The Killer Angels: The Classic Novel of the Civil War

by Michael Shaara

  Longstreet said softly, “You go to sleep now, Sam. Tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  “Shame not to see it.” Hood took the hand away. His eyes were dreaming, closing like small doors over a dim light. “Should have gone to the right.” He looked hazily at the hand. “You fellas try to save that now, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir, General. Now why don’t you …?”

  “Sure will miss it.” Hood’s eyes closed again; his face began smoothing toward sleep. Longstreet thought: he won’t die. Not like Jackson. There was a blackness around Jackson’s eyes. Longstreet reached down, touched Hood on the shoulder, then turned and went out into the moonlight.

  Sorrel was there, with the silent staff. Longstreet mounted, rising up into the moonlight, looking out across the pale tents at the small fires, the black silence. He heard a boy crying, pitiful childish sobs, a deeper voice beyond, soothing. Longstreet shook his head to clear the sound, closed his eyes, saw Barksdale go streaming to his death against a flaming fence in the brilliant afternoon, hair blazing out behind him like white fire. Longstreet rode up the ridge toward the darker ground under the trees. Barksdale lies under a sheet. They have not covered his face; there is a flag over him. Semmes is dead. How many others? Longstreet cleared the brain, blew away bloody images, the brilliant fence in the bright gleaming air of the afternoon, tried to catalogue the dead. Must have figures. But he was not thinking clearly. There was a rage in his brain, a bloody cloudy area like mud stirred in a pool. He was like a fighter who has been down once and is up again, hurt and in rage, looking to return the blow, looking for the opening. But it was a silent rage, a crafty rage; he was learning war. He rode purposefully, slowly off into the dark, feeling the swelling inside his chest like an unexploded bomb and in the back of his mind a vision of that gray rocky hill* all spiked with guns, massed with blue troops at the top, and he knew as certainly as he had ever known anything as a soldier that the hill could not be taken, not anymore, and a cold, metal, emotionless voice told him that coldly, calmly, speaking into his ear as if he had a companion with him utterly untouched by the rage, the war, a machine inside wholly unhurt, a metal mind that did not feel at all.

  “Sir?”

  Longstreet swiveled in the saddle: Sorrel. The man said warily, “Captain Goree is here, sir. Ah, you sent for him.”

  Longstreet looked, saw the skinny Texan, gestured. Sorrel backed off. Longstreet said, “T. J. Want you to get out to the right and scout the position. No more damn fool countermarches in the morning. Take most of the night but get it clear, get it clear. I’ve got Hood’s division posted on our right flank. Or what’s left of it. I’ve put Law in command. You need any help, you get it from Law, all right?”

  The Texan, a silent man, nodded but did not move. Longstreet said, “What’s the matter?”

  “They’re blaming us,” Goree said. His voice was squeaky, like a dry wagon wheel. He radiated anger. Longstreet stared.

  “What?”

  “I been talking to Hood’s officers. Do you know they blame us? They blame you. For today.”

  Longstreet could not see the bony face clearly, in the dark, but the voice was tight and very high, and Longstreet thought: he could be a dangerous man, out of control.

  Goree said, “You may hear of it, General. I had to hit this fella. They all said the attack was your fault and if General Lee knowed he wouldn’t have ordered it and I just couldn’t just stand there and I couldn’t say right out what I felt, so I had to hit this one fella. Pretty hard. Had to do it. Aint goin’ to apologize neither. No time. But. Thought you ought to know.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Longstreet meditated. “Well, don’t worry on it. Probably won’t hear another thing if you didn’t kill him. Probably forgotten in the morning. One thing: I want no duels. No silly damn duels.”

  “Yes, sir. Thing is, if anything bad happens now, they all blame it on you. I seen it comin’. They can’t blame General Lee. Not no more. So they all take it out on you. You got to watch yourself, General.”

  “Well,” Longstreet said. “Let it go.”

  “Yes, sir. But it aint easy. After I saw you take all morning trying to get General Lee to move to the right.”

  “Let it go, T. J. We’ll talk on it after the fight.”

