Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [134]
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 the 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 has 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,