The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [68]
There seemed no point in remaining in the tree. Soldiers had observed him, hanging in the air like a plump gray fruit, were beginning to point and grin. Fremantle descended with dignity, joined the other foreigners. He heard, for the first time that day, music: a polka. He listened with surprise. He could not identify the sound but he knew the beat. It was followed by a march.
Ross said, “They play even during an attack. Not very good. But inspiring. Have you heard the Rebel yell?”
Fremantle nodded. “Godawful sound. I expect they learned it from Indians.”
Ross opened wide his eyes. “Never thought of that,” he said. His silver helmet shifted. Sweat was all over his brow.
“I say, old friend, you really aren’t going to wear that thing all day, are you? In this charming climate?”
“Well,” Ross said. He tweaked his mustache. “One must be properly dressed. Teach these fellas respect.”
Fremantle nodded. Understandable. One tried to be neat. But that helmet. And Ross did tend to look a bit ridiculous. Like some sort of fat plumed duck. These chaps all looked so natural, so … earthy. Not the officers. But the troops. Hardly any uniform at all. Brown and yellow. Americans. Odd. So near, yet so far.
He saw Moxley Sorrel, walking briskly off on a mission, “corralled him,” as the Americans would put it.
Sorrel said, “We’ve sent out engineers to inspect the ground to our right. We’ll be attacking later in the day. Don’t know where yet, so you can relax, I should say, for two hours or so at least.”
“Have you heard from General Stuart?”
“Not a word. General Lee has sent out scouts to find him.” Sorrel chuckled. “Cheer up, you may have your charge.”
“I hope to have a good position today.”
“We’ll do all we can. I suggest you stay close to Longstreet. There’ll be action where he is.”
Sorrel moved off. Through the trees Fremantle saw Longstreet mounting his horse. Fremantle led his own horse that way. Longstreet had Goree with him, the aide from Texas. The greeting was friendly, even warm. Fremantle thought, startled, he likes me, and flushed with unexpected pride. He asked if he could ride with the General; Longstreet nodded. They rode down to the right, along the spine of the ridge, in under the trees. Most of Longstreet’s staff had joined them.
Longstreet said to Hood, “I’ll do what I can. His mind seems set on it.”
Hood shrugged. He seemed smaller now when you were close. He had extraordinary eyes. The eyebrows were shaggy and tilted and the eyes were dark as coal so that he seemed very sad. Fremantle had a sudden numbing thought: by evening this man could be dead. Fremantle stared at him, transfixed, trying to sense a premonition. He had never had a premonition, but he had heard of them happening, particularly on the battlefield. Men often knew when their time had come. He stared at Hood, but truthfully, except for the sadness in the eyes, which may have been only weariness, for Hood had marched all night, there was no extra sensation, nothing at all but a certain delicious air of impending combat which was with them all, Longstreet most of all, sitting round and immobile on the black horse, gazing eastward.
Hood said, “Well, if he’s right, then the war is over by sundown.”
Longstreet nodded.
“We’ll see. But going in without Pickett is like going in with one boot off. I’ll wait as long as I can.”
Hood cocked his head toward the Union lines. “Do you have any idea of the force?”
Longstreet ticked off the corps so far identified: five, counting the two involved in the first day’s action. He thought there would be more