But the men marched believing they were behind McClellan. He was the only general Chamberlain had ever seen who was truly loved. The Rebs loved Lee, no doubt of that. And we loved Mac. Chamberlain thought: Two things an officer must do, to lead men. This from old Ames, who never cared about love: You must care for your men’s welfare. You must show physical courage.
Well, Chamberlain thought, there’s no McClellan. There’s only Meade, whom none of these people know, let alone like, and he’ll be cautious. So I’ve taken care, as best I can, of their welfare. Now tomorrow we’ll see about the courage.
Now there were the wounded, the stragglers. Men limped back, sat out in the fields making fires, sulked along eastward, out in the dark. Now there were rumors: a terrible defeat, someone had blundered, two hundred thousand Rebs, the Eleventh Corps had deserted. Chamberlain ordered his men to close up and keep moving and not to talk. Damn the rumors. You never knew what was true until days or weeks or even months afterward. He called close up, close up, first order he had given since morning, and then shortly after that the order came to stop, at last.
It was almost midnight. There were clouds again and it was very dark, but Chamberlain could see a hill in front of him and masses of troops and tents ahead. The 20th Maine went off the road and most went to sleep without fires, some without pitching tents, for the night was warm and without a wind. Chamberlain asked a passing courier: How far to Gettysburg? and the man pointed back over his shoulder. You’re there, Colonel, you’re there.
Chamberlain lay down to rest. It was just after midnight. He wondered if McClellan would really be back. He prayed for a leader. For his boys.
5.
LONGSTREET
He rode out of Gettysburg just after dark. His headquarters were back on the Cashtown Road, and so he rode back over the battlefield of the day. His staff recognized his mood and left him discreetly alone. He was riding slumped forward, head down, hat over his eyes. One by one they left him, moving ahead, cheering up when they were out of his company. He passed a hospital wagon, saw mounded limbs glowing whitely in the dark, a pile of legs, another of arms. It looked like masses of fat white spiders. He stopped in the road and lighted a cigar, looking around him at the tents and the wagons, listening to the rumble and music of the army in the night. There were a few groans, dead sounds from dying earth, most of them soft and low. There was a fire far off, a large fire in a grove of trees, men outlined against a great glare; a band was playing something discordant, unrecognizable. A dog passed him, trotted through the light of an open tent flap, paused, looked, inspected the ground, padded silently into the dark. Fragments of cloth, trees, chewed bits of paper littered the road. Longstreet took it all in, began to move on. He passed a black mound which seemed strange in the dark: lumpy, misshapen. He rode over and saw: dead horses. He rode away from the field, toward higher ground.
Lee would attack in the morning. Clear enough. Time and place not yet set. But he will attack. Fixed and unturnable, a runaway horse. Longstreet felt a depression so profound it deadened him. Gazing back on that black hill above Gettysburg, that high lighted hill already speckled with fires among the gravestones, he smelled disaster like distant rain.
It was Longstreet’s curse to see the thing clearly. He was a brilliant man who was slow in speech and slow to move and silent-faced as stone. He had not the power to convince. He sat on the horse, turning his mind away, willing it away as a gun barrel swivels, and then he thought of his children, powerless to stop that vision. It blossomed: a black picture. She stood in the doorway: The boy is dead. She didn’t even say his name. She didn’t even cry.
Longstreet took a long deep breath. In the winter the fever had come to Richmond. In a week they were dead. All within a week, all three. He saw the sweet faces: moment of enormous pain. The thing had pushed him out of his mind, insane, but no one knew it. They looked at the plain blunt stubborn face and saw nothing but dull Dutch eyes, the great darkness, the silence. He had not thought God would do a thing like that. He went to church and asked and there was no answer. He got down on his knees and pleaded but there was no answer. She kept standing in the door: The boy is dead. And he could not even help her, could say nothing, could not move, could not even take her into his arms. Nothing to give. One strength he did not have. Oh God: My boy is dead.
He had tears in his eyes. Turn away from that. He mastered it. What he had left was the army. The boys were here. He even had the father, in place of God: old Robert Lee. Rest with that, abide with that.
