Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [125]
"They tell me you've written a book."
"Sir? Oh, yes, sir." Firm sound to the voice, clear calm eye. Lee thinks the world of him. He will do all right.
"What was it about?"
"Oh, it was only a minor work, sir."
"I'll have to read it."
"You will have a copy, sir, with my compliments." To Longstreet's surprise, Pettigrew rose, summoned an aide, dispatched the man for the book.
Longstreet grinned again. He said, "General, I doubt if I'll have time today."
"At your leisure, sir." Pettigrew bowed formally.
Longstreet looked at Isaac Trimble. He was breathing hard, face red and puffy, a bewildered look to him. He had a reputation as a fire-breather. He did not look like it. His beard was fully white, his hair puffed and frizzled. Well, Longstreet thought, we shall see.
Pickett came up, joined the circle. Introductions were unnecessary. Longstreet ordered coffee all around, but Trimble would not take any; his stomach was troubling him. Sorrel was the only other officer to hear the orders.
Longstreet explained it all slowly, watching them. Pickett was excited, could not sit still, sat rubbing his thighs with both hands, nodding, patting himself on the knees. Pettigrew was calm and pale and still. Trimble breathed deeply, rubbed his nose. His face grew more and more crimson.
Longstreet began to understand that the old man was deeply moved. When he was done with the orders Longstreet drew the alignment in the dirt: They all understood. Then Longstreet rose and walked out to the edge of the trees, out into the open, for a look at the Union line. He pointed to the clump of trees. There were a few minor questions. Longstreet told them to keep that clump in sight as they moved back to their troops, to make sure that there was no confusion. The attack would guide on Pickett. More minor questions, then silence. They stood together, the four men, looking up at the Union line. The mist had burned away; there were a few clouds, a slight haze.
Hill's guns had stopped; there was a general silence.
Longstreet said, "Gentlemen, the fate of your country rests on this attack."
All eyes were on his face. He put out his hand.
"Gentlemen, return to your troops."
Pettigrew took his hand. "Sir, I want to say, it is an honor to serve under your command."
He moved off. Trimble took the hand. He was crying. He said huskily, tears all down the red glistening cheeks, "I want to thank you, sir, for the opportunity you have given me, sir, to serve here. I have prayed, sir." He stopped, choked. Longstreet pressed his hand. Trimble said, "I will take that wall, sir."
Pickett stayed. Longstreet said, "George, can you take that hill?"
Pickett grinned. My curly boy He rushed off, hair flying. Here was Alexander, galloping up through the trees, exasperated.
"Sir, General Hill's artillery is dueling the Union people for some damned barn, sir, excuse me, but it's a tragic waste of ammunition. We don't have a limitless supply."
Longstreet said, "Give General Hill my compliments and tell him I suggest he reserve his ammunition for the assault."
Alexander rode off.
And so it's in motion.
Seminary Ridge was thick with trees, but the fields on both sides were bare.
Pickett's troops were beginning to form in the fields to the west, out of sight of the Union line. Longstreet rode to watch them, then back out through the trees to face east, looking up toward the Union line. His staff was with him: gaunt Goree asleep in his saddle, refusing to lie down. Longstreet saw a familiar figure standing some distance out in the field, alone, looking toward the Union line. He rode that way: Armistead. Looking up toward Hancock's wall.
Longstreet stopped, nodded, let the man alone, rode away. Poor old Lo. Well.
All over soon. One