Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [30]
"A Holy War," Longstreet said. He shook his head. He did not think much of the Cause. He was a professional: the Cause was Victory. It came to him in the night sometimes with a sudden appalling shock that the boys he was fighting were boys he had grown up with. The war had come as a nightmare in which you chose your nightmare side. Once chosen, you put your head down and went on to win. He thought: shut up. But he said: "You've heard it often enough: one of our boys can lick any ten of them, that nonsense."
"Well."
"Well, you've fought with those boys over there, you've commanded them." He gestured vaguely east. "You know damn well they can fight. You should have seen them come up that hill at Fredericksburg, listen." He gestured vaguely, tightly, losing command of the words. "Well, Lo, you know we are dying one at a time and there aren't enough of us and we die just as dead as anybody, and a boy from back home aint a better soldier than a boy from Minnesota or anywhere else just because he's from back home."
Armistead nodded carefully. "Well, sure." He paused watchfully "Of course I know that. But then, on the other hand, we sure do stomp them consistently, now don't we, Pete? We... I don't know, but I feel we're something special. I do. We're good, and we know it. It may just be the Old Man and a few other leaders like you. Well, I don't know what it is. But I tell you, I believe in it, and I don't think we're overconfident."
Longstreet nodded. Let it go. But Armistead sat up.
"Another thing, Peter, long as the subject is up. I've been thinking on your theories of defensive war, and look, Pete, if you don't mind the opinion of an aging military genius, just this once? Technically, by God, you're probably right.
Hell, you're undoubtedly right. This may be a time for defensive war. But, Pete, this aint the army for it. We aren't bred for the defense. And the Old Man, Lord, if ever there was a man not suited for slow dull defense, it's old R.E."
Longstreet said, "But he's a soldier."
"Exactly. And so are you. But the Old Man is just plain, well, too proud.
Listen, do you remember when he was assigned to the defense of Richmond and he started digging trenches, you remember what they started calling him?"
"The King of Spades." God, the Richmond newspapers.
"Right. And you could see how hurt he was. Most people would be. Stain on the old honor. Now, Pete, you're wise enough not to give a damn about things like that. But Old Robert, now, he's from the old school, and I'll bet you right now he can't wait to get them out in the open somewhere where he can hit them face to face. And you know every soldier in the army feels the same way, and it's one of the reasons why the morale here is so good and the Union morale is so bad, and isn't that a fact?"
Longstreet said nothing. It was all probably true. And yet there was danger in it; there was even something dangerous in Lee. Longstreet said, "He promised me he would stay on the defensive. He said he would look for a good defensive position and let them try to hit us."
"He did?"
"He did."
"Well, maybe. But I tell you, Pete, it aint natural to him."
"And it is to me?"
Armistead cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled, shook his head, and reached out abruptly to slap Longstreet's knee.
"Well, might's well be blunt, old soul, and to hell with the social graces.
Truth is, Peter, that you are by nature the stubbomest human being, nor mule either, nor even army mule, that I personally have ever known, or ever hope to know, and my hat is off to you for it, because you are also the best damn defensive soldier I ever saw, by miles and miles and miles, and that's a fact.
Now-" he started to rise-"I'll get a-movin', back to my virtuous bed."
Longstreet grunted, found himself blushing. He rose, went silently with Armistead toward the crowd around Pickett. Moxley Sorrel was on his feet, pounding his palm with a clenched fist. The Englishman, Fremantle, was listening openmouthed. The Prussian, Scheiber, was smiling