Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [83]
Blue troops, speckled a long fence. He could see them moving rails.
Behind him, McLaws said, "Lot of them."
Longstreet looked up toward the ridge. But he could make out nothing at all.
You don't suppose... they moved down here? Forward, off the ridge? How many?
You don't suppose a whole Corps?
He looked around, spied Fairfax, sent him off with word to Lee.
McLaws said, "What now?"
"Same plan. You hit them. Hood goes first. You key on his last Brigade. That will be G. T. Anderson."
"Right."
Longstreet was running low on aides. He found Goree, sent him off to Hood, telling him to send vedettes ahead to scout the ground. There was not a cavalryman near, not one horse. Longstreet swore. But he was feeling better.
Any minute now it would all begin. All hell would break loose and then no more worrying and fretting and fuming; he'd hit straight up that road with everything he had. Never been afraid of that. Never been afraid to lose it all if necessary.
Longstreet knew himself. There was no fear there. The only fear was not of death, was not of the war, was of blind stupid human frailty, of blind proud foolishness that could lose it all. He was thinking very clearly now. Mind seemed to uncloud like washed glass. Everything cool and crystal.
He glanced at his watch. Getting on toward four o'clock.
Good God. Lee's echelon plan would never work. Send messenger to Lee. Let's all go in together. The hell with a plan.
But no messenger was available. A moment later one of Hood's boys found him, riding slowly forward, watching McLaws moving into position.
"Sir, message from General Hood. He says his scouts have moved to the right, says there's nothing there. Nothing between us and the Federal train. He suggests most urgently we move around the big hill there and take them from the rear."
Longstreet sighed. "Sonny boy," he said patiently, disgustedly, "you go back and tell Sam that I been telling General Lee that same damn thing for two days, move to the right, and there aint no point in bringing it up again. Tell him to attack as ordered."
The young scout saluted and was gone. Longstreet sat alone. And there was happy-eyed Fremantle, dirty and cheery on a ragged horse. He seemed never to change his clothes.
"General, are things about to commence?"
"They are indeed." Longstreet grinned. "I suggest you find a convenient tree."
"I will, oh, I will indeed." He turned, pulling the horse away, then turned back. "Oh, sir, I say, best of luck."
"Charming," Longstreet said.
Barksdale's Brigade, Mississippians, was passing him, moving into line. He watched them place all extra baggage, all blankets, all kitbags, and post one lone guard-a frail young man who looked genuinely ill, who sagged against the fence. Longstreet approached and saw that the corn-silk hair was not young, not young at all. The frail young man was a gaunt man with white hair. And he was ill. He opened red eyes, stared vaguely upward.
"Howdy, General," he said. He smiled feebly.
Longstreet said, "Can I get you anything?"
The old man shook his head. He gasped. "Aint nothin' serious. Damn green apples. Damn Yankee apples." He clutched his stomach. Longstreet grinned, moved on.
He saw Barksdale from a long way off. The famous politician had his hat off and was waving it wildly and his white hair was flowing and bobbing, conspicuous, distinguished. Longstreet was fond of this Brigade. Privately he thought it the best in McLaws' whole Division, but of course he couldn't say so. But everybody knew Mississippi was tough. What was it that old man said back in Chambersburg? "You men of Virginia are gentlemen. But those people from Mississippi." Longstreet grinned. Another fella had said the same thing about Hood's Texans.