The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [29]
“Sure, George. Fire.”
“By George you’re looking well, sir. Must say, never saw you looking better.”
“You look lovely too, George.” Longstreet liked this man. He was not overwhelmingly bright, but he was a fighter. Longstreet was always careful to give him exact instructions and to follow him to make sure he knew what to do, but once pointed, George could be relied on. A lovely adventurous boy, forty-two years old and never to grow older, fond of adventure and romance and all the bright sparkles of youth. Longstreet said happily, “What can I do for you, George?”
“Well, sir, now I don’t mean this as a reflection upon you, sir. But, well, you know, sir, my division, my Virginia boys, we weren’t at Chancellorsville.”
“No.”
“Well, you know we were assigned away on some piddling affair, and we weren’t at Fredericksburg either; we were off again doing some other piddling thing, and now they’ve taken two of my brigades, Corse and Jenkins, and sent them off to guard Richmond—Richmond, for the love of God—and now, General, do you know where I’m placed in line of march? Last, sir, that’s where. Exactly last. I bring up the damned rear. Beg pardon.”
Longstreet sighed.
Pickett said, “Well, I tell you, sir, frankly, my boys are beginning to wonder at the attitude of the high command toward my division. My boys—”
“George,” Longstreet said.
“Sir, I must—” Pickett noted Longstreet’s face. “Now, I don’t mean to imply this command. Not you, sir. I was just hoping you would talk to somebody.”
“George.” Longstreet paused, then he said patiently, “Would you like us to move the whole army out of the way and let you go first?”
Pickett brightened. That seemed a good idea. Another look at Longstreet’s face.
“I only meant, sir, that we haven’t—”
“I know, George. Listen, there’s no plot. It’s just the way things fell out. I have three divisions, right? There’s you, and there’s Hood and McLaws. And where I go you go. Right? And my HQ is near the Old Man, and the Old Man chooses to be here, and that’s the way it is. We sent your two brigades to Richmond because we figured they were Virginia boys and that was proper. But look at it this way: if the army has to turn and fight its way out of here, you’ll be exactly first in line.”
Pickett thought on that.
“That’s possible?”
“Yup.”
“Well,” Pickett mused. At that moment Lew Armistead came up. Pickett said wistfully, “Well, I had to speak on it, sir. You understand. No offense?”
“None.”
“Well then. But I mean, the whole war could be damn well over soon, beg pardon, and my boys would have missed it. And these are Virginians, sir, and have a certain pride.” It occurred to him that Longstreet not being a Virginian, he might have given another insult.
But Longstreet said, “I know I can count on you, George, when the time comes. And it’ll come, it’ll come.”
Armistead broke in, “Sorry to interrupt, but they’re calling for George at the poker table.” He bowed. “Your fame, sir, has preceded you.”
Pickett excused himself, watchful of Longstreet. Pickett was always saying something to irritate somebody, and he rarely knew why, so his method was simply to apologize in general from time to time and to let people know he meant well and then shove off and hope for the best. He apologized and departed, curls a jiggle.
Armistead looked after him. “Hope he brought some money with him.” He turned back to Longstreet, smiling. “How goes it, Pete?”
“Passing well, passing well.” An old soldier’s joke, vaguely obscene. It had once been funny. Touched now with memories, sentimental songs. Longstreet thought: He’s really quite gray. Has reached that time when a man ages rapidly, older with each passing moment. Old Lothario. Longstreet was touched. Armistead had his eyes turned away, following Pickett.
“I gather that George was trying to get us up front where we could get shot. Correct? Thought so. Well, must say, if you’ve got to do all this damn marching at my age there ought to be some action some time. Although—” he held up a hand “—I don’t complain, I don’t complain.” He sat, letting a knee creak.