by Jeff Shaara
He wanted some moments to himself. The firing would stop and then they would line up for the assault. Between that time and this there ought to be a private moment. He came in under the trees and saw Longstreet writing a note, sending it with a galloping aide. There was Pickett, writing too, sitting on a camp stool lost in thought, pen to his lips and staring off into space, as if composing a poem. Armistead smiled. He was closer to the guns now and the sound of the cannonade was enormous, like a beating of great wings, and all around him the air was fluttering and leaves were falling and the ground was shaking, and there was Pickett writing a poem, face furrowed with mighty thought, old George, never much of a thinker, and all that while in the back of Armistead’s mind he could see Mary at the spinet: it may be for years, it may be forever. He could see the lips move, see tears on all the faces, but he could not hear that sound, the sound of the cannon was too great. He moved up closer to Pickett. Abruptly, not knowing beforehand that he would do it, he plucked the small ring from his little finger. Pickett looked up; his eyes glazed with concentration, focused, blinked.
“Here, George, send her this. My compliments.” He handed Pickett the ring. Pickett took it, looked at it, a sentimental man; he reached out and took Armistead’s hand and pumped it wordlessly, then flung an arm wildly out toward the guns, the noise, the hill to the east.
“Oh God, Lo, isn’t it something? Isn’t it marvelous? How does a man find words? Tell me something to say, Lo, you’re good at that. Lord, I thought we’d missed it all. But do you know, this may be the last great fight of the war? Do you realize that? Isn’t that marvelous?”
There was a long series of explosions; a tree limb burst. Armistead could hardly hear. But Pickett was profoundly moved. He was one of those, like Stuart, who looked on war as God’s greatest game. At this moment Armistead seemed to be looking down from a long way away, from a long, sleepy, hazy distance. George was grinning, clapping him on the arm. He said something about Sallie having the ring mounted. Armistead moved away.
He saw Longstreet sitting alone in the same place, on the same rail, drew comfort from the solid presence. Some officers had that gift. He did not. Hancock had it. Superb soldier. It may be for years, it may be forever … don’t think on that. He looked at his watch: 1:47. Cannot go on much longer.
But he did not want to think about the attack right now. All the plans were laid, the thing was set, the others had planned it, Longstreet and Lee and Pickett, now he would carry it out, but for these last few moments at least, the old soldier knows enough not to think about it. Shut the mind off and think on better days, remember things to be grateful for. Perhaps, like Pickett, you should write a letter. No. Would say the wrong things.
He went back toward his men, sat with his back against a tree, facing the open. He closed his eyes for a moment and he could see her again, Mary, it may be for years, it may be forever, and Hancock’s face in tears, may God strike me dead. He opened his eyes, looked a question at Heaven, felt himself in the grip of these great forces, powerless, sliding down the long afternoon toward the end, as if it was all arranged somewhere, nothing he could have done to avoid it, not he or any Virginian. And he had said it and meant it: “If I lift a hand against you, friend, may God strike me dead.” Well, it is all in His hands. Armistead took off his black hat and ran his hands through the gray hair, his forehead wet with perspiration, the hair wet and glistening in the light.
He was a grave and courtly man, a soldier all his life. He had a martial bearing and the kind of a face on which emotion rarely showed, a calm, almost regal quality. It had hindered him in the army because men thought he was not aggressive enough, but he was a good soldier, a dependable soldier, and all his life he had felt things more deeply than anyone knew—except her, so very briefly, before she died, as she was dying …
Don’t think on that. But I loved her.
And loved much else. Always loved music. And good friends, and some moments together. Had much joy in the weather. So very rarely shared. I should have shared more. The way Pickett does, the way so many do. It’s a liquid thing with them; it flows. But I … move on impulse. I gave him the ring. Premonition? Well, many will die. I’m a bit old for war. Will do my duty. I come from a line … no more of that. No need of that now. An Armistead does his duty, so do we all. But I wish, I wish it was not Hancock atop that hill. I wish this was Virginia again, my own green country, my own black soil. I wish … the war was over.