  Goree moved out. There goes a damn good man. Longstreet felt the warmth of unexpected gratitude. He swung the black horse toward Lee’s headquarters back on the road to Cashtown. Time now to talk. Good long talk. Watch the anger. Careful. But it is true. The men shied from blaming Lee. The Old Man is becoming untouchable. Now more than anything else he needs the truth. But … well, it’s not his fault, not the Old Man. Longstreet jerked the horse, almost ran into Sorrel. They came out into a patch of bright moonlight. Longstreet saw: The man was hurt.

  “Major,” Longstreet said harshly. “How are you?”

  “Sir? Oh, I’m fine, sir. Juss minor problem.”

  “That’s a godawful piece of horse you’ve got there.”

  “Yes, sir. Lost the other one, sir. They shot it out from under me. It lost both legs. I was with Dearing’s battery. Hot time, sir.” Sorrel bobbed his head apologetically.

  Longstreet pointed. “What’s the trouble with the arm?”

  Sorrel shrugged, embarrassed. “Nothing much, sir. Bit painful, can’t move it. Shrapnel, sir. Hardly broke the skin. Ah, Osmun Latrobe got hit too.”

  “How bad?”

  “Just got knocked off the horse, I believe. This fighting is very hard on the horses, sir. I was hoping we could get a new supply up here, but these Yankee horses are just farm stock—too big, too slow. Man would look ridiculous on a plow horse.”

  “Well,” Longstreet grumbled vaguely. “Take care of yourself, Major. You aint the most likable man I ever met, but you sure are useful.”

  Sorrel bowed. “I appreciate your sentiments, sir. The General is a man of truth.”

  “Have you got the casualty figures yet?”

  “No, sir. I regret to say. Just preliminary reports. Indications are that losses will exceed one third.”

  Longstreet jerked his head, acknowledging.

  Sorrel said carefully, “Possibly more. The figures could go …”

  “Don’t play it down,” Longstreet said.

  “No, sir. I think that casualties were much worse in Hood’s division. Won’t have an exact count for some time. But … it appears that the Yankees put up a fight. My guess is Hood’s losses will approach fifty percent.”

  Longstreet took a deep breath, turned away. Eight thousand men? Down in two hours. His mind flicked on. Not enough left now for a major assault. No way in the world. Lee will see. Now: the facts.

  “I need a hard count, Major. As quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir. But, well, it’s not easy. The men tend to suppress the truth. I hear, for example, that Harry Heth’s division was badly hurt yesterday, but his officers did not report all the losses to General Lee because they did not want General Heth to get into trouble.”

  “I want the truth. However black. But hard facts. Soon as you can. I rely on you. Also, I want an account of artillery available, rounds remaining, type of rounds, et cetera. Got that? Get out a note to Alexander.”

  Up the road at a gallop: a handsome horseman, waving a plumed hat in the night. He reined up grandly, waved the hat in one long slow swoop, bowed halfway down off the horse—a bored sweeping cavalier’s gesture. Fairfax, another of Longstreet’s aides.

  “General Pickett’s compliments, sir. He wishes to announce his presence upon the field.”

  Longstreet stared, grunted, gave an involuntary chuckle. “Oh grand,” Longstreet said. “That’s just grand.” He turned to Sorrel. “Isn’t that grand, Major? Now, let the battle commence.” He grimaced, grunted. “Tell General Pickett I’m glad to have him here. At last.”

  Fairfax had a wide mouth: teeth gleamed in moonlight. “General Pickett is grav
ely concerned, sir. He wishes to inquire if there are any Yankees left. He says to tell you that he personally is bored and his men are very lonely.”

  Longstreet shook his head. Fairfax went on cheerily: “General Pickett reported earlier today to General Lee, while General Longstreet was engaged in the entertainment on the right flank, but General Lee said that General Pickett’s men would not be necessary in the day’s action. General Pickett instructs me to inform you that his is a sensitive nature and that his feelings are wounded and that he and his division of pale Virginians awaits you in yon field, hoping you will come tuck them in for the night and console them.”

  “Well,” Longstreet mused. “Fairfax, are you drunk?”

  “No, sir. I am quoting General Pickett’s exact words, sir. With fine accuracy, sir.”

  “Well.” Longstreet smiled once slightly, shrugged. “You can tell General Pickett I’ll be along directly.”

