Cain at Gettysburg

by Ralph Peters

  “Of course, sir. I examined the corps’ front yesterday. Upon receiving today’s orders, I took in the prospect again.”

  “And?”

  “I trust in your leadership, sir. And in General Lee’s.”

  Longstreet laughed one crude syllable. “Well, God bless you. It’s always nice to meet a man of faith.” His features turned to stone. “You believe your men can make it across those fields? And penetrate the Union lines? And stay there? Do you believe that, General?”

  Pettigrew was bewildered. Why was Longstreet questioning him like this? Did he doubt his courage, his competence? What did he want him to say? That it couldn’t be done? Such words would never issue from his lips.

  Longstreet’s demeanor was almost as insulting as Heth’s had been.

  Correcting his posture to a rigid perfection, Pettigrew said, “Sir, my men can do anything General Pickett’s men can do.”

  Longstreet grimaced. “No one suggested otherwise, General Pettigrew. That wasn’t my point.” He tugged his beard and snorted. “I regard this attack as … more challenging than most. I only wanted your opinion about your division’s prospects.”

  “And now you have it, sir.”

  * * *

  Longstreet veered between fury and despair. Pettigrew, he decided, was a lying, prissy bastard who’d kill every soldier entrusted to him to preserve his precious honor, then probably get himself killed and be hailed a spotless hero of the South. Pickett at least had weighed the matter, before electing suicidal chivalry. And George had a division that wanted to fight. Riding through the muddle of Pettigrew’s men, Longstreet had seen faces resigned to duty, but hardly impatient to start across those fields.

  Word would have gotten out, of course. About the day’s line of attack and its obvious difficulty. And rumors would make things worse.

  The clouds had burned off and green foam lined the mouth of Longstreet’s horse. In the meadows between the groves, the sun pressed down. Soldiers bedecked with a dozen canteens each sought the streams that had washed the first day’s dead. Water would be as important as ammunition. It always was.

  Men sprawled listlessly in the shade, waiting in bored torment. A band played “Wait for the Wagon.” No one paid attention to the skirmishing beyond the ridge. The men knew, as they always did, that bigger things were coming.

  Longstreet rode for his own corps’ lines, hunting Alexander to discuss the artillery’s role in the attack again. Instead, he crossed Lee’s path.

  The two men halted in a shady lane. Lee looked stronger, dignified, imperturbable. If the old man had any doubts, they were not evident.

  “Well met,” he told Longstreet. “I’ve just come from General Hill. Lang and Wilcox will support Pickett on the right, their brigades are already in the desired position. And Trimble will follow Pettigrew with two brigades.”

  Longstreet nodded. He was torn between adding forces to the attack and sparing as many soldiers’ lives as possible. “Pettigrew may need the help. His men look blown to me.”

  “They’ll fight,” Lee said. Closing the topic.

  “Harry Heth hasn’t been down to his division. And Pettigrew’s not as confident as he lets on. Big leap, from brigade to division command. Harry should’ve looked in on him.”

  “I suspect General Heth doesn’t want to appear to be meddling.”

  “Pettigrew might do with some meddling. He’s game enough, but I’m not sure he’s ready.”

  “Pettigrew will do his duty.”

  “No doubt. The question is whether he can control that division.”

  “He need only maintain his alignment with General Pickett.”

  A battery rushed up the lane. The generals gave way, guiding their horses onto an island of sunlight between the trees. Soldiers rose up amid the weeds and brush. Out of respect for Lee, not fear of hooves.

  On impulse, Lee turned to the nearest men. “Do you know what you must do today?”

  The men nodded. Some edged closer. Into Lee’s aura.

  “Will you drive those people?” Lee asked.

  A reassuring hubbub erupted: “Sure enough, we’ll whip ’em, Gen’rl.” “We’ll do it for you, sir, you know we can.” “No Yankee born’s going to stop us, Gen’rl Lee.” “You just turn us loose.…”

  The old man turned a glowing face to Longstreet. His expression said, You see?

