Michael Shaara - The Killer Angels

by The Killer Angels(Lit)

  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 not 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 smelted 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?"

  Longstreet backed off. The white head bent down over the papers. Longstreet stood there. All his life he had taken orders and he knew the necessity for command and the old man in front of him was the finest commander he had ever known. Longstreet looked around at the faces. The gentlemen were chatting, telling lively funny stories. Out in the smoky night a band was mounting another song. Too many people, too much noise. He backed out the door. Come back later. In the night, later, when the old man is alone, we will have to talk.

  He moved out into the crowd, head down, mounted his horse. Someone pulled his arm. He glared: Marshall, red-faced, waving papers, cheeks hot with rage.

  "General Longstreet! Sir. Will you talk to him?"

  "Who? What about?"

  "I've prepared court-martial papers for General Stuart. General Lee will not sign them."

  Longstreet grimaced. Of course not. But not my problem. Marshall held the reins. He was standing close by and the men nearby were backed off in deference and had not heard him. Longstreet said, "When did he finally get back?"

  "This evening." Marshall, with effort, was keeping his voice down. "He was joyriding. For the fun of it. He captured about a hundred enemy wagons. And left us blind in enemy country. Criminal, absolutely criminal. Several of us have agreed to ask for court-martial, but General Lee says he will not discuss it at this time."

  Longstreet shrugged.

  "General. If there is not some discipline in this army... there are good men dead, sir." Marshall struggled.

  Longstreet saw a man closing in. Fat man with a full beard. Familiar face: a Richmond reporter. Yes, a theorist on war.

  A man with a silvery vest and many opinions. He came, notebook in hand. Longstreet itched to move, but Marshall held.

  "I'd like your opinion, sir. You are the second-ranking officer in this army. Do you believe that these court-martial papers should be signed?"

  Longstreet paused. Men were closing in, yelling more congratulations. Longstreet n
odded once, deliberately.

  "I do," he said.

  "Will you talk to General Lee?"

  "I will." Longstreet gathered the reins. Men were close enough now to hear, were staring up at him. "But you know, Marshall, it won't do any good."

  "We can try, sir."

  "Right." Longstreet touched his cap. "We can at least do that."

  He spurred toward the cool dark. They opened to let him pass. Hats were off; they were cheering. He rode head down toward the silent road. He was amazed at the air of victory.

  He thought: got so that whenever they fight they assume there's victory that night. Face of Goree. They can't blame General Lee, not no more. But there was no victory today.

  So very close, the old man said. And yet it was not a loss. And Longstreet knew that Lee would attack in the morning.

  He would never quit the field. Not with the Union Army holding the field. Three Union corps on the hills above. Lee will attack.

  Longstreet stopped, in darkness, looked back toward the light. A voice was calling. Longstreet turned to ride on, and then the voice registered and he looked back: a grinning Fremantle, hat held high like the cloth on the arm of a scarecrow, bony, ridiculous. He looked like an illustration Longstreet had once seen of Ichabod Crane.

  "Good evening, sir! My compliments, sir! Marvelous evening, what? Extraordinary! May I say, sir, that I observed your charge this afternoon, and I was inspired, sir, inspired. Strordnry, sir, a general officer at the front of the line. One's heart leaps. One's hat is off to you, sir." He executed a vast swirling bow, nearly falling from the horse, arose grinning, mouth a half moon of cheery teeth.

  Longstreet smiled.

  "Will you take my hand, sir, in honor of your great victory?"

  Longstreet took the limp palm, knowing the effort it cost the Englishman, who thought handshaking unnatural. "Victory?" Longstreet said.

  "General Lee is the soldier of the age, the soldier of the age." Fremantle radiated approval like a tattered star, but he did it with such cool and delicate grace that there was nothing unnatural about it, nothing fawning or nattering. He babbled a charming hero-worship, one gentleman to another. Longstreet, who had never learned the art of compliment, admired it.

  "May I ride along with you, sir?"

  "Course."

  "I do not wish to intrude upon your thoughts and schemes."

  "No problem."

  "I observed you with General Lee. I would imagine that there are weighty technical matters that occupy your mind."

  Longstreet shrugged. Fremantle rode along beamily chatting. He remarked that he had watched General Lee during much of the engagement that day and that the General rarely sent messages. Longstreet explained that Lee usually gave the orders and then let his boys alone to do the job. Fremantle returned to awe. "The soldier of the age," he said again, and Longstreet thought: should have spoken to Lee. Must go back tonight. But... let the old man sleep. Never saw his face that weary. Soul of the army. He's in command. You are only the hand. Silence. Like a soldier.

  He will attack.

  Well. They love him. They do not blame him. They do impossible things for him. They may even take that hill.

