Lee came out of the mists. He was tall and gray on that marvelous horse, riding majestically forward in the gray light of morning outlined against the sky, the staff all around him and behind him, Lee alone in the center, larger than them all, erect, soldierly, gazing eastward toward the enemy line. He rode up, saluted grandly. Longstreet rose. Lee rested both hands on the pommel of his saddle. The mist thickened and blew between them; there was a ghostly quality in the look of him, of all his staff, ghost riders out of the past, sabers clanking, horses breathing thick and heavy in thick dank air.
Lee said, “General, good morning.”
Longstreet offered him coffee. Lee declined. He said, “If you will mount up, General, I would like to ride over in that direction—” he gestured eastward “—some little way.”
Longstreet called for his horse, mounted. He said, “I’ve had scouts out all night, General. I know the terrain now.”
Lee said nothing. They rode toward the high ground, an opening in the trees. Longstreet looked out across a flat field of mist, fence posts, a ridge of stone black against the soft white flow of mist, then across the road and up the long rise toward the Union defenses, high out of the mist, fires burning, black cannon in plain view.
Longstreet said again, “Sir, I’ve discovered a way south that seems promising. If we would move—”
“General, the enemy is there—” Lee lifted his arm, pointed up the ridge in a massive gesture “—and there’s where I’m going to strike him.”
He turned and looked back at Longstreet for one long moment, straight into his eyes, fixing Longstreet with the black stare, the eyes of the General, and then turned away. Longstreet drew his head in, like a turtle.
Lee said slowly, face to the east, “The situation is basically unchanged. But you have Pickett now, and he is fresh. I want you to move your corps forward and take those heights, in the center, and split the Union line.”
Longstreet took a deep breath. Lee said, “I have sent word to Ewell. He is to attack when you do, keeping the enemy pinned on that flank. Yours will be the main effort. Hill will be the reserve. You will have all our artillery preceding you, fixed on that one point. A pont au feu.”
He was watching Longstreet’s face, gazing at him without expression, the eyes set far back under white brows, dark, touched with the cool light of the morning. Longstreet said, “Sir.” He shook his head, groping for words. Lee waited.
“Sir, there are some things I must say.”
Lee nodded, again without expression, immobile. The staff had moved back; the two generals were alone. Longstreet said, “Sir. My two divisions, Hood and McLaws, lost almost half their strength yesterday. Do you expect me to attack again that same high ground which they could not take yesterday at full strength? With so many officers lost? Including Sam Hood?”
Lee was expressionless. The eyes were black and still.
Longstreet said, “Sir, there are now three Union corps on those rocky hills, on our flank. If I move my people forward we’ll have no flank at all; they’ll simply swing around and crush us. There are thirty thousand men on those heights to our right. Cavalry is moving out on my flank now. If I move Hood and McLaws, the whole rear of this army is open.”
Lee’s head shifted slightly, imperceptibly; his eyes shifted. He had been set, now he turned, looked away, looked down at the ground, then east again.
After a moment he said, “You say there is cavalry moving on your right? In what force?”
“Two brigades, at least.”
“You have that from Goree?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee nodded. “Goree is accurate,” he said. He sat pondering.
“General,” Longstreet said slowly, “it is my considered opinion that a frontal assault here would be a disaster.”
Lee turned, frowned; the dark eyes flared for a moment. But he said nothing. Longstreet thought: I do not want to hurt this man. He said slowly, “They are well entrenched, they mean to fight. They have good artillery and plenty of it. Any attack will be uphill over open ground. General, this is a bad position. Have you ever seen a worse position? Here we are in a long line, spread all around them, a line five miles long. How can we coordinate an attack? They’re massed all together, damn near in a circle. Anywhere we hit them they can bring reinforcements in a matter of minutes. And they can move up reinforcement behind those hills, out of sight of our cannon. But if we try to move in support it has to come from miles off, and their cannon can see every move. Hell, their cannon are looking down at us right now. General Lee, sir, this is not a good position.”
Lee said, “They will break.”
He said it very softly. Longstreet barely heard him. “Sir? Sir?”
