Michael Shaara - The Killer Angels

by The Killer Angels(Lit)

  He shuddered. He remembered that day in church when he prayed from the soul and listened and knew in that moment that there was no one there, no one to listen.

  Don't think on these things. Keep an orderly mind. This stuff is like heresy.

  It was quieter now and very warm and wet, a softness in the air, a mountain peace. His mind went silent for a time and he rode down the long road between the fires in the fields and men passed him in the night unknowing, and soldiers chased each other across the road. A happy camp, behind the line. There was music and faith. And pride. We have always had pride.

  He thought suddenly of Stonewall Jackson, old Thomas, old Blue Light. He could move men. Yes. But you remember, he ordered pikes for his men, spears, for the love of God. And the pikes sit by the thousands, rusting now in a Richmond warehouse because Jackson is dead and gone to glory. But he would have used them. Pikes. Against cannon in black rows. Against that hill in the morning.

  They come from another age. The Age of Virginia. Must talk to Lee in the morning. He's tired. Never saw him that tired. And sick. But he'll listen. They all come from another age.

  General Lee, I have three Union corps in front of me. They have the high ground, and they are dug in, and I am down to half my strength. He will smile and pat you on the arm and say: go do it. And perhaps we will do it.

  He was approaching his own camp. He could hear laughter ahead, and there were many bright fires. He slowed, let Hero crop grass. He felt a great sense of shame.

  A man should not think these things. But he could not control it. He rode into camp, back to work. He came in silently and sat back under a dark tree and Sorrel came to him with the figures. The figures were bad. Longstreet sat with his back against a tree and out in the open there was a party, sounds of joy: George Pickett was telling a story.

  He was standing by a fire, wild-haired, gorgeous, stabbing with an invisible sword. He could tell a story. A circle of men was watching him; Longstreet could see the grins, flash of a dark bottle going round. Off in the dark there was a voice of a young man singing: clear Irish tenor.

  Longstreet felt a long way off, a long, long way. Pickett finished with one mighty stab, then put both hands on his knees and crouched and howled with laughter, enjoying himself enormously. Longstreet wanted a drink. No. Not now. Later. In a few days. Perhaps a long bottle and a long sleep. He looked across firelight and saw one face in the ring not smiling, not even listening, one still face staring unseeing into the yellow blaze: Dick Garnett. The man Jackson had court-martialed for cowardice. Longstreet saw Lo Armistead nudge him, concerned, whisper in his ear.

  Garnett smiled, shook his head, turned back to the fire.

  Armistead went on watching him, worried. Longstreet bowed his head.

  Saw the face of Robert Lee. Incredible eyes. An honest man, a simple man. Out of date. They all ride to glory, all the plumed knights. Saw the eyes of Sam Hood, accusing eyes. He'll not go and die. Did not have the black look they get, the dying ones, around the eyes. But Barksdale is gone, and Semmes, and half of Hood's Division...

  "Evening, Pete."

  Longstreet squinted upward. Tall man holding a tall glass, youthful grin under steel-gray hair: Lo Armistead.

  "How goes it, Pete?"

  "Passing well, passing well."

  "Come on and join us, why don't you? We liberated some Pennsylvania whisky; aint much left."

  Longstreet shook his head.

  "Mind if I sit a spell?" Armistead squatted, perched on the ground sitting on his heels, resting the glass on his thigh. "What do you hear from Sam Hood?"

  "May lose an arm."

  Armistead asked about the rest. Longstreet gave him the list. There was a moment of silence. Armistead took a drink, let the names register. After a moment he said, "Dick Garnett is sick. He can't hardly walk."

  "I'll get somebody to look after him."

  "Would you do that, Pete? He'll have to take it, coming from you."

  "Sure."

  "Thing is, if there's any action, he can't stand to be out of it. But if you ordered him."

  Longstreet said nothing.

  "Don't suppose you could do that," Armistead said wistfully.

  Longstreet shook his head.

  "I keep trying to tell him he don't have to prove a thing, not to us," Armistead brooded. "Well, what the hell." He sipped from the glass. "A pleasant brew. The Dutchmen make good whisky. Oh. Beg your pardon."

  Longstreet looked out into the firelight. He recognized Fremantle, popeyed and grinning, rising awkwardly to his feet, tin cup raised for a toast. Longstreet could not hear.

  Armistead said, "I been talking to that Englishman. He isn't too bright, is he?"

  Longstreet smiled. He thought: devious Lee.

  Armistead said, "We put it to him, how come the limeys didn't come help us. In their own interest and all. Hell, perfectly obvious they ought to help. You know what he said? He said the problem was slavery. Now what do you think of that?"

  Longstreet shook his head. That was another thing he did not think about. Armistead said disgustedly, "They think we're fighting to keep the slaves. He says that's what most of Europe thinks the war is all about. Now, what we supposed to do about that?"

  Longstreet said nothing. The war was about slavery, all right. That was not why Longstreet fought but that was what the war was about, and there was no point in talking about it, never had been.

