The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [109]
They come from another age. The Age of Virginia.
Must talk to Lee in the morning.
He’s tired. Never saw him that tired. And sick. But he’ll listen.
They all come from another age.
General Lee, I have three Union corps in front of me. They have the high ground, and they are dug in, and I am down to half my strength.
He will smile and pat you on the arm and say: go do it.
And perhaps we will do it.
He was approaching his own camp. He could hear laughter ahead, and there were many bright fires. He slowed, let Hero crop grass. He felt a great sense of shame. A man should not think these things. But he could not control it. He rode into camp, back to work. He came in silently and sat back under a dark tree and Sorrel came to him with the figures. The figures were bad. Longstreet sat with his back against a tree and out in the open there was a party, sounds of joy: George Pickett was telling a story.
He was standing by a fire, wild-haired, gorgeous, stabbing with an invisible sword. He could tell a story. A circle of men was watching him; Longstreet could see the grins, flash of a dark bottle going round. Off in the dark there was a voice of a young man singing: clear Irish tenor. Longstreet felt a long way off, a long, long way. Pickett finished with one mighty stab, then put both hands on his knees and crouched and howled with laughter, enjoying himself enormously. Longstreet wanted a drink. No. Not now. Later. In a few days. Perhaps a long bottle and a long sleep. He looked across the firelight and saw one face in the ring not smiling, not even listening, one still face staring unseeing into the yellow blaze: Dick Garnett. The man Jackson had court-martialed for cowardice. Longstreet saw Lo Armistead nudge him, concerned, whisper in his ear. Garnett smiled, shook his head, turned back to the fire. Armistead went on watching him, worried. Longstreet bowed his head.
Saw the face of Robert Lee. Incredible eyes. An honest man, a simple man. Out of date. They all ride to glory, all the plumed knights. Saw the eyes of Sam Hood, accusing eyes. He’ll not go and die. Did not have the black look they get, the dying ones, around the eyes. But Barksdale is gone, and Semmes, and half of Hood’s division …
“Evening, Pete.”
Longstreet squinted upward. Tall man holding a tall glass, youthful grin under steel-gray hair: Lo Armistead.
“How goes it, Pete?”
“Passing well, passing well.”
“Come on and join us, why don’t you? We liberated some Pennsylvania whisky; aint much left.”
Longstreet shook his head.
“Mind if I set a spell?” Armistead squatted, perched on the ground sitting on his heels, resting the glass on his thigh. “What do you hear from Sam Hood?”
“May lose an arm.”
Armistead asked about the rest. Longstreet gave him the list. There was a moment of silence. Armistead took a drink, let the names register. After a moment he said, “Dick Garnett is sick. He can’t hardly walk.”
“I’ll get somebody to look after him.”
“Would you do that, Pete? He’ll have to take it, coming from you.”
“Sure.”
“Thing is, if there’s any action, he can’t stand to be out of it. But if you ordered him.”
Longstreet said nothing.
“Don’t suppose you could do that,” Armistead said wistfully.
Longstreet shook his head.
“I keep trying to tell him he don’t have to prove a thing, not to us,” Armistead brooded. “Well, what the hell.” He sipped from the glass. “A pleasant brew. The Dutchmen make good whisky. Oh. Beg your pardon.”
Longstreet looked out into the firelight. He recognized Fremantle, popeyed and grinning, rising awkwardly to his feet, tin cup raised for a toast. Longstreet could not hear. Armistead said, “I been talking to that Englishman. He isn’t too bright, is he?”
Longstreet smiled. He thought: Devious Lee.
Armistead said, “We put it to him, how come the limeys didn’t come help us. In their