Quieter now. The fire was definitely slackening.
2:10.
He sat patiently, his back to a tree. The attack would be soon enough. When he thought of that his mind closed down like a blank gray wall, not letting him see. No point in thinking of that. He sat quietly, silently, suspended, breathing the good warm air, the smoke, the dust. Mustn’t look ahead at all. One tends to look ahead with imagination. Must not look backward either. But it is so easy to see her, there at the spinet, and all of us gathered round, and all of us crying, my dear old friend … Hancock has no time for painting now. He was rather good at it. Always meant to ask him for one of his works. Never enough time. Wonder how it has touched him? Two years of war. Point of pride: My old friend is the best soldier they have. My old friend is up on that ridge.
Here was Garnett, dressed beautifully, new gray uniform, slender, trim, riding that great black mare with the smoky nose. Armistead stood.
Garnett touched his cap. A certain sleepiness seemed to precede the battle, a quality of haze, of unreality, of dust in the air, dust in the haze. Garnett had the eyes of a man who had just awakened.
Garnett said, “How are you, Lo?”
Armistead said, “I’m fine, Dick.”
“Well, that’s good.” Garnett nodded, smiling faintly. They stood under the trees, waiting, not knowing what to say. The fire seemed to be slackening.
Armistead said, “How’s the leg?”
“Oh, all right, thank you. Bit hard to walk. Guess I’ll have to ride.”
“Pickett’s orders, nobody rides.” Garnett smiled.
“Dick,” Armistead said, “you’re not going to ride.”
Garnett turned, looked away.
“You can’t do that,” Armistead insisted, the cold alarm growing. “You’ll stand out like … you’ll be a perfect target.”
“Well,” Garnett said, grinning faintly, “well, I tell you, Lo. I can’t walk.”
And cannot stay behind. Honor at stake. He could not let the attack go without him; he had to prove once and for all his honor, because there was Jackson’s charge, never answered, still in the air wherever Garnett moved, the word on men’s lips, watching him as he went by, for Jackson was gone and Jackson was a great soldier … there was nothing Armistead could say. He could feel tears coming to his eyes but he could not even do that. Must not let Garnett see. There was always a chance. Perhaps the horse would be hit early. Armistead put out a hand, touched the horse, sorry to wish death on anyone, anything.
Garnett said, “Just heard a funny thing. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
“Oh?” Armistead did not look him in the face. A shot took off the limb of a tree nearby, clipped it off cleanly, so that it fell all at once, making a sound like a whole tree falling. Garnett did not turn.
“We have some educated troops, you know, gentlemen privates. Well, I was riding along the line and I heard one of these fellas, ex-professor type, declaiming this poem, you know the one: ‘Backward, turn backward, oh Time, in your flight, and make me a child again, just for this fight.’ And then there’s a pause, and a voice says, in a slow drawl, ‘Yep. A gal child.’ ”
Garnett chuckled. “Harrison and I found us some Pennsylvania whisky, and experimented, and found that it goes well with Pennsylvania water. Wa’nt bad a-tall. Tried to save you some, but first thing you know …” He shrugged helplessly.
Their eyes never quite met, like two lights moving, never quite touching. There was an awkward silence. Garnett said, “Well, I better get back.” He moved back im
mediately, not attempting to shake hands. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said, and galloped off along the ridge.
Armistead closed his eyes, prayed silently. God protect him. Let him have justice. Thy will be done.
Armistead opened his eyes. Had not prayed for himself. Not yet. It was all out of his hands, all of it; there was nothing he could do about anything anywhere in the whole world. Now he would move forward and lead the men up the ridge to whatever end awaited, whatever plan was foreordained, and he felt a certain mild detachment, a curious sense of dull calm, as on those long, long Sunday afternoons when you were a boy and had to stay dressed and neat and clean with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, waiting for the grownups to let you go, to give you the blessed release to run out in the open and play. So he did not even pray. Not yet. It was all in God’s hands.
