The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [37]
“Me?” Longstreet blinked. “I’m all right.” He paused, cocked his head to one side, stared at the old man.
Lee said happily, “You must take care of yourself.”
Longstreet was mystified. No one ever asked him how he felt. His health was legendary, he never tired.
Lee said diplomatically, “The Old Soldier’s illness is going around.”
“It’s the damned cherries,” Longstreet gloomed. “Too many raw cherries.”
Lee nodded. Then he said softly, “General, in the fight that’s coming, I want you to stay back from the main line.”
Longstreet looked at him, expressionless. Black eyes glistened, bright and hard under hairy eyebrows. Impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Lee said, “You are my only veteran commander.”
Longstreet nodded.
“If I should become once again indisposed,” Lee said.
“God forbid.” Longstreet stared. “And how are you?”
Lee smiled, waved a deprecating hand. “I am well, very well. Thank God. But there is always … a possibility. And now Jackson is gone, and we must all do more than before. And I do not know if Hill or Ewell are ready for command, but I know that you …”
He paused. Hard to speak in this fashion. Longstreet was staring with cold silent eyes. Lee said sternly, “You have a very bad habit, General, of going too far forward.”
Longstreet said, “You cannot lead from behind.”
“Well. Let me put it plainly. I cannot spare you.”
Longstreet stood silent for a moment. He bowed slightly, then he grinned. “True,” he said.
“You will oblige me?”
“My pleasure,” Longstreet said.
Lee rubbed his nose, looked down at the table. “Now, let us look to the day. Nothing will happen today. But we have an opportunity, I believe.”
“Nothing from Stuart?”
Lee shook his head. Longstreet grumbled, “The Federals are closing in.”
“I have no new information.”
“When Stuart comes back, if he does come back—which he will eventually, if only just to read the Richmond newspapers—you ought to court-martial him.”
“And will that make him a better soldier?”
Longstreet paused. He said, “All right. What will?”
“Reproach, I think. I must let him know how badly he has let us down.”
Longstreet chuckled. He shook his head, gazing at Lee. “Yes, by George. Maybe. Reproach from you. Yes.” Longstreet grinned widely. “Might do the job. But me … I’m no good at that.”
“Different men, different methods. Docile men make very poor soldiers.”
Longstreet grinned wryly. “An army of temperamentals. It isn’t an army, it’s a gentlemen’s club. My God. Remember when old Powell Hill wanted to fight me a duel, right in the middle of the war?”
“And you ignored him. You did exactly right.”
“Yep. He might have shot me.”
Lee smiled. His heart rolled again, a soft sudden thump, leaving him breathless. Longstreet was grinning, staring off toward the road, did not notice. Lee said, “One new item. I have confirmed some of your man Harrison’s information. The new commander is definitely George Meade, not Reynolds. The news is carried in the local newspapers.”
Longstreet reached inside his coat, extracted a fat cigar.
“You can trust my man, I think. I sent him into Gettysburg last night. He said he saw two brigades of Union cavalry there.”
“Last night?”
“I sent you a report.”
Lee felt a tightening in his chest. He put his hand to his arm. He said slowly, “General Hill reports only militia.”
“It’s cavalry, I think.” Longstreet chewed, spat.
Where there is cavalry there will be infantry close behind.
“Whose troops?”
“John Buford.”
Longstreet meditated.
“Meade’s coming fast. Looks like he’s trying to get behind us.”
“Yes.” Lee thought: the direction does not matter. Fight him wherever he is. Lee said, “We have an opportunity.”
Longstreet chewed, nodded, grinned. “Yep. Objective was to get him out of Washington and in the open. Now he’s out. Now all we have to do is swing round between him and Washington and get astride some nice thick rocks and make him come to us, and we’ve got him in the open.”
Take the defensive. Not again. Lee shook his head. He pointed to Gettysburg.
“He has been forcing the march. The weather