Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [65]
Ross boomed happily, patting himself fat-handedly across the stomach. "C'est le sanglant appel-de Mars, eh, old chap?" He popped the slender Fremantle on the arm, unsettling him.
Fremantle said with distaste, "Early in the morning for that, old friend.
Could you wait until after tea?"
The others were gathering around the breakfast table.
Scheibert, the beardless Prussian, moody, prim, was dressed all in white, white coat, floppy white hat, the inevitable glittering monocle. While most of the officers of the army could speak French, few could speak German, and Scheibert's pride was continually offended, but he went on stubbornly using German military terms in conversation, was not understood, would not explain, sat fatly, whitely to the side, a rare sight, oddly comical in that company.
Lawley, the correspondent, seemed ill again and had not made up his mind whether or not to ride today. There were the three medical people-Maury, Cullen, Barksdale-and others of Longstreet's staff: Latrobe, Goree, and the charming little Jew, Major Moses. They sat down to a splendid breakfast, and although Fremantle continued to wake up slowly, coming alive as the day came alive, warmly, brightly, with no clouds anywhere, the wind beginning to pick up and rustle the trees, the light beginning to sift down through the cool leaves, the dark branches, still Fremantle remained vaguely asleep.
The morning at war. Marvelous. Good men around a table. What a joy to be with the winners! All these men had nothing but contempt for the Yankees, whom they had beaten so often. There was even an air of regret at the table, a sense of seize the day, as if these bright moments of good fellowship before battle were numbered, that the war would soon be over, and all this would end, and we would all go back to the duller pursuits of peace. Fremantle enjoyed himself enormously. Southerners! They were Englishmen, by George. Fremantle was at home.
He ate hot eggs, warm bread, reveled in steaming tea, although the water from which the tea was made left an aftertaste in the mouth, afterthoughts in the brain: from what nearby barn? The men all chatted, joked. Fremantle was sorry to see breakfast end. But the sun was fully up.
Now once more he could expect the big thunder of cannon.
Must not miss it today. Sorrel promised to keep him informed. They rode together toward the lines, hoping for a good view.
So Fremantle came to Gettysburg, saw the bodies unburied in the fields, beginning to become offensive in the heat of the morning, poor chaps. They turned off to the right and rode up through a grove of trees to higher ground, and through the trees Fremantle could already see the blue ridge to the east, soft in the morning haze, where the Yankees were camped. But he could see no troops, no movement.
He felt his stomach tighten, his breath grow sharp. In the presence of the enemy! In range of the guns! He passed a battery of Southern artillery, mixed Napoleons and Parrots, served by wagons stamped USA.
Sorrel said, "We got most of our wagons from the enemy. Many of the guns.
Their artillery is very good. But ours will get better."
The Austrian, Ross, had ridden up beside them. One of the gunners, a lean, barefoot man in dusty brown, stared at him unbelievingly as he passed, then bawled in a piercing voice that carried all along the line, "Hey, mister. You in blue. What you do, man, you look like you swallowed some mice."
Sorrel put his hand over his mouth. Ross stared back, uncomprehending.
Fremantle said cheerily, "The fellow is referring to the waxed mustache, old friend."
Ross grumbled, twitched the mustache, stroked the ends lovingly, glowered.
They rode to Lee's headquarters, then beyond, up the ridge to where the Generals were meeting.
There was a gathering of officers, too many men. Sorrel suggested that if Fremantle wanted a good view, he should find a convenient