Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [28]
Longstreet sighed.
Pickett said, "Well, I tell you, sir, frankly, my boys are beginning to wonder at the attitude of the high command toward my Division. My boys-"
"George," Longstreet said.
"Sir, I must-" Pickett noted Longstreet's face. "Now, I don't mean to imply this command. Not you, sir. I was just hoping you would talk to somebody."
"George." Longstreet paused, then he said patiently, "Would you like us to move the whole army out of the way and let you go first?"
Pickett brightened. That seemed a good idea. Another look at Longstreet's face.
"I only meant, sir, that we haven't-"
"I know, George. Listen, there's no plot. It's just the way things fell out. I have three divisions, right? There's you, and there's Hood and McLaws. And where I go you go.
Right? And my HQ is near the Old Man, and the Old Man chooses to be here, and that's the way it is. We sent your two brigades to Richmond because we figured they were Virginia boys and that was proper. But look at it this way: if the army has to turn and fight its way out of here, you'll be exactly first in line."
Pickett thought on that.
"That's possible?"
"Yup."
"Well," Pickett mused. At that moment Lew Armistead came up. Pickett said wistfully, "Well, I had to speak on it, sir. You understand. No offense?"
"None."
"Well then. But I mean, the whole war could be damn well over soon, beg pardon, and my boys would have missed it. And these are Virginians, sir, and have a certain pride." It occurred to him that Longstreet not being a Virginian, he might have given another insult.
But Longstreet said, "I know I can count on you, George, when the time comes.
And it'll come, it'll come."
Armistead broke in, "Sorry to interrupt, but they're calling for George at the poker table." He bowed. "Your fame, sir, has preceded you."
Pickett excused himself, watchful of Longstreet. Pickett was always saying something to irritate somebody, and he rarely knew why, so his method was simply to apologize in general from time to time and to let people know he meant well and then shove off and hope for the best. He apologized and departed, curls ajiggle.
Armistead looked after him. "Hope he brought some money with him." He turned back to Longstreet, smiling.
"How goes it, Pete?"
"Passing well, passing well." An old soldier's joke, vaguely obscene. It had once been funny. Touched now with memories, sentimental songs. Longstreet thought: he's really quite gray. Has reached that time when a man ages rapidly, older with each passing moment. Old Lothario.
Longstreet was touched. Armistead had his eyes turned away, following Pickett.
"I gather that George was trying to get us up front where we could get shot.
Correct? Thought so. Well, must say, if you've got to do all this damn marching at my age there ought to be some action some time. Although-" he held up a hand-"I don't complain, I don't complain." He sat, letting a knee creak.
"Getting rickety."
Longstreet looked: firelight soft on a weary face. Armistead was tired.
Longstreet watched him, gauging. Armistead noticed.
"I'm all right, Pete."
"Course."
"No, really. I..."He stopped in mid-sentence. "I am getting a little old for it. To tell the truth. It, ah..." He shrugged. "It isn't as much fun when your feet hurt. Ooo."
He rubbed his calf. He looked away from Longstreet's eyes. "These are damn good cherries they grow around here.
Wonder if they'd grow back home."
Laughter broke from Pickett's group. A cloud passed over the moon. Armistead had something on his mind.
Longstreet waited. Harrison had to be back soon. Armistead said, "I hear you have some word of the Union Army."
"Right." Longstreet thought: Hancock.
"Have you heard anything of old Win?"
"Yep. He's got the Second Corps, headed this way. We should be running into him one of these days." Longstreet felt a small jealousy. Armistead and Hancock.