His aides were all gone, all but two. Goree hung back from him in the growing dark. He rode on alone, silently, Goree trailing like a hunting dog, and met one of his surgeons coming up from camp: J. S. D. Cullen, delighted, having heard of the great victory, and Longstreet succeeded in depressing him, and Cullen departed. Longstreet lectured himself: depression is contagious; keep it to yourself. He needed something to cheer him, turned to two men behind him, found there was only one, not an aide, the Englishman: Fremantle. Exactly what he needed. Longstreet drew up to wait.
The Englishman came pleasantly, slowly forward. He was the kind of breezy, cheery man who brings humor with his presence. He was wearing the same tall gray hat and the remarkable coat. He said cheerily, tapping the great hat, “Don’t mean to intrude upon your thoughts, General.”
“Not ’t’all,” Longstreet said.
“Really, sir, if you’d rather ride alone …”
“Good to see you,” Longstreet said.
The Englishman rode up grinning broadly through widely spaced teeth. He had entered the country by way of Mexico, riding in a wagon drawn by a tobacco-chewing man who had turned out to be, in his spare time, the local judge. Fremantle had seen many interesting things: a casual hanging, raw floods, great fires. He was continually amazed at the combination of raw earth and rough people, white columned houses and traces of English manner. He had not gotten used to the crude habit of shaking hands which was common among these people, but he forced himself. He was enjoying himself hugely. He had not changed his clothes in some days and he looked delightfully disreputable, yet mannered and cool and light in the saddle. Longstreet grinned again.
“Did you get a chance to see anything?”
“Well, as a matter of fact I did. I found rather a large tree and Lawley and I sat out in the open and there was quite a show. Lovely, oh lovely.”
“You didn’t happen to see a cavalry charge?” Stuart: not yet returned.
“Not a one,” Fremantle gloomed. “Nor a hollow square. You know, sir, we really ought to discuss that at length on some occasion. Provided this war lasts long enough, which most people seem to think it won’t. You fellows seem to do well enough without it, I must say. But still, one likes to feel a certain security in these matters, which the square gives, do you see? One likes to know, that is, where everyone is, at given moments. Ah, but then—” he took a deep breath, tapped his chest “—there’s always tomorrow. I gather you expect a bit of an adventure tomorrow.”
Longstreet nodded.
“Well, I shall try to find a position of advantage. I will appreciate your advice, although of course if I’m ever in the way at all, you must feel free, I mean, one must not hamper operations. Don’t spare my feelings, sir. But if you’ll tell me where to stand.”
“I will.”
Fremantle whacked a mosquito. “Another victory today. When I am clear about it all I shall write it down. Expect you chaps are getting rather used to victory, what? Damn!” He swatted another bug. “Must say, enormously impressive, this army. Yet the Federal fellas just keep on coming. Curious. I have a bit of difficulty, you know, understanding exactly why. Some time when there’s time … but the war is ending, of course. I can feel that myself. That is the message I shall transmit to my people. No doubt of it.”
He eyed Longstreet. Longstreet said nothing.
“Your General Lee is a wonder.”
“Yes,” Longstreet said.
“A thing one rarely
sees.” Fremantle paused. “Remarkable,” he said. He was about to say something else but changed his mind.
“He holds this army together,” Longstreet said.
“Strordnry dignity.”
“Strordnry.”
“I mean, one does not expect it. No offense, sir? But your General Lee is an English general, sir. Strordnry. He has gained some reputation, sir, as of course you know, but there is a tendency in Europe to, ah, think of Americans as, ah, somewhat behind the times, sometimes what, ah, how do I say this? One is on tricky ground here, but, sir, of course you understand, there are these cultural differences, a new land and all that. Yet, what I mean to say is, one did not expect General Lee.”
“To be a gentleman,” Longstreet said.
Fremantle squinted. After a moment he nodded. Longstreet was not offended. Fremantle said wonderingly, “Sir, you cannot imagine the surprise. One hears all these stories of Indians and massacres and lean backwoodsmen with ten-foot rifles and rain dances and what not, and yet here, your officers …” He shook his head. “Strordnry. Why, do you know, your General Lee is even a member of the Church of England?”