  "... have no doubt," Fremantle was saying, "that General Lee shall become the world's foremost authority on military matters when this war is over, which would appear now to be only a matter of days, or at most a few weeks. I suspect all Europe will be turning to him for lessons."

  Lessons?

  "I have been thinking, I must confess, of setting some brief thoughts to paper," Fremantle announced gravely.

  "Some brief remarks of my own, appended to an account of this battle, and perhaps others this army has fought. Some notes as to the tactics."

  Tactics?

  "General Lee's various stratagems will be most instructive, most illuminating. I wonder, sir, if I might enlist your aid in this, ah, endeavor. As one most closely concerned? That is, to be brief, may I come to you when in need?"

  "Sure," Longstreet said. Tactics? He chuckled. The tactics are simple: find the enemy, fight him. He shook his head, snorting. Fremantle spoke softly, in tones of awe.

  "One would not think of General Lee, now that one has met him, now that one has looked him, so to speak, in the eye, as it were, one would not think him, you known to be such a devious man."

  "Devious?" Longstreet swung to stare at him, aghast.

  "Oh my word," Fremantle went on devoutly, "but he's a tricky one. The Old Gray Fox, as they say. Charming phrase. American to the hilt."

  "Devious?" Longstreet stopped dead in the road. "Devious." He laughed aloud. Fremantle stared an owlish stare.

  "Why, Colonel, bless your soul, there aint a devious bone in Robert Lee's body, don't you know that?"

  "My dear sir."

  "By damn, man, if there is one human being in the world less devious than Robert Lee, I aint yet met him. By God and fire. Colonel, but you amuse me." And yet Longstreet was not amused. He leaned forward blackly across the pommel of the saddle. "Colonel, let me explain something. The secret of General Lee is that men love him and follow him with faith in him. That's one secret. The next secret is that General Lee makes a decision and he moves, with guts, and he's been up against a lot of sickly generals who don't know how to make decisions, although some of them have guts but whose men don't love them. That's why we win, mostly. Because we move with speed, and faith, and because we usually have the good ground. Tactics? God, man, we don't win because of tricks. What were the tactics at Malvern Hill? What were the tactics at Fredericksburg, where we got down behind a bloody stone wall and shot the bloody hell out of them as they came up, wave after wave, bravest thing you ever saw, because, listen, there are some damn good boys across the way, make no mistake on that. I've fought with those boys, and they know how to fight when they've got the ground, but tactics? Tactics?" He was stumbling for words, but it was pouring out of him in hot clumps out of the back of the brain, the words like falling coals, and Fremantle stared open-mouthed.

  "God in Heaven," Longstreet said, and repeated it, "there's no strategy to this bloody war. What it is, is old Napoleon and a hell of a lot of chivalry. That's all it is. What were the tactics at Chancellorsville, where we divided the army, divided it, so help me God, in the face of the enemy, and got away with it because Joe Hooker froze cold in his stomach? What were the tactics yesterday? What were they today? And what will be the blessed tactics tomorrow? I'll tell you the tactics tomorrow. Devious? Christ in Heaven. Tomorrow we will attack an enemy that outnumbers us, an enemy that outguns us, an enemy dug in on the high ground, and let me tell you, if we win that one it will not be because of the tactics or because we are great strategists or because there is anything even remotely intelligent about the war at all. It will be a bloody miracle, a bloody miracle."

  And then he saw what he was saying.

  He cut it off. Fremantle's mouth was still open. Longstreet thought: very bad things to say. Disloyal. Fool. Bloody damned fool. And then he began truly to understand what he had said.

  It surfaced, like something long sunken rising up out of black water. It opened up there in the dark of his mind and he turned from Fremantle.

  The Englishman said something. Longstreet nodded. The truth kept coming. Longstreet waited. He had known all this for a long time but he had never said it, except in fragments.

  He had banked it and gone on with the job, a soldier all his life. In his mind he could see Lee's beautiful face and suddenly it was not the same face. Longstreet felt stuffed and thick and very strange. He did not want to think about it. He spurred the horse. Hero reared. Longstreet thought: you always know the truth; wait long enough and the mind will tell you. He rode beneath a low tree; leaves brushed his hat. He stopped. A voice at his elbow: Fremantle.

  "Yes," Longstreet said. Damn fool things to say to a guest.

  "If I have disturbed you, sir..."

  "Not at all. Things on my mind. If you don't mind, Colonel..."

 
Fremantle apologized. Longstreet said good night. He sat alone on his horse in the dark. There was a fire in the field.

  A boy was playing a harmonica, frail and lovely sound.

  Longstreet thought of Barksdale as he had gone to die, streaming off to death, white hair trailing him like white fire. Hood's eyes were accusing. Should have moved to the right. He thought: tactics are old Napoleon and a lot of chivalry.