“They will break,” Lee repeated. “In any case, there is no alternative.”
“Sir, I do not think so.”
I am making him angry. Lee turned and looked at him, but there was a difference in the face now; the weariness was suddenly apparent. The old man had lost control for a moment and the pain was there; the exhaustion dulled the eyes. Longstreet felt a surge of emotion. He wanted to reach out and touch the old man, but that was impossible. You could not show affection here, no place for it here, too many men will die, must think clearly, but all the while he felt an icy despair, a cold dead place like dead skin. And then the guns began, cannon booming off to the left, where Ewell was. Longstreet swung in his saddle, saw A. P. Hill coming up, chatting with Pickett, and heads all turning at the sound of the guns. And now Lee’s face was aflame. An anger Longstreet had never seen before contorted the old man’s face. He pulled his horse savagely, almost snarled.
“What is Ewell up to? In God’s name, can he follow no order at all?”
Lee galloped off to the left. Longstreet remained behind. Pickett came up, good cheer in his eye, babbling that his boys had been up for hours, and what was the plan? Longstreet said: nothing, and they recognized the mood and left him alone. Fits of weariness began to pass over Longstreet, as clouds pass over and dull the heat.
Colonel Marshall came back, from Lee. The word was that the Federals had opened an attack on Ewell, just as he was getting set. So. At least Ewell hadn’t gone off half cocked. No. But what does Lee expect? How can we coordinate across all these miles? And now Meade is attacking. Good, very good. Meade begins to stir himself. Now that’s excellent indeed. Given a bit of luck now, we can lure him down out of those damned bloody rocks. He’s moving on my flank now. Good, very good. Let him come, let him come, and then when his arm is out far enough, when his nose is extended, I will chop it off with a chop they’ll feel in London.
Lee was coming back. The sun was beginning to break through, the mist was rising. Lee rode slowly up, slouched a bit, no longer quite so trim. He smiled a haggard smile. Longstreet thought: He got mad at Ewell, now he’s embarrassed.
Lee said, “No need for hurry now. General Ewell is engaged. General Meade has made a move. I must confess, I did not expect it.” He pointed. “We’ll ride forward.”
They moved out toward the lines. Lee was thinking; Longstreet kept silent. The heat came slowly, steadily. They rode down to the Emmitsburg Road, in clear view of the Union lines. There were smells flowing up from the hospital. Out in the fields the dead lay everywhere in the litter of war. Here and there surgeons were moving, burial parties. Above them, on the Union lines, a cannon thumped, the ball passed overhead, exploded in an open field among dead bodies. Two of Lee’s aides rode up, insisted that the Union gunners could see them much too clearly. They dismounted. Lee walked forward across the road into the peach orchard, where Barksdale had streamed to his death the day before. Lee cautioned Longstreet to keep his distance so that if a shot came down it would not get both of them at once. They were nearing the lines now; men began rising out of the ground, ragged apparitions. The aides quieted cheering, which would draw Union fire. The men stood awe-stricken, hats in their hands, whispering kind words, words of hope, words of joy. Longstreet looked into lean you
ng grinning faces, bloodstained clothes, saw bodies bloated in the fields, dead horses everywhere. Ewell’s fight in the north was stiffer, but down here the sound was softened; the wind was in the south, blowing toward the battle, blowing up between the lines. They were walking now in Wofford’s line. Wofford came out to greet General Lee.
Wofford’s Brigade had pushed up the ridge almost to the top the day before. Lee listened to him tell of it, then Lee said, “General, you went up there yesterday. Surely you can do it again.”
“No, General, I think not,” Wofford said. He seemed embarrassed to say it.
Lee said, “Why not?”
“Because yesterday we were chasing a broken enemy. They’ve been heavily reinforced. They’ve had all night to entrench. And my boys … lost many friends yesterday.”
Lee said nothing. Longstreet saw him clamp his jaw. He was walking slowly, hands clasped behind him. He said suddenly, “Well, but Pickett is here. And Stuart. Don’t forget Stuart.”
