The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [136]
Garnett said, “Just heard a funny thing. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
“Oh?” Armistead did not look him in the face. A shot took off the limb of a tree nearby, clipped it off cleanly, so that it fell all at once, making a sound like a whole tree falling. Garnett did not turn.
“We have some educated troops, you know, gentlemen privates. Well, I was riding along the line and I heard one of these fellas, ex-professor type, declaiming this poem, you know the one: ‘Backward, turn backward, oh Time, in your flight, and make me a child again, just for this fight.’ And then there’s a pause, and a voice says, in a slow drawl, ‘Yep. A gal child.’ ”
Garnett chuckled. “Harrison and I found us some Pennsylvania whisky, and experimented, and found that it goes well with Pennsylvania water. Wa’nt bad a-tall. Tried to save you some, but first thing you know …” He shrugged helplessly.
Their eyes never quite met, like two lights moving, never quite touching. There was an awkward silence. Garnett said, “Well, I better get back.” He moved back immediately, not attempting to shake hands. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said, and galloped off along the ridge.
Armistead closed his eyes, prayed silently. God protect him. Let him have justice. Thy will be done.
Armistead opened his eyes. Had not prayed for himself. Not yet. It was all out of his hands, all of it; there was nothing he could do about anything anywhere in the whole world. Now he would move forward and lead the men up the ridge to whatever end awaited, whatever plan was foreordained, and he felt a certain mild detachment, a curious sense of dull calm, as on those long, long Sunday afternoons when you were a boy and had to stay dressed and neat and clean with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, waiting for the grownups to let you go, to give you the blessed release to run out in the open and play. So he did not even pray. Not yet. It was all in God’s hands.
Pickett rode toward him, staff trailing behind. The fire was definitely slower now; the air of the woods was clearing. Pickett’s face was bright red. He reined up, but was hopping around in the saddle, patting the horse, slapping his own thigh, gesturing wildly, pointing, grinning.
“Lewis, how’s everything, any questions?”
Armistead shook his head.
“Good, good. As soon as the guns cease fire, we step off. Garnett and Kemper the first line, you’re in the second. Route step, no halting, no stopping to fire, want to get up there as fast as you can. I’ll keep toward the right flank, to cover that side. Do you need anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Good, fine.” Pickett nodded violently. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s good. One other point. All officers are ordered to walk. No officer takes his horse. Utterly foolish.” Pickett’s horse, catching the general’s excitement, reared and wheeled; Pickett soothed him. “So you go on foot, no exceptions.”
“Yes,” Armistead said. “But what about Garnett?”
“What about … oh.” Pickett grimaced. “That leg.”
“I don’t think he can walk.”
Pickett said slowly, “Damn it.”
“George, order him not to make the charge.”
“I can’t do that.”
“He’s in no condition.”
But Pickett shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”
“A man on a horse, in front of that line. George, he’ll be the only rider in a line a mile wide. They’ll have every gun on that hill on him.”
Pickett rubbed the back of his neck, slammed his thigh.
“He can’t walk at all?”
“He might get fifty yards.”
“Damn,” Pickett said, caught himself guiltily. Not a good time to be swearing. “But you know how he feels. It’s a matter of honor.” Pickett threw up his hands abruptly, helplessly.
“Order him not to go, George.”
Pickett shook his head reprovingly.
Armistead said, “All right. I understand. Yes. But I think … I’m getting a bit old for this business.”
His voice was low and Pickett did not hear it, was