The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [101]
“Damn.”
“Well, you take care. I’ll send Tom back with word.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll miss you. Probably get into all kinds of trouble without you.”
“No,” Kilrain said. “You’ll do all right.”
“Well, I have to go.”
“Right. Goodbye, Colonel.”
He put out a hand, formally. Chamberlain took it.
“It was a hell of a day, wasn’t it, Buster?”
Kilrain grinned, his eyes glistened.
“I’ll come down and see you tomorrow.” Chamberlain backed off.
“Sure.” Kilrain was blinking, trying to keep his eyes open. Chamberlain walked away, stopped, looked back, saw the eyes already closed, turned his back for the last time, moved off into the gathering dark.
He moved forward and began to climb the big hill in the dark. As he walked he forgot his pain; his heart began to beat quickly, and he felt an incredible joy. He looked at himself, wonderingly, at the beloved men around him, and he said to himself: Lawrence, old son, treasure this moment. Because you feel as good as a man can feel.
5.
LONGSTREET
The hospital was an open field just back of the line. There were small white tents all over the field and bigger tents where the surgeons did the cutting. Hood was there, in a big tent, on a litter. Longstreet came in out of the dark, bowing under a canopy, saw the face like cold marble in yellow candlelight, eyes black and soft like old polished stones. Cullen and Maury were working together on the arm. Longstreet saw: not much left of the hand. Exposed bone. He thought of Jackson hit in the arm at Chancellorsville: died a slow death. Let us cross over the river. Hood’s black eyes stared unseeing. Longstreet said softly, “Sam?”
Cullen looked up; Maury was tying a knot, went on working. Troops had gathered outside the canopy. A sergeant bawled: Move on, move on. Hood stared at Longstreet, not seeing. There was dirt streaked in tear stains on his cheeks, but he was not crying now. His head twitched, cheek jerked. He said suddenly, in a light, strange, feathery voice, “Should have let me move to ri—” He breathed. “To the right.”
Longstreet nodded. To Cullen, he said, “Can I talk to him?”
“Rather not. We’ve drugged him. Sir. Better let him sleep.”
Hood raised the other arm, twitched fingers, let the hand fall. “Din see much. Boys went in an’ hit the rocks. I got hit.”
Longstreet, no good at talking, nodded.
“Should have moved right, Pete.” Hood was staring at him, bright, drugged, eerie eyes. “How did it go, Pete?”
“Fine, Sam.”
“We took those rocks?”
“Most of ’em.”
“Took the rocks. Really did.”
“Yes,” Longstreet lied.
Hood’s eyes blinked slowly, blearily. He put the good hand up to shade his eyes.
“Devil’s Den. Good name for it.”
“Yep.”
“Worst ground I ever saw, you know that?” Hood laid the back of his hand across his eyes. His voice trembled. “Got to give my boys credit.”
Longstreet said to Cullen, “Can you save the arm?”
“We’re trying. But if we do, it won’t be much use to him.”
Hood said, “Casualties? Was casualties?”
“Don’t know yet,” Longstreet said. And then: “Not bad.” Another lie.
Cullen said gloomily, plaintively, “He ought to go to sleep. Now don’t fight it, General. Let it work. You just drift right on off.”
Longstreet said softly, “You go to sleep now, Sam. Tell you all about it tomorrow.”
“Shame not to see it.” Hood took the hand away. His eyes were dreaming, closing like small doors over a dim light. “Should have gone to the right.” He looked hazily at the hand. “You fellas try to save that now, you hear?”
“Yes, sir, General. Now why don’t you …?”
“Sure will miss it.” Hood’s eyes closed again; his face began smoothing toward sleep. Longstreet thought: he won’t die. Not like Jackson. There was a blackness around Jackson’s eyes. Longstreet reached down, touched Hood on the shoulder, then turned and went out into the moonlight.
Sorrel was there, with the silent staff. Longstreet mounted, rising up into the moonlight, looking out across the pale tents at the small fires, the black silence. He heard a boy crying, pitiful childish sobs, a deeper voice beyond, soothing. Longstreet shook