A sharpshooter’s bullet shirred by overhead. Longstreet looked for it curiously. Shooting downhill, snipers always overshoot. They were moving into the front of the line, the bloody wheat field. Longstreet saw a battery being moved, guns being pulled back. He saw young Porter Alexander, his chief of artillery, in personal supervision. Good, he thought absently, very good, Alexander is seeing to it himself. The technical commander was Parson Pendleton, but Pendleton was a fool. There was high ground at the peach orchard. Alexander was posting some Napoleons there, waved as he rode by. Lee saw, approved wordlessly. He took his hat off, gazing upward at the long rise toward Cemetery Ridge. The sun gleamed on his white hair, the dark ridge along the brow line where the hat had pressed the hair down. Longstreet thought: he was not all that white-haired a year ago. He remembered yesterday: “I’ll tell you a secret: I’m an old man.”
I wish we could take the hill. Could flood right on over it and end the war, wipe them all away in one great motion. But we can’t. No matter how much I wish … or trust in God …
Lee turned back. His face was again composed; he put the soft black hat back on his head. He called an aide: Venable, then Taylor. Longstreet waited to the side. Soldiers were drifting up to stand happily by, gazing with paternal affection at Lee, at Longstreet.
“Mornin’ to ya, General. You look pert this mornin’, sir.”
“General, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I’d like to complain about the food, sir.”
“We’s back in the Union now, General.”
They were ready. That superb morale. Lee touched his hat to the men. They moved away from the line. The sun broke through at last and poured heat on the roadway; the mist was gone. A rider came up from Hood’s division, commanded now by General Law. Law reported Union cavalry moving in force across his flank, suggested strengthening his line with Robertson’s brigade. Longstreet agreed, Lee listening silently. Then they rode back toward the ridge where Pickett’s men waited.
Ewell’s fight was going on. They could see smoke blowing now across the top of the hill. Ewell reported that Johnson was being compelled to fall back from the trenches he had won the night before. Lee sat alone for a while, Longstreet a small way away. A slowly growing swarm of aides and other officers, reporters, foreigners, musicians, began gathering a respectful distance away. A band began playing “That Bonny Blue Flag,” in Lee’s honor. Skirmish firing broke out in the fields below Seminary Ridge; musketry popped in patches of white smoke as the lines felt and probed.
At last Lee turned, summoned Longstreet. Longstreet came up. Lee said, “General, we will attack the center.”
He paused. Longstreet took a long breath, let it go.
“You will have Pickett’s division. But I think you are right about the flank. Leave Hood and McLaws where they are. I will give you Heth’s division. It was not engaged yesterday. And Pender’s.”
Longstreet nodded.
“You will have three divisions. Your objective will be that clump of trees … there.”
He pointed. The center of the Union line, the center of the ridge. The clump of trees was clear, isolated. In the center of the clump was one large tree shaped like an umbrella. Unmistakable. Longstreet nodded, listened, tried not to think.
“Your attack will be preceded by massed artillery fire. A feu d’enfer. We will concentrate all our guns on that small area. When the artillery has had its effect, your charge will break the line. The rest of Hill’s people will be waiting. Stuart has already gone round to the rear.”
Lee turned. Now the excitement was in his eyes. He leaned forward, gazing at Longstreet, hoping to strike fire, but Longstreet said nothing, stood listening, head bowed.
Lee said, “Those three divisions … will give you fifteen thousand men.”
Longstreet said, “Yes, sir.” He stared at the ridge. He said suddenly, “Hancock is up there.”
Lee nodded. “Yes, that’s the Second Corps.”
Longstreet said, “Hard on Armistead.”
Lee said, “You can begin at any time. But plan it well, plan it well. We stake everything on this.”
“Sir?” Longstreet thought: I can’t. “Sir,” Longstreet said, “you are giving me two of Hill’s divisions, only one of mine. Most of the troops will be Hill’s. Wouldn’t it be better to give the attack to Hill?”
Lee shook his head. He said, “General, I want you to make this attack.” Longstreet took another deep breath. Lee said, “General, I need you.”
Longstreet said, “Sir, with your permission.”
