The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [62]
He wiped his face. It was all out of him. The fire died. He slumped forward in the saddle.
“General, sir, I request another assignment.”
Lee said softly, “Thank you, General. You will be of great service, thank you.”
Now that Trimble was quieter Lee could question him. Dick Ewell had frozen; he had deferred to Early. Lee thought: I must look into this. He told Trimble to rest and he rode back to his headquarters in the dark. He was becoming increasingly tired, but there was much to do. Food. Get some fuel. The ancient body had no reserve. His chest was stuffed, a feeling of cool bleakness there, no strength in him. He thought of that and of Stuart off somewhere, possibly dead, and of Ewell’s weakness and Hill’s illness and the Union Army growing now in the night on that hill, blossoming darkly across the field like a fungus, a bristly fungus.
The headquarters was in a small stone house on Seminary Ridge. An elderly woman, the resident, was cooking for him. Lee chatted with her politely, his mind on other things, while aides came and went, generals pushed in and out, reporters and artists and the Prussian and the Austrian passed in and out. There was a rocking chair for Lee; it received him like an enfolding arm. Taylor appeared with a squad of men, led by a man named Watters, a Marylander. Now late at night it was becoming difficult to recognize people, to remember their names. Lee prepared sealed orders to be given to each of Watters’ men; they were to scatter out over the countryside and find Stuart and get him back to Gettysburg with all possible speed. When that was done Lee looked for Longstreet, but the stubborn face was not there. Lee closed his eyes. The uproar of jokes and joy went on around him. Must see Ewell now, without Early. He motioned to Marshall, sent for Ewell. The room gradually cleared. Lee signed orders. I do too much myself. He was thinking: Retreat is not even an option; we must assault or maneuver. If we assault, Longstreet must bear the load.
Lee took a quick nap. He was awakened by the arrival of Ewell. He rose and went out into the night. The strange beaked figure waited with deference. Lee said, “How are you, sir?”
“I am fine, sir. The leg troubles me a bit.”
Lee suggested a doctor. Ewell shook his head. “Drugs injure a man’s thinking. The leg is minor. Sir?”
“Johnson’s men are in position now. He is very optimistic; much more than Early. I believe we ought to attack there, sir.”
“Attack the hill?”
“Yes, sir. Culp’s Hill or Cemetery Hill, or both, sir.”
There was a new certainty in his voice. Lee was very glad to hear it. A small relief blossomed like a flower. Lee said only, “I have made no decision yet. But in your opinion, we should attack on your flank.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee nodded. “I will consider it. I am glad to hear you are well.”
“General,” Ewell said. His face was not clear in the evening light, the lamplight from inside, the moon from the heavens, but there was a sadness in his voice, regret apparent in the motion of his head, the beak above the wild mustache bobbing. “I think I was too slow today, sir. I regret that very much. I was trying to be … careful. I may have been too careful.”
Lee was moved. My good old soldier. He was embarrassed. He said quickly, “You won a victory, General.” Ewell looked up. His eyes were strained. “It was not a large victory, it might have been