Pickett rode toward him, staff trailing behind. The fire was definitely slower now; the air of the woods was clearing. Pickett’s face was bright red. He reined up, but was hopping around in the saddle, patting the horse, slapping his own thigh, gesturing wildly, pointing, grinning.
“Lewis, how’s everything, any questions?”
Armistead shook his head.
“Good, good. As soon as the guns cease fire, we step off. Garnett and Kemper the first line, you’re in the second. Route step, no halting, no stopping to fire, want to get up there as fast as you can. I’ll keep toward the right flank, to cover that side. Do you need anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Good, fine.” Pickett nodded violently. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s good. One other point. All officers are ordered to walk. No officer takes his horse. Utterly foolish.” Pickett’s horse, catching the general’s excitement, reared and wheeled; Pickett soothed him. “So you go on foot, no exceptions.”
“Yes,” Armistead said. “But what about Garnett?”
“What about … oh.” Pickett grimaced. “That leg.”
“I don’t think he can walk.”
Pickett said slowly, “Damn it.”
“George, order him not to make the charge.”
“I can’t do that.”
“He’s in no condition.”
But Pickett shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”
“A man on a horse, in front of that line. George, he’ll be the only rider in a line a mile wide. They’ll have every gun on that hill on him.”
Pickett rubbed the back of his neck, slammed his thigh.
“He can’t walk at all?”
“He might get fifty yards.”
“Damn,” Pickett said, caught himself guiltily. Not a good time to be swearing. “But you know how he feels. It’s a matter of honor.” Pickett threw up his hands abruptly, helplessly.
“Order him not to go, George.”
Pickett shook his head reprovingly.
Armistead said, “All right. I understand. Yes. But I think … I’m getting a bit old for this business.”
His voice was low and Pickett did not hear it, was not even listening. Armistead rode with him back into the woods along Seminary Ridge. The woods were dark and blessedly cool. He saw Longstreet sitting on a rail fence, gazing out into the glittering fields toward the enemy line. Pickett rode toward him and Longstreet turned slowly, swiveling his head, stared, said nothing. Pickett asked him about the guns. Longstreet did not seem to hear. His face was dark and still; he looked wordlessly at Pickett, then at Armistead, then turned back to the light. Pickett backed off. There was a savagery in Longstreet they all knew well. It showed rarely but it was always there and it was an impressive thing. Suddenly, in the dark grove, for no reason at all, Armistead looked at the dark face, the broad back, felt a bolt of almost stunning affection. It embarrassed him. But he thought: Before we go, I ought to say something.
Longstreet had moved suddenly, turning away from the rail. Armistead saw Pickett running up through the trees, a note in his hand, his face flushed. Longstreet stopped, turned to look at him, turned slowly, like an old man, looked at him with a strange face, a look tight and old that Armistead had never seen. Pickett was saying, “Alexander says if we’re going at all, now’s the time.”
Longstreet stopped still in the dark of the woods. The huge glare behind him made it difficult to see. Armistead moved that way, feeling his heart roll over and thump once. Pickett said, pointing, “Alexander says we’ve silenced some Yankee artillery. They’re withdrawing from the cemetery. What do you say, sir? Do we go in now?”
And Longstreet said nothing, staring at him, staring, and Armistead felt an eerie turning, like a sickness, watching Longstreet’s face, and then he saw that Longstreet was crying. He moved closer. The general was crying. Something he never saw or ever expected to see, and the tears came to Armistead’s eyes as he watched, saw Pickett beginning to lift his hands, holding out the note, asking again, and then Longstreet took a deep breath, his shoulders lifted, and then he nodded, dropping his head, taking his eyes away from Pickett’s face, and in the same motion turned away, and Pickett let out a whoop and clenched a fist and shook it. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and wrote something on it and handed it to Longstreet and Longstreet nodded again, and then Pickett was coming this way, face alight, look on his face of pure joy. And tears too, eyes flashing and watery, but with joy, with joy. He said something about being chosen for glory, for the glory of Virginia. He said, “Gentlemen, form your brigades.”