Lee waited. Longstreet spoke and did not want to look him in the face, but did, spoke looking at the weary face, the ancient eyes, the old man who was more than father of the army, symbol of war. “Sir, I have been a soldier all my life. I have served from the ranks on up. You know my service. I have to tell you now, sir, that I believe this attack will fail. I believe that no fifteen thousand men ever set for battle could take that hill, sir.”
Lee raised a hand. Longstreet had seen the anger before, had never seen it turned toward him. It was as if Longstreet was betraying him. But Longstreet went on: “It is a distance of more than a mile. Over open ground. As soon as we leave the trees we will be under the fire of their artillery. From all over the field. At the top of the hill are Hancock’s boys—”
Lee said, “That’s enough.”
He turned away. He called Taylor. For a long moment Longstreet thought: he is relieving me. But Lee was sending for someone. Longstreet thought: he should relieve me. He should give it to A. P. Hill. But he knew Hill could not take it, no one could take it; there was no one else Lee could rely on, nothing else to do. It was all set and fated like the coming of the bloody heat, the damned rising of the damned sun, and nothing to do, no way to prevent it, my weary old man, God help us, what are you doing?
Not thinking clearly anymore, Longstreet composed himself. Lee came back. Lee said calmly, “General, do you have any question?”
Longstreet shook his head. Lee came to him, touched his arm.
“General, we all do our duty. We do what we have to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Longstreet said, not looking at him.
“Alexander is handling the artillery. He is very good. We will rely on him to break them up before Pickett gets there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Heth is still too ill for action. I am giving his division to Johnston Pettigrew. Is that satisfactory to you?”
Longstreet nodded.
“Pender is out of action, too. Who would you suggest for the command there?”
Longstreet could not think. He said, “Anyone you choose.”
“Well,” Lee meditated. “How about Isaac Trimble? No one in the army has more fight in him than Trimble.”
“Yes,” Longstreet said.
“Good. Then that’s agreed. Pettigrew, Pickett, and Trimble. The new commanders won’t really matter, in an attack of this kind. The men will know where to go.”
He went over the plan again. He wanted to be certain,
this day, that it all went well, laying it all out like the tracks of a railroad. He was confident, excited, the blood was up. He thought the army could do anything. Longstreet felt the weariness, the heat of the day. The objective was clear. All fifteen thousand men would concentrate, finally, on a small stone wall perhaps a hundred yards wide. They might break through. It was possible.
Lee said, “The line there is not strong. Meade has strengthened both his flanks; he must be weak in the center. I estimate his strength in the center at not much more than five thousand men. The artillery barrage will upset them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you need? Take whatever time you need.”
“I have always been slow,” Longstreet said.
“There is no one I trust more.”
“If the line can be broken …” Longstreet said.
“It can. It will.” Lee paused, smiled.
“If it can be done, those boys will do it.” Longstreet moved back formally, saluted.
Lee returned the salute, tall, erect, radiating faith and confidence. He said slowly, the voice of the father, “General Longstreet, God go with you.”
Longstreet rode off to summon his staff.
What was needed now was control, absolute control. Lee was right about that: a man who could not control himself had no right to command an army. They must not know my doubts, they must not. So I will send them all forward and say nothing, absolutely nothing, except what must be said. But he looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Control took a few moments. He was not sure he could do it. There had never been anything like this in his life before. But here was Pickett, wide-eyed, curious, long hair ringed and combed, mounted on a black horse, under a great tree.
Longstreet told him the orders. Pickett whooped with joy. Longstreet let him go off to form his troops. He looked at his watch: not yet noon. It would be some time yet. He sent for the other officers, for Porter Alexander. The fight on the far left was dying; Ewell was done. There would be no support there. He felt a moment of curious suspension, as when you have been awake for a long time you have certain moments of unreality, of numbness, of the beginning of sleep. It passed. He heard cannon fire to the left, closer. A. P. Hill was shooting at something. Alexander rode up: a young man, nondescript face but very capable. He was excited, hatless. He apologized for the loss of the hat.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 85