  Fairfax saluted, bowed, departed. Longstreet rode on into the dark. Pickett’s division: five thousand fresh men. Damn fine men. It was like being handed a bright new shiny gun. He felt stronger. Now talk to Lee. He spurred the horse and began to canter toward the lights on the Cashtown Road.

  Headquarters could be seen from a long way off, like a small city at night. The glow of it rose above the trees and shone reflected in the haze of the sky. He could begin to hear singing. Different bands sang different songs: a melody of wind. He began to pass clusters of men laughing off in the dark. They did not recognize him. He smelled whisky, tobacco, roasting meat. He came out into the open just below the seminary and he could see Headquarters field filled with smoke and light, hundreds of men, dozens of fires. He passed a circle of men watching a tall thin black boy dressed in a flowing red dress, dancing, kicking heels. There was a sutler’s store, a white wagon, a man selling a strange elixir with the high blessed chant of a preacher. He began to see civilians: important people in very good clothes, some sleek carriages, many slaves. People come up from home to see how the army was doing, to deliver a package to a son, a brother. He rode out into the light and heads began to turn and fix on him and he felt the awkward flush come over his face as eyes looked at him and knew him and fingers began to point. He rode looking straight ahead, a crowd beginning to trail out after him like the tail of a comet. A reporter yelled a question. One of the foreigners, the one with the silver helmet like an ornate chamber pot, waved an intoxicated greeting. Longstreet rode on toward the little house across the road. Music and laughter and motion everywhere: a celebration. All the faces were happy. Teeth glittered through black beards. He saw pearl stickpins, silky, satiny clothing. And there against a fence: Jeb Stuart.

  Longstreet pulled up.

  The cavalier, a beautiful man, was lounging against a fence, a white rail fence, in a circle of light, a circle of admirers. Reporters were taking notes. Stuart was dressed in soft gray with butternut braid along the arms and around the collar and lace at his throat, and the feathered hat was swept back to hang happily, boyishly from the back of the head, and curls peeked out across the wide handsome forehead. Full-bearded, to hide a weak chin, but a lovely boy, carefree, mud-spattered, obviously tired, languid, cheery, confident. He looked up at Longstreet, waved a languid hello. He gave the impression of having been up for days, in the saddle for days, and not minding it. Longstreet jerked a nod, unsmiling. He thought: we have small use for you now. But you are Lee’s problem. Longstreet slowed, not wanting to speak to Stuart. The crowd was beginning to press in around his horse, shouting congratulations. Longstreet looked from face to breathless face, amazed. Congratulations? For what? The crowd had moved in between him and Stuart. He pressed stubbornly forward toward Lee’s cottage. It was impossible to answer questions: too much noise. He wished he had not come. Ride back later, when it’s quiet. But too late to go now. One of Lee’s people, Venable, had taken the reins of his horse. Someone was yelling in an eerie wail, “Way for General Longstreet, way for the general!” And there across the crowd he saw an open space by the door of the little house, and there in the light was Lee.

  Quiet spread out from Lee. The old man stepped out into the light, came forward. Stuart swung to look. Longstreet saw men beginning to take off their hats in the old man’s presence. Lee came up to Longstreet’s horse, put out his hand, said something very soft. Longstreet took the hand. There was no strength in it. Lee was saying that he was glad to see him well, and there was that extraordinary flame in the dark eyes, concern of a loving father, that flicked all Longstreet’s defenses aside and penetrated to the lonely man within like a bright hot spear, and Longstreet nodded, grumbled, and got down from the horse. Lee said accusingly that he had heard that Longstreet had been in the front line again and that he had promised not to do that, and Longstreet, flustered by too many people staring at him, too many strangers, said, well, he’d just come by for orders.

  Lee said watchfully, smiling, “General Stuart is back.”