Armistead moved out, called the brigade to its feet. He felt curiously heavy, slow, very tired, oddly sleepy. The heat was stuffy; one had trouble breathing.
The brigade dressed in a line. The fire had slackened all down the line; now for the first time there were long seconds of silence, long moments of stillness, and you could hear again the voices of the men, the movements of feet in grass and the clink of sabers, muskets, and that band was still piping, a polka this time, tinny and bumpy, joyous, out of tune. The men dressed right, line after line. Armistead moved silently back and forth. Down to the left he saw Garnett still on the horse. A mounted man in front of that line would not live five minutes. Every rifle on the crest would be aiming for him.
The orders came, bawled by a bull sergeant. The line began to move forward into the woods, forward toward the great yellow light of the open fields on the other side. They moved through the woods in good order, past the silent guns. Almost all the guns were quiet now. Armistead thought: Give the Yankees time to get set. Give Win Hancock time to get set. Move up reinforcements to the weak spots. Win, I’m sorry. Remember the old vow: May God strike me dead. And so the words came. I wish I could call them back. But Win understands. I have to come now. All in God’s hands. Father, into your hands …
To the left of the line a rabbit broke from heavy brush, darted frantically out into the tall grass. A soldier said, close by, “That’s right, ol’ hare, you run, you run. If I’se an ol’ hare, I’d run too.”
A murmur, a laugh. They came out of the woods into the open ground.
The ground fell away from the woods into a shallow dip. They were out of sight of the Union line. To the left there was a finger of woods between them and Pettigrew’s men. They would not see Pettigrew until they had moved out a way. The day was lovely and hot and still, not a bird anywhere. Armistead searched the sky. Marvelous day, but very hot. He blinked. Would love to swim now. Cool clear water, lake water, cool and dark at the bottom, out of the light.
The division was forming. Garnett was in front, Kemper to the right; Armistead’s line lay across the rear. It was a matchless sight, the division drawn up as if for review. He looked down the line at the rows of guns, the soft blue flags of Virginia; he began to look at the faces, the tight faces, the eyes wide and dark and open, and he could hear more bands striking up far off to the right. No hurry now, a stillness everywhere, that same dusty, sleepy pause, the men not talking, no guns firing. Armistead moved forward through the ranks, saw Garnett on the horse, went over to s
ay goodbye. Garnett no longer looked well; his coat was buttoned at the throat. Armistead said, “Dick, for God’s sake and mine, get down off the horse.”
Garnett said, “I’ll see you at the top, Lo.”
He put out his hand. Armistead took it.
Armistead said, “My old friend.”
It was the first time in Armistead’s life he had ever really known a man would die. Always before there was at least a chance, but here no chance at all, and now the man was his oldest friend.
Armistead said, “I ought to ride too.”
Garnett said, “Against orders.”
Armistead looked down the long line. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Garnett smiled.
Armistead said, “They never looked better, on any parade ground.”
“They never did.”
Armistead heard once more that sweet female voice, unbearable beauty of the unbearable past: it may be for years, it may be forever. Then why art thou silent … He still held Garnett’s hand. He squeezed once more. Nothing more to say now. Careful now. He let the hand go.
He said, “Goodbye, Dick. God bless you.”
Garnett nodded.
Armistead turned away, walked back to his brigade. Now for the first time, at just the wrong time, the acute depression hit him a blow to the brain. Out of the sleepiness the face of despair. He remembered Longstreet’s tears. He thought: a desperate thing. But he formed the brigade. Out front, George Pickett had ridden out before the whole division, was making a speech, but he was too far away and none of the men could hear. Then Pickett raised his sword. The order came down the line. Armistead, his voice never strong, bawled hoarsely, with all his force, “All right now, boys, for your wives, your sweethearts, for Virginia! At route step, forward, ho!”