“True.”
“He has great forbears.”
“Yes,” Longstreet said.
“I have noticed, sir, that you are always in camp near him. I must say, sir, that I am touched.”
“Well,” Longstreet said.
“Ah.” Fremantle sighed. “We have so many things in common, your country and mine. I earnestly hope we shall become allies. Yet I feel you do not need us. But I must say, I am increasingly indebted to you for your hospitality.”
“Our pleasure.”
“Ah. Um.” Fremantle cocked his head again. “One thing I’m very glad to see. Your General Lee is a moralist, as are all true gentlemen, of course, but he respects minor vice, harmless vice, when he finds it in others. Now that’s the mark of the true gentleman. That is what distinguishes the man so to me, aside from his military prowess, of course. The true gentleman has no vices, but he allows you your own. Ah.” He patted a saddlebag. “By which I mean, sir, to get to the heart of the matter, that I have a flagon of brandy at your disposal, should the occasion arise.”
“It undoubtedly will.” Longstreet bowed. “Thank you.”
“You may call on me, sir.”
Longstreet smiled.
“A small weakness,” Fremantle went on cheerily, “of which I am not proud, you understand. But one sees so little whisky in this army. Amazing.”
“Lee’s example. Jackson didn’t drink either. Nor does Stuart.”
Fremantle shook his head in wonder. “Oh, by the way, there’s a story going around, do you know? They say that General Lee was asleep, and the army was marching by, and fifteen thousand men went by on tiptoe so as not to wake him. Is that true?”
“Might have been.” Longstreet chuckled. “I know one that I heard myself. While ago we sat around a fire, talked on Darwin. Evolution. You read about it?”
“Ah?”
“Charles Darwin. Theory of Evolution.”
“Can’t say that I have. There are so many of these things rattling about.”
“Theory that claims that men are descended from apes.”
“Oh that. Oh yes. Well, I’ve heard—distastefully—of that.”
“Well, we were talking on that. Finally agreed that Darwin was probably right. Then one fella said, with great dignity he said, ‘Well, maybe you are come from an ape, and maybe I am come from an ape, but General Lee, he didn’t come from no ape.’ ”
“Well, of course.” Fremantle did not quite see the humor. Longstreet grinned into the dark.
“It is a Christian army,” Longstreet said. “You did not know Jackson.”
“No. It was my great misfortune to arrive after his death. They tell great things of him.”
“He was colorful,” Longstreet said. “He was Christian.”
“His reputation exceeds that of Lee.”
“Well, pay no attention to that. But he was a good soldier. He could move troops. He knew how to hate.” Longstreet thought: a good Christian. He remembered suddenly the day Jackson had come upon some of his troops letting a valiant Yankee color sergeant withdraw after a great fight. The men refused to fire at him, that man had been brave, he deserved to live. Jackson said, “I don’t want them brave, I want them dead.”
“They tell many stories of the man. I regret not having known him.”
“He loved to chew lemons,” Longstreet said.
“Lemons?”
“Don’t know where he got them. He loved them. I remember him that way, sitting on a fence, chewing a lemon, his finger in the air.”
Fremantle stared.
“He had a finger shot away,” Longstreet explained. “When he held it down the blood would get into it and hurt him, so he would hold it up in the air and ride or talk with his arm held up, not noticing it. It was a sight, until you got used to it. Dick Ewell thought he was crazy. Ewell is rather odd himself. He told me Jackson told him that he never ate pepper because it weakened his left leg.”
Fremantle’s mouth was open.
“I’m serious,” Longstreet said amiably. “A little eccentricity is a help to a general. It helps with the newspapers. The women love it too. Southern women like their men religious and a little mad. That’s why they fall in love with preachers.”
Fremantle was not following. Longstreet said, “He knew how to fight, Jackson did. A. P. Hill is good too. He wears a red shirt when he’s going into battle. It’s an interesting army. You’ve met George Pickett?”
“Oh yes.”