  The crowd opened for Jeb. He came forward with extended hand. Longstreet took it, mumbled, could not meet the younger eyes. Jeb was grinning a brilliant grin; hands were patting him on the back. Longstreet felt mulish. Damn fool. But he said nothing. Lee said that General Stuart ought to know how worried they had all been about him, and Stuart grinned like a proud child, but there was something wary in his eyes, looking at Lee, some small bit of question, and Longstreet wondered what the old man had said. Stuart said something about having seen a lot of Yankee countryside lately, and it was getting kind of dull, and slowly the noise began to grow up around them again. They moved toward the house, Lee taking Longstreet by the arm. They moved in a lane through hundreds of people, like Moses at the parting of the Sea. Somebody began a cheer, a formal cheer, a university cheer. A band struck up, oh Lord, “Bonny Blue Flag,” again. Hands were touching Longstreet. He went up into the small house and into a small room, the roof closing in over him like the lid on a jar, but even here it was jammed with people, a tiny room no bigger than your kitchen, and all Lee’s officers and aides, working, rushing in and out, and even here some people from Richmond. A place cleared for Lee and he sat down in a rocking chair and Longstreet saw him in the light and saw that he was tired. Lee rested a moment, closing his eyes. There was no place for Longstreet to sit except on the edge of the table, and so he sat there. Taylor pushed by, begging Longstreet’s pardon, needing a signature on a letter to someone.

  Lee raised a hand. “We’ll rest for a moment.”

  Longstreet saw the old man sag, breathe deeply, his mouth open. Lines of pain around the eyes. He put the gray head down for a moment, then looked up quickly at Longstreet, shook his head slightly.

  “A bit tired.”

  He never said anything like that. Lee never complained. Longstreet said, “Can I get you something?”

  Lee shook his head. Aides were talking loudly about artillery, a message to Richmond. Longstreet thought: no rest here. Lee said, reading his mind, “I’ll clear them out in a minute or two.” He took another deep breath, almost a gasp, put a hand to his chest, shook his head with regret. His face was gray and still. He looked up with a vagueness in his eyes.

  “It was very close this afternoon.”

  “Sir?”

  “They almost broke. I could feel them breaking. I thought for a moment … I saw our flags go up the hill … I almost thought …”

  Longstreet said, “It wasn’t that close.” But Lee’s eyes were gazing by him at a vision of victory. Longstreet said nothing. He rubbed his mouth. Lee eyes strange: so dark and soft. Longstreet could say nothing. In the presence of the Commander the right words would not come.

  Lee said, “The attacks were not coordinated. I don’t know why. We shall see. But we almost did it, this day. I could see … an open road to Washington.” He closed his eyes, rubbed them. Longstreet felt an extraordinary confusion. He had a moment without confidence, windblown and blasted, vacant as an exploded shell. There was a grandness in Lee that shadowed him, silenced him. You could n
ot preach caution here, not to that face. And then the moment passed and a small rage bloomed, not at Lee but at Longstreet himself. He started to try to speak, but Lee said, “It was reported that General Barksdale was killed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And General Semmes.”

  “Sir.”

  “And how is it with General Hood?”

  “I think he’ll live. I’ve just come from him.”

  “Praise God. We could not spare General Hood.” He was gazing again into nowhere. After a moment he said, almost plaintively, “I’ve lost Dorsey Pender.”

  “Yes,” Longstreet said. One by one: down the dark road. Don’t think on that now.

  Lee said, “He would have made a corps commander, I think.” The old man sat looking half asleep.

  Longstreet said stiffly, “Sir, there are three Union corps dug in on the high ground in front of me.”

  Lee nodded. After a moment he said, “So very close. I believe one more push …”

  A burst of shouting outside. The band had come closer. Longstreet said, “Today I lost almost half my strength.” And felt like a traitor for saying it, the truth, the granite truth, felt a smallness, a rage. Lee nodded but did not seem to hear. Longstreet pushed on.

  “The way to the right is still open, sir.”

  Lee looked up slowly, focused, slowly smiled, put out a hand, touched Longstreet’s arm.

  “Let me think, General.”

  “We have enough artillery for one more good fight. One more.”

  “I know.” Lee took a breath, sat up. “Let me think on it. But, General, I am very glad to see you well.”

  Taylor pushed in again. Longstreet reached out, gripped the young man in a metal clasp.

  “General Lee needs his rest. I want you to keep some of these people away.”

  Taylor drew back in frosty reproach, as if Longstreet’s hand smelled badly of fish. Longstreet felt the coming of a serious rage. But Lee smiled, reached out for the papers in Taylor’s hand.

  “A few more moments, General. Then I’ll send them off. Now, what have we here?”