The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [125]
“Yes,” Longstreet said.
“Good. Then that’s agreed. Pettigrew, Pickett, and Trimble. The new commanders won’t really matter, in an attack of this kind. The men will know where to go.”
He went over the plan again. He wanted to be certain, this day, that it all went well, laying it all out like the tracks of a railroad. He was confident, excited, the blood was up. He thought the army could do anything. Longstreet felt the weariness, the heat of the day. The objective was clear. All fifteen thousand men would concentrate, finally, on a small stone wall perhaps a hundred yards wide. They might break through. It was possible.
Lee said, “The line there is not strong. Meade has strengthened both his flanks; he must be weak in the center. I estimate his strength in the center at not much more than five thousand men. The artillery barrage will upset them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you need? Take whatever time you need.”
“I have always been slow,” Longstreet said.
“There is no one I trust more.”
“If the line can be broken …” Longstreet said.
“It can. It will.” Lee paused, smiled.
“If it can be done, those boys will do it.” Longstreet moved back formally, saluted.
Lee returned the salute, tall, erect, radiating faith and confidence. He said slowly, the voice of the father, “General Longstreet, God go with you.”
Longstreet rode off to summon his staff.
What was needed now was control, absolute control. Lee was right about that: a man who could not control himself had no right to command an army. They must not know my doubts, they must not. So I will send them all forward and say nothing, absolutely nothing, except what must be said. But he looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Control took a few moments. He was not sure he could do it. There had never been anything like this in his life before. But here was Pickett, wide-eyed, curious, long hair ringed and combed, mounted on a black horse, under a great tree.
Longstreet told him the orders. Pickett whooped with joy. Longstreet let him go off to form his troops. He looked at his watch: not yet noon. It would be some time yet. He sent for the other officers, for Porter Alexander. The fight on the far left was dying; Ewell was done. There would be no support there. He felt a moment of curious suspension, as when you have been awake for a long time you have certain moments of unreality, of numbness, of the beginning of sleep. It passed. He heard cannon fire to the left, closer. A. P. Hill was shooting at something. Alexander rode up: a young man, nondescript face but very capable. He was excited, hatless. He apologized for the loss of the hat.
“Sir, ah, we seem to have upset Colonel Walton. He has just reminded me that he is the senior artillery officer in this corps.”
Longstreet moved out to the edge of the trees. He indicated the limits of the attack, where the fire should converge. He explained it slowly, methodically, with great care. The Union cannon up on the Rocky Hill would cause trouble. Alexander should assign guns to keep them quiet. He should have more guns ready to move forward with the attack, keeping the flanks clear. It occurred to Longstreet that this was a grave responsibility. He interrupted himself, said suddenly, “How old are you, son?”
“Sir? Ah, twenty-six, sir.”
Longstreet nodded, looked into the unlined face, the bright, dark, anxious eyes. Best gunner in the corps. We make do with what we have. He said, “Can you clean those guns off that hill, son?”
“Sir? Well, sir, I don’t know about that, sir.”
“Well,” Longstreet said. He thought: I’m seeking reassurance. Let it go. He said, “I am relying on you, son.”
“Yes, sir.” Alexander bobbed his head several times, kicked the turf. “I’ll sure keep ’em shootin’, sir.”
“Don’t open fire until I give you the word, until everything’s in position. Then fire with everything you have. Get yourself a good observation point so you can see the damage we’re doing. We’ve got to drive some of those people off that hill. If we don’t do that … I’ll rely on your judgment.