“Perfume and all.” Longstreet chuckled. “It’s a hell of an army.” But thinking of Pickett, last in line, reminded him of Pickett’s two brigade commanders: Garnett and Armistead. Old Armistead, torn by the war away from his beloved friend Win Hancock, who was undoubtedly waiting ahead on that black hill beyond Gettysburg. Armistead would be thinking of that tonight. And then there was Dick Garnett.
“Pickett’s men are extraordinary men,” Fremantle said. “The Virginians seem different, quite, from the Texans, or the soldiers from Mississippi. Is that true, do you think, sir?”
“Yes. Have you met Dick Garnett?”
“Ah, yes. Tall fella, rather dark. Wounded leg. Odd that …”
“Jackson tried to court-martial him. For cowardice in the face of the enemy. I’ve known Garnett for twenty years. No coward. But his honor is gone. You will hear bad things from people who know nothing. I want you to know the truth. Jackson was … a hard man.”
Fremantle nodded silently.
“He also court-martialed A. P. Hill once. And Lee simply overlooked it. Well, come to think of it, I had some trouble with old Powell myself once; he wanted to fight me a duel. Matter of honor. I ignored him. It’s an interesting army. Only Lee could hold it together. But the thing about Garnett troubles me. He thinks his honor is gone.”
“A tragic thing,” Fremantle said. There was tact there, a tone of caution.
“The papers, of course, all side with Jackson.” Longstreet blew out a breath. “And Jackson is dead. So now Garnett will have to die bravely to erase the stain.”
And he saw that Fremantle agreed. Only thing for a gentleman to do. Longstreet shook his head. A weary bitterness fogged his brain. He knew Garnett would die, no help for it now, unturnable, ridiculous, doomed with a festering, unseen wound.
Fremantle said, “You are not, ah, Virginia born, sir?”
“South Carolina,” Longstreet said.
“Ah. That’s in the far south isn’t it, sir?”
“True,” Longstreet said. He was weary of talk. “Honor,” he said. “Honor without intelligence is a disaster. Honor could lose the war.”
Fremantle was vaguely shocked.
“Sir?”
“Listen. Let me tell you something. I appreciate honor and bravery and courage. Before God … but the point of the war is not to show how brave you are and how you can die in a manly f
ashion, face to the enemy. God knows it’s easy to die. Anybody can die.”
In the darkness he could not see Fremantle’s face. He talked to darkness.
“Let me explain this. Try to see this. When we were all young, they fought in a simple way. They faced each other out in the open, usually across a field. One side came running. The other got one shot in, from a close distance, because the rifle wasn’t very good at a distance, because it wasn’t a rifle. Then after that one shot they hit together hand to hand, or sword to sword, and the cavalry would ride in from one angle or another. That’s the truth, isn’t it? In the old days they fought from a distance with bows and arrows and ran at each other, man to man, with swords. But now, listen, now it’s quite a bit different, and quite a few people don’t seem to know that yet. But we’re learning. Look. Right now, take a man with a good rifle, a good man with a good rifle which has a good range and may even be a repeater. He can kill at, oh, conservatively, two, three hundred yards shooting into the crowd attacking him. Forget the cannon. Just put one man behind a tree. You can hardly see him from two hundred yards away, but he can see you. And shoot. And shoot again. How many men do you think it will take to get to that man behind a tree, in a ditch, defended by cannon, if you have to cross an open field to get him? How many men? Well, I’ve figured it. At least three. And he’ll kill at least two. The way you do it is this: one man fires while one man is moving, and the other is loading and getting ready to move. That’s how the three men attack. There’s always one moving and one firing. That way you can do it. If you forget the cannon. But you’ll lose one man most probably on the way across the field, at least one, probably two, against a cannon you’ll lose all three, no matter what you do, and that’s across the field. Now. If you are attacking uphill …”
He broke it off. No point in talking this way to a foreigner. Might have to fight him sometime. But the man would not see. Longstreet had spoken to his own officers. They found what he said vaguely shameful. Defense? When Lee dug trenches around Richmond they called him, derisively, the King of Spades. Longstreet took a deep breath and let it go, remembering again that damned black hill, fires like eyes.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 70