  Armistead said, "Ole Fremantle said one thing that was interestin'. He said, whole time he's been in this country, he never heard the word 'slave.' He said we always call them 'servants.' Now you know, that's true. I never thought of it before, but it's true."

  Longstreet remembered a speech: In a land where all slaves are servants, all servants are slaves, and thus ends democracy. A good line. But it didn't pay to think on it.

  Armistead was saying, "That Fremantle is kind of funny. He said that we Southerners were the most polite people he'd ever met, but then he noticed we all of us carry guns all the time, wherever we went, and he figured that maybe that was why. Hee." Armistead chuckled. "But we don't really need the limeys, do we, Pete, you think? Not so long as we have old Bobby Lee to lead the way."

  Pickett's party was quieting. The faces were turning to the moon. It was a moment before Longstreet, slightly deaf, realized they had turned to the sound of the tenor singing.

  An Irish song. He listened.

  ... oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?

  Oh has thou forgotten how soon we must part?

  It may be for years, it may be forever...

  "That boy can sing," Longstreet said. "That's 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' am I right?" He turned to Armistead.

  The handsome face had gone all to softness. Longstreet thought he was crying, just for a moment, but there were no tears, only the look of pain. Armistead was gazing toward the sound of the voice and then his eyes shifted suddenly and he looked straight down. He knelt there unmoving while the whole camp grew slowly still and in the dark silence the voice sang the next verse, softer, with great feeling, with great beauty, very far off to Longstreet's dull ear, far off and strange, from another time, an older softer time, and Longstreet could see tears on faces around the fire, and men beginning to drop their eyes, and he dropped his own, feeling a sudden spasm of irrational love. Then the voice was done.

  Armistead looked up. He looked at Longstreet and then quickly away. Out in the glade they were sitting motionless, and then Pickett got up suddenly and stalked, face wet with tears, rubbing his cheeks, grumbling, then he said stiffly, "Good cheer, boys, good cheer tonight." The faces looked up at him. Pickett moved to the rail fence and sat there and said, "Let me tell you the story of old Tangent, which is Dick Ewell's horse, which as God is my final judge is not only the slowest and orneriest piece of horseflesh in all this here army, but possibly also the slowest horse in this hemisphere, or even in the history of all slow horses."

  The faces began to lighten. A bottle began to move.
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  Pickett sat on the rail fence like old Baldy Ewell riding the horse. The laughter began again, and in the background they played something fast and light and the tenor did not sing. In a few moments Pickett was doing a hornpipe with Fremantle, and the momentary sadness had passed like a small mist. Longstreet wanted to move over there and sit down. But he did not belong there.

  Armistead said, "You hear anything of Win Hancock?"

  "Ran in to him today." Longstreet gestured. "He's over that way, mile or so."

  "That a fact?" Armistead grinned. "Bet he was tough."

  "He was."

  "Ha," Armistead chuckled. "He's the best they've got, and that's a fact."

  "Yep."

  "Like to go on over and see him, soon's I can, if it's all right."

  "Sure. Maybe tomorrow."

  "Well, that'll be fine." Armistead looked up at the moon. "That song there, 'Kathleen Mavoumeen'?" He shrugged. Longstreet looked at him. He was rubbing his face. Armistead said slowly, "Last time I saw old Win, we played that, 'round the piano." He glanced at Longstreet, grinned vaguely, glanced away. "We went over there for the last dinner together, night before we all broke up. Spring of sixty-one." He paused, looked into the past, nodded to himself.

  "Mira Hancock had us over. One more evening together. You remember Mira. Beautiful woman. Sweet woman. They were a beautiful couple, you know that? Most beautiful couple I ever saw. He sure looks like a soldier, now, and that's a fact."

  Longstreet waited. Something was coming.

  "Garnett was there, that last night. And Sydney Johnston. Lot of fellas from the old outfit. We were leaving the next day, some goin' North, some comin' South. Splitting up. God! You remember."

  Longstreet remembered: a bright cold day. A cold, cold day. A soldier's farewell: goodbye, good luck, and see you in Hell. Armistead said, "We sat around the piano, toward the end of the evening. You know how it was. Mary was playing. We sang all the good songs. That was one of them, 'Kathleen Mavoumeen,' and there was 'Mary of Argyle,' and... ah. It may be for years, and it may be forever.

  Never forget that."

  He stopped, paused, looked down into the whisky glass, looked up at Longstreet. "You know how it was, Pete."

  Longstreet nodded.

  "Well, the man was a brother to me. You remember.

  Toward the end of the evening... it got rough. We all began, well, you know, there were a lot of tears."

  Armistead's voice wavered; he took a deep breath. "Well, I was crying, and I went up to Win and I took him by the shoulder and I said, 'Win, so help me, if I ever lift a hand against you, may God strike me dead.'"

  Longstreet felt a cold shudder. He looked down at the ground. There was nothing to say. Armistead said, shaken, "I've not seen him since. I haven't been on the same field with him, thank God. It... troubles me to think on it."

  Longstreet wanted to reach out and touch him. But he went on looking at the dark ground.

