Michael Shaara - The Killer Angels

by The Killer Angels(Lit)

  Tom was back. "I count about one hundred and thirty men, Lawrence. Forty to fifty already dead, about ninety wounded. Lot of boys walking around with minor stuff, one hundred thirty for the hospital."

  Chamberlain thought: one hundred thirty down. We had three hundred in line. Almost half the Regiment. Kilrain is gone.

  He told Spear of the move. He was becoming very tired.

  But along with the weariness he felt spasms of pure joy.

  Spear formed the Company, Rice took over the prisoners.

  Rice came by to watch them go.

  "Colonel," Chamberlain said. "One thing. What's the name of this place? This hill. Has it got a name?"

  "Little Round Top," Rice said. "Name of the hill you defended. The one you're going to is Big Round Top."

  Little Round Top. Battle of Little Round Top. Well. I guess we'll remember it.

  "Move'em out, Ellis."

  He went back to say goodbye to Kilrain. The white head was visible from a long way off, sitting stump-like, motionless in the dark of the trees. He had leaned back and was staring at the sky, his eyes closed. He had welcomed Chamberlain to the Regiment and there had never been a day without him. He would be going to the hospital now, and Chamberlain did not know what to say, did not know how to express it. Blue eyes opened in a weary face. Kilrain smiled.

  "I'll be going, Buster," Chamberlain said.

  Kilrain grumbled, looked sourly, accusingly at his bloody wound.

  "Damn."

  "Well, you take care. I'll send Tom back with word."

  "Sure."

  "We'll miss you. Probably get into all kinds of trouble without you."

  "No." Kilrain said. "You'll do all right."

  "Well, I have to go."

  "Right. Goodbye, Colonel."

  He put out a hand, formally. Chamberlain took it.

  "It was a hell of a day, wasn't it. Buster?"

  Kilrain grinned, his eyes glistened.

  "I'll come down and see you tomorrow." Chamberlain backed off.

  "Sure." Kilrain was blinking, trying to keep his eyes open. Chamberlain walked away, stopped, looked back, saw the eyes already closed, turned his back for the last time, moved off into the gathering dark.

  He moved forward and began to climb the big hill in the dark. As he walked he forgot his pain; his heart began to beat quickly, and he felt an incredible joy. He looked at himself, wonderingly, at the beloved men around him, and he said to himself: Lawrence, old son, treasure this moment. Because you feel as good as a man can feel.

  5. LONGSTREET.

  The hospital was an open field just back of the line.

  There were small white tents all over the field and bigger tents where the surgeons did the cutting. Hood was there, in a big tent, on a litter. Longstreet came in out of the dark, bowing under a canopy, saw the face like cold marble in yellow candlelight, eyes black and soft like old polished stones. Cullen and Maury were working together on the arm. Longstreet saw; not much left of the hand. Exposed bone. He thought of Jackson hit in the arm at Chancellorsville: died a slow death. Let us cross over the river. Hood's black eyes stared unseeing. Longstreet said softly, "Sam?"

  Cullen looked up; Maury was tying a knot, went on working. Troops had gathered outside the canopy. A sergeant bawled: move on, move on. Hood stared at Longstreet, not seeing. There was dirt streaked in tear stains on his cheeks, but he was not crying now. His head twitched, cheek jerked. He said suddenly, in a light, strange, feathery voice, "Should have let me move to ri-" He breathed. "To the right."

  Longstreet nodded. To Cullen, he said, "Can I talk to him?"

  "Rather not. We've drugged him. Sir. Better let him sleep."

  Hood raised the other arm, twitched fingers, let the hand fall. "Din see much. Boys went in an' hit the rocks. I got hit."

  Longstreet, no good at talking, nodded.

  "Should have moved right, Pete." Hood was staring at him, bright, drugged, eerie eyes. "How did it go, Pete?"

  "Fine, Sam,"

  "We took those rocks?"

  "Most of 'em."

  "Took the rocks. Really did."

  "Yes," Longstreet lied.

  Hood's eyes blinked slowly, blearily. He put the good hand up to shade his eyes. "Devil's Den. Good name for it."

  "Yep."

  "Worst ground I ever saw, you know that?" Hood laid the back of his hand across his eyes. His voice trembled. "Got to give my boys credit."

  Longstreet said to Cullen, "Can you save the arm?"

  "We're trying. But if we do, it won't be much use to him."

  Hood said, "Casualties? Was casualties?"

  "Don't know yet," Longstreet said. And then: "Not bad." Another lie.

  Cullen said gloomily, plaintively, "He ought to go to sleep. Now don't fight it, General. Let it work. You just drift right on off."

  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 any more, 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 counter-marches 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. Ain' 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 Dealing'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 swop, bowed halfway down off the horse-a broad 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 gravely 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 smelted 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, confid
ent. 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.