  What Longstreet saw was an eternity of soldiering. He had heard men complain bitterly countless times, wracked with fear or furious at some idiocy, only to parrot the words expected of them when a superior—even a hated one—asked if they were ready to give battle. And Lee was loved.

  No one would ever tell the truth to Lee. How could these soldiers in their rags be expected to reveal their doubts when their generals wouldn’t?

  The soldiers wished to touch Lee, a boot, his saddle, his horse. But none of them dared. It was as if he were a living saint.

  And this looked to be an afternoon of martyrdom.

  * * *

  A few minutes after eleven, Colonel Alexander reported to Longstreet. He had seventy-five guns deployed along the corps’ front. Most of Hill’s batteries were positioned to support the attack as well. Flanking fire against the enemy batteries in the cemetery could be expected from Ewell’s corps. His own guns would concentrate on the Union center to open a gap for Pickett. There had been nothing like this in the war, the bombardment would be massive.

  “I don’t want you just making a noise,” Longstreet cautioned his favored artilleryman. Irritation sharpened his voice, but Alexander wasn’t the cause of it. Longstreet had issued more orders that morning than he’d ever given prior to a battle—only to find too many of them taken lightly. “Don’t just make a damned noise. I need you to cripple those bastards. Tear their limbs off. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. What artillery can do, we’ll do.”

  “How many guns do you figure in all? That can fire to good effect?”

  Alexander chewed his lip. His trim beard stirred. “Walker can bring at least fifty of Hill’s guns to bear … so that’s a hundred and twenty-five. I’ve had no contact with General Ewell’s people, but they should go after the batteries up in that cemetery. Problem’s not the number of guns, but ammunition, sir. We fired for five hours yesterday.”

  “How much damage can you do?”

  The younger man gleamed with sweat. Longstreet had never known a fellow more tireless. But he needed effectiveness, not just activity. There was going to be activity aplenty.

  “Oh, we can hurt them,” Alexander said. “Bad, I think. But we can’t keep it up for more than half an hour, not without emptying the limber chests. Frankly, sir, I’d prefer to limit the bombardment to twenty minutes. In case the Yankees get up to some tricks later on. We need to hold something back. There’s no more shot or shell this side of Staunton.…”

  “Make it thirty minutes.” Longstreet wondered just how much to say, then decided on honesty. “If you can’t put the guns in Meade’s center out of action, this attack isn’t going to succeed. That’s the plain and simple of it. Marching into rifle volleys is bad enough. I don’t want all those boys walking into canister. You understand me?”

  Alexander waved off a pestering fly and stared into the face of a troubled man.

  “Yes, sir. My guns are ready.”

  * * *

  Colonel Edward Porter Alexander waited for Longstreet’s signal guns. Positioned in front of Wright’s brigade, where the line of sight was best and couriers could go quickly, he drained the last water from his canteen, wishing he’d taken the time to fill it that morning. The quiet gripping the field as noon approached was thick with dread. He was about to unleash a storm of death unlike any other witnessed in the war. In his twenty-eight years of life, he had never been so tense, alive, and impatient.

  A front-porch political stalwart from Georgia, Rans Wright had the thickest beard in the army and a taste for visiting. He strolled out from the treeline for a chat.


  “Going to be some hot work today, Alexander,” the brigadier general said.

  “Yes, sir. You’re not going in?”

  Wright shook his head. “Got to leave somebody back to mind the store. Had my time yesterday. Bad enough.”

  “I hear you nearly broke through, sir.”

  Wright spit. No wetness came out. “‘Nearly’ don’t do.”

  The two men stared across the sun-pressed fields. Just looking drenched your armpits.

  “Take a gander,” the brigade commander resumed. “More guns up there than yesterday, maybe twice as many, and yesterday wasn’t no pie-eating contest. You’re going to have to even up tall odds, son.”

  A rider galloped toward them. Alexander recognized one of Longstreet’s couriers. The sergeant leapt from the saddle, saluted, handed over a folded paper, and was off again, showing them horseshoes.

