Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [110]
South. Splitting up. God! You remember."
Longstreet remembered: a bright cold day. A cold, cold day. A soldier's farewell: goodbye, good luck, and see you in Hell. Armistead said, "We sat around the piano, toward the end of the evening. You know how it was. Mary was playing. We sang all the good songs. That was one of them, 'Kathleen Mavoumeen,' and there was 'Mary of Argyle,' and... ah. It may be for years, and it may be forever.
Never forget that."
He stopped, paused, looked down into the whisky glass, looked up at Longstreet. "You know how it was, Pete."
Longstreet nodded.
"Well, the man was a brother to me. You remember.
Toward the end of the evening... it got rough. We all began, well, you know, there were a lot of tears."
Armistead's voice wavered; he took a deep breath. "Well, I was crying, and I went up to Win and I took him by the shoulder and I said, 'Win, so help me, if I ever lift a hand against you, may God strike me dead.'"
Longstreet felt a cold shudder. He looked down at the ground. There was nothing to say. Armistead said, shaken, "I've not seen him since. I haven't been on the same field with him, thank God. It... troubles me to think on it."
Longstreet wanted to reach out and touch him. But he went on looking at the dark ground.
"Can't leave the fight, of course," Armistead said. "But I think about it. I meant it as a vow, you see. You understand, Pete?"
"Sure."
"I thought about sitting this one out. But... I don't think I can do that. I don't think that would be right either."
"Guess not."
Armistead sighed. He drank the last of the whisky in a swift single motion. He took off the soft black hat and held it in his hand and the gray hair glistened wetly, and the band of white skin at the forehead shone in the light. With the hat off he was older, much older, old courtly Lo. Had been a fiery young man. Lothario grown old.
"Thank you, Pete." Armistead's voice was steady, "Had to talk about that."
"Course."
"I sent Mira Hancock a package to be opened in the event of my death. I...
you'll drop by and see her, after this is done?"
Longstreet nodded. He said, "I was just thinking. Of the time you hit Early with the plate."
Armistead grinned. "Didn't hit him hard enough."
Longstreet smiled. Then was able to reach out and touch him. He just tapped him once lightly, one touch, on the shoulder, and pulled back his hand.
Out in the camp in the light of the fire Pickett was winding down. He was telling the story about the time during a cannonade when there was only one tree to hide behind and how the men kept forming behind the tree, a long thin line which grew like a pigtail, and swayed to one side or the other every time a ball came close, and as Pickett acted it out daintily, gracefully, it was very funny.
Armistead said, "Wonder if these cherry trees will grow at home. You think they'll grow at home?"
In a moment Armistead said, "Let's go join the party. Pete? Why not? Before they drink up all the whisky."
"No thanks. You go on."
"Pete, tomorrow could be a long day."
"Work to do." But Longstreet felt himself yielding, softening, bending like a young tree in the wind.
"Come on, Pete. One time. Do you good."
Longstreet looked out at all the bright apple faces. He saw again in his mind the steady face of Lee. He thought: I don't belong. But he wanted to join them. Not even to say anything. Just to sit there and listen to the jokes up close, sit inside the warm ring, because off here at this distance with the deafness you never heard what they said; you were out of it. But... if he joined there would be a stiffness. He did not want to spoil their night. And yet suddenly, terribly, he wanted it again, the way it used to be, arms linked together, all drunk and singing beautifully into the night, with visions of death from the afternoon, and dreams of death in the coming dawn, the night filled with a monstrous and temporary glittering joy, fat moments, thick