Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [26]
Longstreet whiffed a pungent odor.
"Good Lord, George, what's that smell?"
"That's me," Pickett said proudly. "Ain't it lovely?"
Armistead dismounted, chuckling. "He got it off a dead Frenchman. Evening, Pete."
"Woo," Longstreet said. "I bet the Frenchman smelled better."
Pickett was offended. "I did not either get it off a Frenchman. I bought it in a store in Richmond." He meditated. "Did have a French name, now that I think on it. But Sallie likes it." This concluded the matter. Pickett glowed and primped, grinning. He was used to kidding and fond of it. Dick Garnett was dismounting slowly. Longstreet caught the look of pain in his eyes. He was favoring a leg.
He had that same soft gray look in his face, his eyes. Too tired, much too tired.
Longstreet extended a hand. "How are you, Dick?"
"Fine, General, just fine." But the handclasp had no vitality. Lew Armistead was watching with care.
Longstreet said easily, "Sorry I had to assign you to old smelly George. Hope you have a strong stomach."
"General," Garnett said formally, gracefully, "you must know how much I appreciate the opportunity."
There was a second of silence. Garnett had withdrawn the old Stonewall Brigade without orders. Jackson had accused him of cowardice. Now Jackson was dead, and Garnett's honor was compromised, and he had not recovered from the stain, and in his company there were many men who would never let him recover. Yet Longstreet knew the quality of the man, and he said slowly, carefully, "Dick, I consider it a damned fine piece of luck for me when you became available for this command."
Garnett took a deep breath, then nodded once quickly, looking past Longstreet into the dark. Lew Armistead draped a casual arm across his shoulders.
"Dick's been eating too many cherries. He's got the Old Soldier's Disease."
Garnett smiled weakly. "Sure do." He rubbed his stomach. "Got to learn to fight from the squatting position."
Armistead grinned. "I know what's wrong with you. You been standing downwind of ole George. You got to learn to watch them fumes."
A circle had gathered at a respectful distance. One of these was Fremantle, of Her Majesty's Coldstream Guards, wide-hatted. Adam's-appled. Pickett was regarding him with curiosity.
Longstreet remembered his manners. "Oh, excuse me, Colonel. Allow me to present our George Pickett. Our loveliest general. General Pickett, Colonel Fremantle of the Coldstream Guards."
Pickett bowed low in the classic fashion, sweeping the ground with the plumed hat.
"The fame of your regiment, sir, has preceded you."
"General Pickett is our ranking strategist," Longstreet said. "We refer all the deeper questions to George."
"They do," Pickett admitted, nodding. "They do indeed."
"General Pickett's record at West Point is still the talk of the army."
Armistead hawed.
"It is unbecoming to a soldier, all this book-learning," Pickett said haughtily.
"It aint gentlemanly, George," Armistead corrected.
"Nor that either," Pickett agreed.
"He finished last in his class," Longstreet explained.
"Dead last. Which is quite a feat, if you consider his classmates."
"The Yankees got all the smart ones," Pickett said placidly, "and look where it got them."
Fremantle stood grinning vaguely, not quite sure how to take all this. Lew Armistead came forward and bowed silently, delicately, old courtly Lo, giving it a touch of elegance. He did not extend a hand, knowing the British custom.
He said, "Good evening, Colonel. Lo Armistead.
The 'Lo' is short for Lothario. Let me welcome you to 'Lee's Miserables.' The Coldstream Guards? Weren't you fellas over here in the discussion betwixt us of 1812? I seem to remember my daddy telling me about... No, it was the Black Watch. The kilted fellas, that's who it was."
Fremantle said, "Lee's Miserables?"
"A joke," Longstreet said patiently. "Somebody read Victor Hugo-believe it