  Alexander opened the note. Dots of sweat darkened the paper. The words struck him like a fist:

  Colonel. If the artillery fire does not have the effect to drive off the enemy or greatly demoralize him, so as to make our efforts pretty certain, I would prefer that you should not advise Gen. Pickett to make the charge. I shall rely a great deal on your good judgment to determine the matter & shall expect you to let Gen. Pickett know when the moment offers.

  He handed the note to Wright, who read it and whistled. “Sounds like Old Pete might be having second thoughts.”

  “I can’t do what he asks,” Alexander said, still stunned. “I can’t decide whether Pickett goes in or not. I won’t be able to see enough to judge, the smoke from the guns hides everything.” His hand shook as he took back the note from Wright. “We’ll be shooting blind after the first few minutes, praying we’ve got the range and elevation right. The only way I could read the effect of our fire would be their return fire, if it slackens off.”

  “Write him back. Tell him just what you told me. But you have to put it in writing, son.” Wright whistled again. “Never figured Longstreet for a man who couldn’t make up his own mind.”

  Alexander didn’t understand it, either. It was as if a hand other than Longstreet’s had written the message.

  He scribbled down his reservations and sent the note off by courier.

  “Want some eats?” Wright asked him. “I can offer that much. In return for the splendid gunnery we’re expecting.”

  “Thank you, sir. I couldn’t eat, not now.”

  “I suppose not.” Wright peered across the fields. The air was heavy and dead. “Shame you couldn’t open up this minute.”

  Alexander gave him a quizzical look.

  “Look yonder,” Wright said. “Those Yankees trotting back and forth, flags and pennants and all kinds of carrying on? Generals preparing a reception committee, that’s what that is.” He chuckled, as if contemplating a practical joke to be played on friends. “Put a couple shells on ’em, and they’d remove themselves most expeditiously.”

  He nodded along with the Georgian, but it was what he didn’t see that interested Alexander. Except for those knots of busybody riders, the Union line looked graveyard still from a distance. The Federals weren’t bringing up guns or shifting regiments anymore. That meant they felt they were ready for whatever might come their way.

  Were they?

  Alexander’s mind darted about. Bringing his thoughts back under control was like trying to catch a fish with his bare hands. Longstreet’s note had raised new possibilities, none of them pleasant. He had assumed this attack was Lee’s inspiration, that all had been decided for the best, that there was a plan and its features were inevitable.

  He stepped away to piss and fumbled anxiously with his buttons. The stream was brief and dark. He could smell his urine.

  Too damned hot. A man could burn his hand on a cannon’s barrel before it fired a shot. The gunners nearest him had stripped off their shirts and they’d brought up every bucket in their battery, setting the water out of the path of their drills. He considered walking over and scooping up a handful or two of water, but didn’t. The water was theirs, not his.

  He walked back toward Wright.

  “Waiting’s no pleasure,” the Georgian commiserated. “Just a-watching through the bars as they build the gallows. Or waiting on a ballot count. Which is pretty much the same thing, in my experience.”

  The courier returned from Longstreet. The second note was not much of an improvement:

  Colonel. The intention is to advance the infantry, if the artillery has the desired effect of driving the enemy’s off, or having other effect such as to warrant us in making the attack. When the moment arrives advise Gen. Pickett.…

  He could not believe that such an equivocal message came from the hand of General James Longstreet. “… if the artillery has the desired effect … if…” Thousands of lives depended on a guess. His guess.

  Alexander passed the second note to Wright, who seemed unjustly amused at the situation.

  “He’s put the responsibility back on you again,” Wright said, grinning. “Hell of a situation to be in, son. But, damn it, you know we’re going to attack, no matter what happens. All you have to do is call the time, that’s all this is.”

  “I won’t even be able to see.”

  The Georgian shrugged. “Just judge things the way you told me. Their fire dies away, you’ve done your part. Then it’s up to Pickett and his boys. And all the rest of them.”

  “And if their guns keep up with ours?”

