Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [29]
Armistead said, "Never thought it would last this long."
He was staring off into the dark.
"Me neither. I was thinking on that last night. The day of the one-battle war is over, I think. It used to be that you went out to fight in the morning and by sundown the issue was decided and the king was dead and the war was usually over. But now..."He grunted, shaking his head. "Now it goes on and on. War has changed, Lewis. They all expect one smashing victory. Waterloo and all that.
But I think that kind of war is over. We have trenches now. And it's a different thing, you know, to ask a man to fight from a trench. Any man can charge briefly in the morning. But to ask a man to fight from a trench, day after day..."
"Guess you're right," Armistead said. But he was not interested, and Longstreet, who loved to talk tactics and strategy, let it go. After a moment Armistead said, "Wouldn't mind seeing old Win again. One more time."
"Why don't you?"
"You wouldn't mind?"
"Hell no."
"Really? I mean, well, Pete, do you think it would be proper?"
"Sure. If the chance comes, just get a messenger and a flag of truce and go on over. Nothing to it."
"I sure would like just to talk to him again," Armistead said. He leaned back, closing his eyes. "Last time was in California. When the war was beginning.
Night before we left there was a party."
Long time ago, another world. And then Longstreet thought of his children, that Christmas, that terrible Christmas, and turned his mind away. There was a silence.
Armistead said, "Oh, by the way, Pete, how's your wife?
Been meaning to ask."
"Fine." He said it automatically. But she was not fine.
He felt a spasm of pain like a blast of sudden cold, saw the patient high-boned Indian face, that beautiful woman, indelible suffering. Children never die: they live on in the brain forever. After a moment he realized that Armistead was watching him.
"If you want me to leave, Pete."
"No." Longstreet shook his head quickly.
"Well, then, I think I'll just set a spell and pass the time of day. Don't get to see much of you any more." He smiled: a touch of shyness. He was five years older than Longstreet, and now he was the junior officer, but he was one of the rare ones who was genuinely glad to see another man advance.
In some of them there was a hunger for rank-in Jubal Early it was a disease-but Armistead had grown past the hunger, if he ever had it at all. He was an honest man, open as the sunrise, cut from the same pattern as Lee: old family, Virginia gentleman, man of honor, man of duty. He was one of the men who would hold ground if it could be held; he would die for a word. He was a man to depend on, and there was this truth about war: it taught you the men you could depend on.
He was saying, "I tell you one thing you don't have to worry on, and that's our Division. I never saw troops anywhere so ready for a brawl. And they're not just kids, either. Most of them are veterans and they'll know what to do.
But the morale is simply amazing. Really is. Never saw anything like it in the old army. They're off on a Holy War.
The Crusades must have been a little like this. Wish I'd a been there. Seen old Richard and the rest."
Longstreet said, "They never took Jerusalem."
Armistead squinted.
"It takes a bit more than morale," Longstreet said.
"Oh sure." But Longstreet was always gloomy. "Well, anyhow, I've never seen anything like this. The Old Man's accomplishment. Incredible. His presence is everywhere.
They hush when he passes, like an angel of the Lord. You ever see anything like it?"
"No."
"Remember what they said when he took command? Called him Old Granny. Hee."
Armistead chuckled. "Man, what damn fools we are."
"There's talk of making him President, after the war."
"They are?" Armistead considered it. "Do you suppose he'd take it?"
"No, I don't think he would take it. But, I don't