Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [35]
Out on the road the troops were moving in a great mottled stream: Longstreet's First Corps, the backbone of the army, moving up behind Powell Hill. The barefoot, sunburned, thin and grinning army, joyful, unbeatable, already immortal. And then through the trees the familiar form: big man on a black horse, great round shoulders, head thick as a stump: James Longstreet.
It was reassuring just to look at him, riding slowly forward into the sunlight on the black Irish stallion: Dutch Longstreet, old Pete. He was riding along in a cloud of visitors, bright-clad foreigners, observers from Europe, plumes and feathers and helmeted horsemen, reporters from Richmond, the solemn members of Longstreet's staff. He separated from the group and rode to Lee's tent and the motley bright cloud remained respectfully distant. Lee rose with unconscious joy.
"General."
"Mornin'."
Longstreet touched his cap, came heavily down from the horse. He was taller than Lee, head like a boulder, full-bearded, long-haired, always a bit sloppy, gloomy, shocked his staff by going into battle once wearing carpet slippers.
Never cared much for appearance, gave an impression of ominous bad-tempered strength and a kind of slow, even stubborn, unquenchable anger: a soft voice, a ragged mouth. He talked very slowly and sometimes had trouble finding the right word, and the first impression of him around that gay and courtly camp was that he was rather dull-witted and not much fun. He was not a Virginian.
But he was a magnificent soldier. With Jackson gone he was the rock of the army, and Lee felt a new clutching in his chest, looking at him, thinking that this was one man you could not afford to lose. Longstreet smiled his ragged smile, grumbled, jerked a finger over his shoulder.
"Her Majesty's forces in the New World passed a restful night."
Lee looked, saw the ludicrous man in the lustrous hat and the wide gray coat.
The man made a sweeping, quixotic bow, nearly falling from the horse. Colonel Fremantle was up. Lee gave a formal bow, smiling inwardly.
Longstreet observed with sloe-eyed surprise. "After a while, you know, he actually begins to grow on you."
"You're keeping him entertained?"
"Not exactly. He's got his heart set on a cavalry charge.
Drawn sabers, all that glorious French business. He was horrified when I had to tell him we didn't use the British square."
Lee smiled.
"But he's a likable fella." Longstreet took off his hat, scratched his head.
"Can't say he's learning much. But he seems to like us, all right. He says you have a great reputation in Europe."
Lee said, "There'll be no help from there."
"No."
"President Davis has hope."
"Well, I guess that won't do him any harm to hope."
"At least we'll be good hosts." Lee felt a sudden strength. It came out of Longstreet like sunlight. Lee said happily, "And how are you this morning.
General?"
"Me?" Longstreet blinked. "I'm all right." He paused, cocked his head to one side, stared at the old man.
Lee said happily, "You must take care of yourself."
Longstreet was mystified. No one ever asked him how he felt. His health was legendary, he never tired.
Lee said diplomatically, "The Old Soldier's illness is going around."
"It's the damned cherries," Longstreet gloomed. "Too many raw cherries."
Lee nodded. Then he said softly, "General, in the fight that's coming, I want you to stay back from the main line."
Longstreet looked at him, expressionless. Black eyes glistened, bright and hard under hairy eyebrows. Impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Lee said, "You are our only veteran commander."
Longstreet nodded.
"If I should become once again indisposed," Lee said.
"God forbid." Longstreet stared. "And how are you?"
Lee smiled, waved a deprecating hand.