  “Look here, son, this isn’t about you. Longstreet’s just in one of his black Dutch moods. Probably feuding with Lee again. They’ve been at it like man and wife for on to a week now, so I hear. Longstreet’s just passing down the unpleasantness—that’s why officers come in different ranks. And you’re handy.”

  “He’s put a terrible burden on me.”

  Wright spit dry-mouthed again, a man with a chewing habit who lacked tobacco. “Truth is, your guns won’t decide this. Oh, they’ll help. Wouldn’t want to go in without ’em, if I was part of this grand and glorious circus. But today’s going to be about numbers, about who’s willing to throw in the most and take the hardest hammering.” He shook his head, entertained by the ways of the world. “Anyway, there won’t be any holding back Georgie Pickett. We’re past that point. Ain’t a man in this army could do it, short of Marse Robert himself. You’ll be lucky if Pickett waits until you call for him.”

  Alexander didn’t answer. He was listening and not listening. Thinking about how best to advance his guns during the charge, about the commitment of the small reserve he’d withheld, about his ammunition stocks, ranges, and trajectories.

  “Tell you the same damned thing I just told Pickett,” Wright went on. “It’s mostly a question of supports. It’s not as hard to get up there as it looks. I was there yesterday, with my brigade. The real difficulty is to stay there after you get there. Whole Yankee army’s up there in a bunch. If Lee himself hasn’t seen to proper supports, we’ll be crying in our whiskers come this evening.”

  A cannon boomed on the right. Alexander quickened. The signal? When Longstreet was ready, the Washington Artillery would fire off two rounds.

  There was no second shot.

  * * *

  Their meal was hard biscuit and bacon grease, mean fare in the heat. Blake had wanted to send his men’s canteens back to the creek again, but the new lieutenant with whom they had been graced worried that they’d be called to form in the meantime. That wasn’t the boy’s only worry. He’d gone over the ridge with the other officers to have a look at the ground where they’d make their attack. The boy had come back speechless.

  Blake understood. Since moving up near the line the evening before, he and plenty of other men had wandered over to survey the battlefield, so they knew the immensity of the fields they were now expected to cross. A few men were all for it, but most were just resigned, scratching out last letters home or cleaning their rifles.

  There were so blessed few of them now, only a few hundred still
on their feet from a regiment that had begun the battle with more than eight hundred men. All of them would fight, out of the blind obligation that passed for a sense of duty, out of suicidal pride and orneriness. But few looked forward to it.

  Cobb had pared him like an apple, skinning him down to the raw, the night before. Everything that Cobb had said about him had been as true as it was difficult to shoulder. He had been the most ungrateful of men, making the least of the gifts he had been given. As strong as he was in body, so weak had he been in spirit. Surrendering his soul to a fickle girl and a drunken father’s memory. When all the world had been given him, he had closed his eyes and wickedly clenched his fists.

  He thought of John Bunyan with his brains blown out. And Corny with his private parts shot through, waking from sleep to screaming pain. Then bleeding to death. Pike Gray and Jack Ireton, Art Peachum and Ollie Wright. James Bunyan and Tam McMinn. Hugh Gordon waiting to live or die at a field surgery. All of them, all of them …

  Death. Where is thy sting?

  Everywhere.

  And he had thrown away the gift of life.

  Tapping his empty canteen, Charley Campbell said, “I hear a feller just died of the heat. In Company C.”

  “Probably fainted,” Cobb said, “when he heard we were going to charge over that prairie.”

  “No,” Charley said, “he died. God’s truth.”

  Cobb managed to grin, black-mouthed, and snarl at the same time. “‘God’s truth’? I’d call that another matter entirely. But sticking to the business here at hand, I’d say a feller goes down with the heatstroke, he might be the lucky one. Better’n having your balls shot off while you’re sleeping. Or lying out in them fields, bleeding in the sun.”

  “Why you always got to be pestimistic?” Charley asked.

  Blake opened his mouth to correct the word, then thought better of it. “Pestimistic” suited Cobb. Like a hand-sewn set of drawers.

  “Look on the dark side, you get a nice surprise every so often,” Cobb explained. “Look on the bright side, you’re apt to be disappointed.”