The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [27]
Pickett stopped before Longstreet and saluted grandly. “General Pickett presents his compliments, sir, and requests permission to parley with the Commanding General, s’il vous plaît.”
Longstreet said, “Howdy, George.”
Beyond Pickett’s shoulder Lew Armistead grinned hello, touching his hat. Longstreet had known them all for twenty years and more. They had served together in the Mexican War and in the old Sixth Infantry out in California. They had been under fire together, and as long as he lived Longstreet would never forget the sight of Pickett with the flag going over the wall in the smoke and flame of Chapultepec. Pickett had not aged a moment since. Longstreet thought: my permanent boy. It was more a family than an army. But the formalities had to be observed. He saluted. Pickett hopped out of the saddle, ringlets aflutter as he jumped. Longstreet whiffed a pungent odor.
“Good Lord, George, what’s that smell?”
“That’s me,” Pickett said proudly. “Aint it lovely?”
Armistead dismounted, chuckling. “He got it off a dead Frenchman. Evening, Pete.”
“Woo,” Longstreet said. “I bet the Frenchman smelled better.”
Pickett was offended. “I did not either get it off a Frenchman. I bought it in a store in Richmond.” He meditated. “Did have a French name, now that I think on it. But Sallie likes it.” This concluded the matter. Pickett glowed and primped, grinning. He was used to kidding and fond of it. Dick Garnett was dismounting slowly. Longstreet caught the look of pain in his eyes. He was favoring a leg. He had that same soft gray look in his face, his eyes. Too tired, much too tired.
Longstreet extended a hand. “How are you, Dick?”
“Fine, General, just fine.” But the handclasp had no vitality. Lew Armistead was watching with care.
Longstreet said easily, “Sorry I had to assign you to old smelly George. Hope you have a strong stomach.”
“General,” Garnett said formally, gracefully, “you must know how much I appreciate the opportunity.”
There was a second of silence. Garnett had withdrawn the old Stonewall Brigade without orders. Jackson had accused him of cowardice. Now Jackson was dead, and Garnett’s honor was compromised, and he had not recovered from the stain, and in this company there were many men who would never let him recover. Yet Longstreet knew the quality of the man, and he said slowly, carefully, “Dick, I consider it a damned fine piece of luck for me when you became available for this command.”
Garnett took a deep breath, then nodded once quickly, looking past Longstreet into the dark. Lew Armistead draped a casual arm across his shoulders.
“Dick’s been eating too many cherries. He’s got the Old Soldier’s Disease.”
Garnett smiled weakly. “Sure do.” He rubbed his stomach. “Got to learn to fight from the squatting position.”
Armistead grinned. “I know what’s wrong with you. You been standing downwind of ole George. You got to learn to watch them fumes.”
A circle had gathered at a respectful distance. One of these was Fremantle, of Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards, wide-hatted, Adam’s-appled. Pickett was regarding him with curiosity.
Longstreet remembered his manners. “Oh, excuse me, Colonel. Allow me to present our George Pickett. Our loveliest general. General Pickett, Colonel Fremantle of the Coldstream Guards.”
Pickett bowed low in the classic fashion, sweeping the ground with the plumed hat.
“The fame of your regiment, sir, has preceded you.”
“General Pickett is our ranking strategist,” Longstreet said. “We refer all the deeper questions to George.”
“They do,” Pickett admitted, nodding. “They do indeed.”
“General Pickett’s record at West Point is still the talk of the army.”
Armistead hawed.
“It is unbecoming to a soldier, all this book-learning,” Pickett said haughtily.