  "Can't leave the fight, of course," Armistead said. "But I think about it. I meant it as a vow, you see. You understand, Pete?"

  "Sure."

  "I thought about sitting this one out. But... I don't think I can do that. I don't think that would be right either."

  "Guess not."

  Armistead sighed. He drank the last of the whisky in a swift single motion. He took off the soft black hat and held it in his hand and the gray hair glistened wetly, and the band of white skin at the forehead shone in the light. With the hat off he was older, much older, old courtly Lo. Had been a fiery young man. Lothario grown old.

  "Thank you, Pete." Armistead's voice was steady, "Had to talk about that."

  "Course."

  "I sent Mira Hancock a package to be opened in the event of my death. I... you'll drop by and see her, after this is done?"

  Longstreet nodded. He said, "I was just thinking. Of the time you hit Early with the plate."

  Armistead grinned. "Didn't hit him hard enough."

  Longstreet smiled. Then was able to reach out and touch him. He just tapped him once lightly, one touch, on the shoulder, and pulled back his hand.

  Out in the camp in the light of the fire Pickett was winding down. He was telling the story about the time during a cannonade when there was only one tree to hide behind and how the men kept forming behind the tree, a long thin line which grew like a pigtail, and swayed to one side or the other every time a ball came close, and as Pickett acted it out daintily, gracefully, it was very funny.

  Armistead said, "Wonder if these cherry trees will grow at home. You think they'll grow at home?"

  In a moment Armistead said, "Let's go join the party. Pete? Why not? Before they drink up all the whisky."

  "No thanks. You go on."

  "Pete, tomorrow could be a long day."

  "Work to do." But Longstreet felt himself yielding, softening, bending like a young tree in the wind.

  "Come on, Pete. One time. Do you good."

  Longstreet looked out at all the bright apple faces. He saw again in his mind the steady face of Lee. He thought: I don't belong. But he wanted to join them. Not even to say anything. Just to sit there and listen to the jokes up close, sit inside the warm ring, because off here at this distance with the deafness you never heard what they said; you were out of it. But... if he joined there would be a stiffness. He did not want to spoil their night. And yet suddenly, terribly, he wanted it again, the way it used to be, arms linked together, all drunk and singing beautifully into the night, with visions of death from the afternoon, and dreams of death in the coming dawn, the night filled with a monstrous and temporary glittering joy, fat moments, thick seconds dropping like warm rain, jewel after jewel.

  "Pete?"

  Longstreet stood up. He let go the reins of command. He thought of the three Union corps, one of them Hancock, dug in on the hill, and he let them all go. He did not want to lead any more. He wanted to sit and drink and listen to stories.

  He said, "I guess one drink, if it's all right."

  Armistead took him by the arm with a broad grin, and it was genuine; he took Longstreet by the arm and pulled him toward the circle.

  "Hey, fellas," Armistead bawled, "look what I got. Make way for the Old Man."

  They all stood to greet him. He sat down and took a drink and he did not think any more about the war.

  6. LEE.

  He worked all that night. The noise went on around him until long after midnight. His staff was too small: must do something about that. But he could handle the work and there were many decisions that could be made only by the commanding officer, and the commanding officer should know as much as possible about the logistics of the situation, the condition of the army down to the last detail.

  He found that he could work right through the pain, that there came a second wind. If you sat quietly in a rocking chair you could work all night long. The trouble came when you tried to move. So he worked from the chair, not rising, and every now and then he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes and blanked the brain, and so rested. The noise did not bother him. But he did not like people crowding too close. After a while he knew it was time to be alone. He told Taylor to ask the people outside to disperse.

  In a few moments it was very quiet. He rose up out of the chair and stepped out into the night. Time to make a plan now, time to make a decision.

  The night air was soft and warm. Across the road there were still many fires in the field but no more bands, no more singing. Men sat in quiet groups, talking the long slow talk of night in camp at war; many had gone to sleep. There were stars in the sky and a gorgeous white moon. The moon shone on the white cupola of the seminary across the road- lovely view, good place to see the fight. He had tried to climb the ladder but it turned out not to be possible. Yet there was little pain now. Move slowly, slowly. He said to Taylor, "What day is it now?" Taylor extracted a large round watch.

  "Sir, it's long after midnight. It's already Friday."

  "Friday, July third." />
  "Yes, sir, I believe that is correct."

  "And tomorrow will be the Fourth of July."

  "Sir?"

  "Independence Day."

  Taylor grunted, surprised. "I'd quite forgotten." Curious coincidence. Lee thought. Perhaps an omen?

  Taylor said, "The good Lord has a sense of humor."

  "Wouldn't it be ironic-" Lee could not resist the thought-"if we should gain our independence from them, on their own Independence Day?" He shook his head, wondering. He believed in a Purpose as surely as he believed that the stars above him were really there. He thought himself too dull to read God's plan, thought he was not meant to know God's plan, a servant only. And yet sometimes there were glimpses. To Taylor he said, "I'll go sit with Traveler awhile and think. You will keep these people away."