The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [108]
“God in Heaven,” Longstreet said, and repeated it, “there’s no strategy to this bloody war. What it is is old Napoleon and a hell of a lot of chivalry. That’s all it is. What were the tactics at Chancellorsville, where we divided the army, divided it, so help me God, in the face of the enemy, and got away with it because Joe Hooker froze cold in his stomach? What were the tactics yesterday? What were they today? And what will be the blessed tactics tomorrow? I’ll tell you the tactics tomorrow. Devious? Christ in Heaven. Tomorrow we will attack an enemy that outnumbers us, an enemy that outguns us, an enemy dug in on the high ground, and let me tell you, if we win that one it will not be because of the tactics or because we are great strategists or because there is anything even remotely intelligent about the war at all. It will be a bloody miracle, a bloody miracle.”
And then he saw what he was saying.
He cut it off. Fremantle’s mouth was still open. Longstreet thought: Very bad things to say. Disloyal. Fool. Bloody damned fool.
And then he began truly to understand what he had said.
It surfaced, like something long sunken rising up out of black water. It opened up there in the dark of his mind and he turned from Fremantle.
The Englishman said something. Longstreet nodded. The truth kept coming. Longstreet waited. He had known all this for a long time but he had never said it, except in fragments. He had banked it and gone on with the job, a soldier all his life. In his mind he could see Lee’s beautiful face and suddenly it was not the same face. Longstreet felt stuffed and thick and very strange. He did not want to think about it. He spurred the horse. Hero reared. Longstreet thought: you always know the truth; wait long enough and the mind will tell you. He rode beneath a low tree; leaves brushed his hat. He stopped. A voice at his elbow: Fremantle.
“Yes,” Longstreet said. Damn fool things to say. To a guest.
“If I have disturbed you, sir …”
“Not at all. Things on my mind. If you don’t mind, Colonel …”
Fremantle apologized. Longstreet said good night. He sat alone on his horse in the dark. There was a fire in a field. A boy was playing a harmonica, frail and lovely sound. Longstreet thought of Barksdale as he had gone to die, streaming off to death, white hair trailing him like white fire. Hood’s eyes were accusing. Should have moved to the right. He thought: Tactics are old Napoleon and a lot of chivalry.
He shuddered. He remembered that day in church when he prayed from the soul and listened and knew in that moment that there was no one there, no one to listen.
Don’t think on these things. Keep an orderly mind. This stuff is like heresy.
It was quieter now and very warm and wet, a softness in the air, a mountain peace. His mind went silent for a time and he rode down the long road between the fires in the fields and men passed him in the night unknowing, and soldiers chased each other across the road. A happy camp, behind the line. There was music and faith. And pride. We have always had pride.
He thought suddenly of Stonewall Jackson, old Thomas, old Blue Light. He could move men. Yes. But you remember, he ordered pikes for his men,