fool. But he said nothing. Lee said that General Stuart ought to know how worried they had all been about him, and Stuart grinned like a proud child, but there was something wary in his eyes, looking at Lee, some small bit of question, and Longstreet wondered what the old man had said. Stuart said something about having seen a lot of Yankee countryside lately, and it was getting kind of dull, and slowly the noise began to grow up around them again. They moved toward the house, Lee taking Longstreet by the arm. They moved in a lane through hundreds of people, like Moses at the parting of the Sea. Somebody began a cheer, a formal cheer, a university cheer. A band struck up, oh Lord, “Bonny Blue Flag,” again. Hands were touching Longstreet. He went up into the small house and into a small room, the roof closing in over him like the lid on a jar, but even here it was jammed with people, a tiny room no bigger than your kitchen, and all Lee’s officers and aides, working, rushing in and out, and even here some people from Richmond. A place cleared for Lee and he sat down in a rocking chair and Longstreet saw him in the light and saw that he was tired. Lee rested a moment, closing his eyes. There was no place for Longstreet to sit except on the edge of the table, and so he sat there. Taylor pushed by, begging Longstreet’s pardon, needing a signature on a letter to someone.
Lee raised a hand. “We’ll rest for a moment.”
Longstreet saw the old man sag, breathe deeply, his mouth open. Lines of pain around the eyes. He put the gray head down for a moment, then looked up quickly at Longstreet, shook his head slightly.
“A bit tired.”
He never said anything like that. Lee never complained. Longstreet said, “Can I get you something?”
Lee shook his head. Aides were talking loudly about artillery, a message to Richmond. Longstreet thought: no rest here. Lee said, reading his mind, “I’ll clear them out in a minute or two.” He took another deep breath, almost a gasp, put a hand to his chest, shook his head with regret. His face was gray and still. He looked up with a vagueness in his eyes.
“It was very close this afternoon.”
“Sir?”
“They almost broke. I could feel them breaking. I thought for a moment … I saw our flags go up the hill … I almost thought …”
Longstreet said, “It wasn’t that close.” But Lee’s eyes were gazing by him at a vision of victory. Longstreet said nothing. He rubbed his mouth. Lee eyes strange: so dark and soft. Longstreet could say nothing. In the presence of the Commander the right words would not come.
Lee said, “The attacks were not coordinated. I don’t know why. We shall see. But we almost did it, this day. I could see … an open road to Washington.” He closed his eyes, rubbed them. Longstreet felt an extraordinary confusion. He had a moment without confidence, windblown and blasted, vacant as an exploded shell. There was a grandness in Lee that shadowed him, silenced him. You could not preach caution here, not to that face. And then the moment passed and a small rage bloomed, not at Lee but at Longstreet himself. He started to try to speak, but Lee said, “It was reported that General Barksdale was killed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And General Semmes.”
“Sir.”
“And how is it with General Hood?”
“I think he’ll live. I’ve just come from him.”
“Praise God. We could not spare General Hood.” He was gazing again into nowhere. After a moment he said, almost plaintively, “I’ve lost Dorsey Pender.”
“Yes,” Longstreet said. One by one: down the dark road. Don’t think on that now.
Lee said, “He would have made a corps commander, I think.” The old man sat looking half asleep.
Longstreet said stiffly, “Sir, there are three Union corps dug in on the high ground in front of me.”
Lee nodded. After a moment he said, “So very close. I believe one more push …”
A burst of shouting outside. The band had come closer. Longstreet said, “Today I lost almost half my strength.” And felt like a traitor for saying it, the truth, the granite truth, felt a smallness, a rage. Lee nodded but did not seem to hear. Longstreet pushed on.
“The way to the right is still open, sir.”
Lee looked up slowly, focused, slowly smiled, put out a hand, touched Longstreet’s arm.
“Let me think, General.”
“We have enough artillery for one more good fight. One more.”
“I know.” Lee took a breath, sat up. “Let me think on it. But, General, I am very glad to see you well.”
Taylor pushed in again. Longstreet reached out, gripped the young man in a metal clasp.
“General Lee needs his rest. I want you to keep some of these people away.”
Taylor drew back in frosty reproach, as if Longstreet’s hand smelled badly of fish. Longstreet felt the coming of a serious rage. But Lee smiled, reached out for the papers in Taylor’s hand.
“A few more moments, General. Then I’ll send them off. Now, what have we here?”
Longstreet backed off. The white head bent down over the papers. Longstreet stood there. All his life he had taken orders and he knew the necessity for command and the old man in front of him was the finest commander he had ever known. Longstreet looked around at the faces. The gentlemen were chatting, telling lively funny stories. Out in the smoky night a band was mounting another song. Too many people, too much noise. He backed out the door. Come back later. In the night, later, when the old man is alone, we will have to talk.
He moved out into the crowd, head down, mounted his horse. Someone pulled his arm. He glared: Marshall, red-faced, waving papers, cheeks hot with rage.
“General Longstreet! Sir. Will you talk to him?”
“Who? What about?”
“I’ve prepared court-martial papers for General Stuart. General Lee will not sign them.”
Longstreet grimaced. Of course not. But not my problem. Marshall held the reins. He was standing close by and the men nearby were backed off in deference and had not heard him. Longstreet said, “When did he finally get back?”
“This evening.” Marshall, with effort, was keeping his voice down. “He was joyriding. For the fun of it. He captured about a hundred enemy wagons. And left us blind in enemy country. Criminal, absolutely criminal. Several of us have agreed to ask for court-martial, but General Lee says he will not discuss it at this time.”
Longstreet shrugged.
“General. If there is not some discipline in this army … there are good men dead, sir.” Marshall struggled. L
ongstreet saw a man closing in. Fat man with a full beard. Familiar face: a Richmond reporter. Yes, a theorist on war. A man with a silvery vest and many opinions. He came, notebook in hand. Longstreet itched to move, but Marshall held.
“I’d like your opinion, sir. You are the second-ranking officer in this army. Do you believe that these court-martial papers should be signed?”
Longstreet paused. Men were closing in, yelling more congratulations. Longstreet nodded once, deliberately.
“I do,” he said.
“Will you talk to General Lee?”
“I will.” Longstreet gathered the reins. Men were close enough now to hear, were staring up at him. “But you know, Marshall, it won’t do any good.”
“We can try, sir.”
“Right.” Longstreet touched his cap. “We can at least do that.”
He spurred toward the cool dark. They opened to let him pass. Hats were off; they were cheering. He rode head down toward the silent road. He was amazed at the air of victory. He thought: Got so that whenever they fight they assume there’s victory that night. Face of Goree. They can’t blame General Lee, not no more. But there was no victory today. So very close, the old man said. And yet it was not a loss. And Longstreet knew that Lee would attack in the morning. He would never quit the field. Not with the Union Army holding the field. Three Union corps on the hills above. Lee will attack.
Longstreet stopped, in darkness, looked back toward the light. A voice was calling. Longstreet turned to ride on, and then the voice registered and he looked back: a grinning Fremantle, hat held high like cloth on the arm of a scarecrow, bony, ridiculous. He looked like an illustration Longstreet had once seen of Ichabod Crane.
“Good evening, sir! My compliments, sir! Marvelous evening, what? Extraordinary! May I say, sir, that I observed your charge this afternoon, and I was inspired, sir, inspired. Strordnry, sir, a general officer at the front of the line. One’s heart leaps. One’s hat is off to you, sir.” He executed a vast swirling bow, nearly falling from the horse, arose grinning, mouth a half moon of cheery teeth. Longstreet smiled.
