Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [27]
Fremantle was still in the dark. Longstreet said, "Victor Hugo. French writer.
Novel. Les Miserables."
Fremantle brightened. Then he smiled. Then he chuckled. "Oh that's very good.
Oh, I say that's very good indeed, Haw."
Pickett said formally. "Allow me to introduce my commanders. The elderly one here is Lewis Armistead. The 'Lothario' is a bit of a joke, as you can see.
But we are democratic. We do not hold his great age against him. We carry him to the battle, and we aim him and turn him loose. " His is what we in this country call an 'Old Family'-"
Armistead said briefly, "Oh God"-"although doubtless you English would consider him still an immigrant. There have been Armisteads in all our wars, and maybe we better change the subject, because it is likely that old Lo's grandaddy took a pot-shot at your grandaddy, but anyway, we had to let him in this war to keep the string going, do you see? Age and all."
"Creak," Armistead said.
"The next on here is Dick Garnett. Ah, Richard Brooke Garnett."
Garnett bowed. Pickett said, "Old Dick is a good lad, but sickly. Ah well-"
Pickett made a sad face-"some of us are born puny, and others are blessed with great natural strength. It is all God's will. Sit down, Dick. Now this next one here-" he indicated stoic Jim Kemper-"this one is not even a soldier, so watch him. Note the shifty beady eye?
He's a politician. Only reason he's here is to gather votes come next election."
Kemper stepped forward, hand extended warily. He had been speaker of the Virginia House and he was not fond of foreigners. Fremantle took the hand with forced good will.
Kemper said brusquely, "Look here now, Colonel. Been | wondering when you people were going to get out and break than damned Yankee blockade. How about that?"
Fremantle apologized, grinning foolishly. Now the Prussian was here and the Austrian, Ross. A crowd was forming. Pickett went on to introduce some of his staff: Beau Harrison, his IG, and Jim Crocker. Crocker was moodily sentimental, already a bit drunk. He was returning now after an absence of thirteen years to his old alma mater, Pennsylvania College, in Gettysburg.
Someone suggested they drink to that, but Pickett reminded one and all soulfully of his oath to Sallie, schoolgirl Sallie, who was half his age, and that brought up a round of ribald kidding that should have insulted Pickett but didn't. He glowed in the midst of it, hairy, happy. Fremantle looked on, never quite certain what was kidding and what wasn't. He produced some brandy; Armistead came up with a flask; Kemper had a bottle of his own. Longstreet thought: careful. He sat off to one side, withdrawing, had one long hot swig from Armistead's flask, disciplined himself not to take another, withdrew against the trunk of a cool tree, letting the night come over him, listening to them talk, reminiscing. He knew enough to stay out of it. The presence of the commander always a damper. But after a few moments Pickett detached himself from the group and came to Longstreet.
"General? A few words?"
"Sure, George. Fire."
"By George you're looking well, sir. Must say, never saw you looking better.''
"You look lovely too, George." Longstreet liked this man. He was not overwhelmingly bright, but he was a fighter. Longstreet was always careful to give him exact instructions and to follow him to make sure he knew what to do, but once pointed, George could be relied on. A lovely adventurous boy, thirty-eight years old and never to grow older, fond of adventure and romance and all the bright sparkles of youth. Longstreet said happily, "What can I do for you, George?"
"Well, sir, now I don't mean this as a reflection upon you, sir. But well, you know, sir, my Division, my Virginia boys, we weren't at Chancellorsville."
"No."
"Well, you know we were assigned away on some piddling affair, and we weren't at Fredericksburg either; we were off again doing some other piddling thing, and now they've taken two of my brigades, Corse and Jenkins, and