The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [47]
He waited in the grove, listening to the enormous sound of war. Eventually he sat, resting himself against the bole of a tree. It was dark and cool back in here out of the sun. Men were dying up ahead. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, felt his life beating in his chest. The fight went on. Lee thought for the first time that day of his son, Rooney, wounded, lying not far from here. He closed his eyes, prayed for his boy, for all of them. He put his hand down on black dirt, was reminded: Pennsylvania. I am the invader.
Once more the Rebel yell—inhuman screaming of the onrushing dead. Another unit was going. He rose and went forward, trying to see, but no point in that. There was too much smoke. Yet it might help if he was seen. He moved up out of the grove of trees, onto the road. The road ahead was crowded with wounded. There were men lying under wagons, out of the sun, most of them semi-naked, covered with bandages, blood. He saw another dead horse, a splintered wagon; the severed forefoot of a horse lay near him in gray dust. Smoke was pouring down the road as from a great furnace. He moved forward; his staff followed him. Here was A. P. Hill.
Hill said, white-faced, “Very hard going. Heth is down.”
Lee looked at him, waiting.
“Wounded in the head. I don’t know how serious. But the division is moving. Pender is on the flank. But the Yankees are fighting well. I don’t recall them fighting this well before.”
Hill seemed peculiarly calm, vacant, as if he was not wholly present. He was a handsome man who had a great deal of money but was not “society” and was overly aware of it and very touchy about it.
Lee said, “Let me know General Heth’s condition as soon as possible.”
Lee sat down against a rail fence. A band came by, playing an incoherent song, fifes and bugles. The sky was overcast with blowing white smoke, the smell of hot guns, of blasted earth, the sweet smell of splintery trees. Lee was in the way, in the road; men were gathering around him, calling to him. He saw a house, an empty front porch. He moved toward that way and stared down toward the smoke. Firing was intense. He sent couriers to Early and Rodes to advise them of his new headquarters and to ask for progress. He had no idea of the whereabouts of Ewell, who was supposed to be in command over there and who probably knew less of what was happening than Lee did. Longstreet was right: command was too loose. But no time for that now.
A courier from Early: The enemy was falling back. Lee could hear an officer near him erupt in a high scream. “They’re runnin’, Great God Amighty, they’re runnin’!”
Lee looked down the smoky street, saw a man helping another man along the road, saw masses of men moving vaguely through a field, saw flashes of artillery. The fire seemed to be slowing down. There were many men yelling. A lieutenant came down the road, pointing back toward the smoke, yelling wildly that someone was hurt.
A. P. Hill said, at Lee’s elbow, “General Heth’s surgeon has examined him, sir. He says he ought to be all right, but he will be out of action for a while.”
“Where is he?”
“In a house over this way.” Hill pointed.
“You will take good care of him, of course. And, General, see to yourself. You can do no more good now. I want you to rest.”
Hill said softly, calmly, vacantly, “I’m fine, General, just fine.”
But he looked as if he were about to faint. Lee was thinking: if Longstreet were only here. How many in the Union Army? If the First Corps is here and the Eleventh, the rest must not be far behind. He heard more men yelling. In the