Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [66]
Lee was standing with his back to the group, bareheaded, the white hair flicking in the breeze. He was gazing out toward the Union lines, which were clearly visible in the east. He put his field glasses to his eyes, looked, put them down, walked two or three paces south, turned, looked again, slowly walked back and forth. Longstreet was sitting on a camp stool, whittling slowly on a stick, making a point, sharpening the point, sharpening, sharpening. A. P. Hill, looking much healthier than the day before, was chatting with another officer, unidentified. Sitting next to Longstreet, on a stump, also whittling, was a tall slim man with an extraordinary face, eyes with a cold glint in them, erect in posture even as he sat, cutting a stick.
Fremantle asked, impressed, "Who is that?"
Lawley: "That's Hood. John Bell Hood. They call him 'Sam,' I think. He commands one of Longstreet's divisions. From Texas, I believe."
"Does his behavior in battle match his appearance?"
"He does his job," Lawley said laconically.
"An interesting army," Fremantle said. "Most interesting."
Lee had turned, was saying something to Longstreet.
Longstreet shook his head. Hill came closer.
Lawley said, "The Yankees have dug in. But I don't see any trenches anywhere here. That means we'll attack."
The "we" was inevitable, but Fremantle noticed it. He felt a part, almost a member, of this marvelous group of outnumbered men. Englishmen. They called themselves Americans, but they were transplanted Englishmen. Look at the names: Lee, Hill, Longstreet, Jackson, Stuart. And Lee was Church of England.
Most of them were. All gentlemen.
No finer gentlemen in England than Lee. Well, of course, here and there, possibly one exception. Or two.
Nevertheless, they are our people. Proud to have them.
And perhaps they will rejoin the Queen and it will be as it was, as it always should have been.
They had talked of that the evening before. Every one of the officers had insisted that the South would be happier under the Queen than under the Union.
Of course, hard to say what they meant. But if England came to help now, would it not be possible? That this soil would once again be English soil?
He had borrowed glasses from Sorrel, was looking at the Union lines. He could see the cannon now, rolled out in front of the trees. He could see men moving among the caissons, men on horseback moving in the trees; here and there a pennant blew. He saw a flash of gold. Breastworks were going up, twisted sticks, small, very far away. There was an open valley below him, partly cultivated, then a long bare rise to the Union line. To the left was the high hill, Cemetery Hill, that Ewell had failed to take the day before, the hill that had worried Longstreet. To the center was a wooded ridge. To the right were two round hills, one rocky, the other wooded. The Union position was approximately three miles in length, or so it seemed from here. All this Fremantle saw with continually rising excitement.
He looked down, saw Longstreet rise, move off, shoulders bowed, wandering head down and lumbering, like a bearded stump, to stare out at the lines. Hood joined him.
Once more Longstreet shook his head. Lee came back to a small table, stared at a map, looked up, back toward the Union lines, keeping his hand on the map.
Fremantle had a good look at that extraordinary face. Lee looked weary, more pale than before. The sun was climbing; it was noticeably hotter. Fremantle felt a familiar rumble in his own stomach. Oh God, not the soldier's disease.
Those damned cherries.
There seemed no point in remaining in the tree. Soldiers had observed him, hanging in the air like a plump gray fruit, were beginning to point and grin.
Fremantle descended with dignity, joined the other foreigners. He heard, for the first time that