Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [105]
"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.
Longstreet 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 the 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.
"Will you take my hand, sir, in honor of your great victory?"
Longstreet took the limp palm, knowing the effort it cost the Englishman, who thought handshaking unnatural.