The Killer Angels

by Michael Shaara

  Longstreet said nothing. He was beginning to think of what to do if the spy was right. If he could not get Lee to turn now there could be disaster. And yet if the Union Army was truly out in the open at last there was a great opportunity: a sudden move south, between Hooker and Washington, cut them off from Lincoln. Yes. Longstreet said, “What do you hear of Hooker? Where is he?”

  The spy stopped, mouth sagging. “Oh by Jesus. Forgive me.” He grimaced, shook his head. “I done forgot. There was an item in the newspaper this morning. Saying that Hooker was replaced. They gave the command to Meade, I think it was.”

  “George Meade?”

  “Yes, sir. I think.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, it was Meade the newspaper said, but you know them damn newspapers.”

  Longstreet thought: new factor. He spurred the horse, but he couldn’t move fast because of the dark. Lee must listen. God bless the politicians. Reynolds was their best man. Why did they go to Meade? But I’m sorry to see Hooker go. Old Fighting Joe. Longstreet said, “It was Meade, then, and not Reynolds?”

  “Rumor was that Reynolds was offered the job but wouldn’t have it on a plate. That’s what the paper said.”

  Old John’s too smart to take it. Not with that idiot Halleck pulling the strings. But Meade? Fussy. Engineer. Careful. No genius for sure. But a new factor. A Pennsylvania man. He will know this country.

  The spy chatted on amiably. He seemed to need to talk. He was saying, “Strange thing about it all, thing that bothers me is that when you do this job right nobody knows you’re doing it, nobody ever watches you work, do you see? And sometimes I can’t help but wish I had an audience. I’ve played some scenes, ah, General, but I’ve been lovely.” The spy sighed, puffed, sighed again. “This current creation, now, is marvelous. I’m a poor half-witted farmer, do you see, terrified of soldiers, and me lovely young wife has run off with a drummer and I’m out a-scourin’ the countryside for her, a sorrowful pitiful sight I am. And people lookin’ down their noses and grinnin’ behind me back and all the time tellin’ me exactly what I want to know about who is where and how many and how long ago, and them not even knowin’ they’re doin’ it, too busy feelin’ contemptuous. There are many people, General, that don’t give a damn for a human soul, do you know that? The strange thing is, after playing this poor fool farmer for a while I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Because nobody cares.”

  They came to Lee’s camp, in the grove just south of Chambersburg. By the time they got there Longstreet knew that the spy was telling the truth. Young Walter Taylor was up, annoyed, prissy, defending General Lee’s night’s rest even against Longstreet, who glowed once with the beginning of rage, and sent Taylor off to get the old man out of bed. They dismounted and waited. The spy sat under an awning, grinning with joy at the prospect of meeting Lee. Longstreet could not sit down. He disliked getting the old man up: Lee had not been well. But you could lose the war up here. Should have gone to Vicksburg. News from there very bad. It will fall, and after that … we must win here if we are to win at all, and we must do it soon. The rain touched him; he shivered. Too damn much rain would muck up the roads.

  Lee came out into the light. The spy hopped to attention. Lee bowed slightly, stiffly.

  “Gentlemen.”

  He stood bareheaded in the rain: regal, formal, a beautiful white-haired, white-bearded old man in a faded blue robe. He looked haggard. Longstreet thought: He looks older every time you see him. For a moment the spy was silent, enraptured, then he bowed suddenly from the waist, widely, formally, gracefully, plucking the floppy hat from the balding head and actually sweeping the ground with it, dandy, ridiculous, something off a stage somewhere designed for a king.

  “General,” the spy said grandly, “à votre service.” He said something else in a strange and Southern French. Longstreet was startled at the transformation.

  Lee glanced at Longstreet: a silent question. Longstreet said, “Beg pardon, sir. I thought this urgent. The man has information.”

  Lee looked at the spy silently. His face showed nothing. Then he said formally, “Sir, you must excuse me, I do not know your name.”

  “The name is Harrison, sir, at present.” The spy grinned toothily. “The name of an ex-President, ex-general. A small joke, sir. One must keep one’s sense of humor.”

  Lee glanced again at Longstreet. Longstreet said, “The man has the position of the Union Army. He says they are very close. I have a map.”

  He moved to the map table, under the awning. The spy followed with reproach. Lee came slowly to the table, watching the man. After a moment he said to Harrison, “I understand that you are General Longstreet’s—” a slight pause “—‘scout.’ ” Lee would not use the word spy. “I believe we saw you last back in Virginia.”

  “That’s a fact,” the spy worshipped. “I been kind of circulatin’ since, amongst the bluebellies, and I tell you, General, sir, that it’s an honor and a priv—”

  Longstreet said, “He claims their lead elements are here. He says there is a column of strong Union cavalry not four hours off.”

  Lee looked at the map. Then he sat down and looked more closely. Longstreet gave the positions, the spy fluttering mothlike behind him with numbers and names and dates. Lee listened without expression.

  Longstreet finished. “He estimates perhaps one hundred thousand men.”

  Lee nodded. But estimates meant nothing. He sat for a moment staring at the map and then bowed his head slightly. Longstreet thought: he doesn’t believe. Then Lee raised his eyes and regarded the spy.

  “You appear to have ridden hard. Have you come a long way?”

  “Sir, I sure have.”

  “And you came through the picket line after dark?”

  “Yes, sir—” the spy’s head bobbed “—I did indeed.”

  “We are in your debt.” Lee stared at the map. “Thank you. Now I’m sure General Longstreet will see to your accommodations.”

  The spy was dismissed, had sense enough to know it. He rose reluctantly. He said, “It has been my pleasure, sir, to have served such a man as yourself. God bless you, sir.”

  Lee thanked him again. Longstreet instructed Sorrel to see that the man was fed and given a tent for the night and to be kept where Longstreet could find him if he needed him, which meant: keep an eye on him. The spy went out into the dark. Longstreet and Lee sat alone at the table in the rain.

  Lee said softly, “Do you believe this man?”

  “No choice.”

  “I suppose not.” Lee rubbed his eyes, leaned forward on the table. With his right hand he held the muscle of his left arm. He shook his head slowly. “Am I to move on the word of a paid spy?”

  “Can’t afford not to.”

  “There would have been something from Stuart.”

  “There should have been.”

  “Stuart would not have left us blind.”

  “He’s joyriding again,” Longstreet said. “This time you ought to stomp him. Really stomp him.”

  Lee shook his head. “Stuart would not leave us blind.”

  “We’ve got to turn,” Longstreet said. His heart was beating strongly. It was bad to see the indomitable old man weak and hatless in the early morning, something soft in his eyes, pain in his face, the right hand rubbing the pain in the arm. Longstreet said, “We can’t risk it. If we don’t concentrate they’ll chop us up.”

  Lee said nothing. After a moment Longstreet told him about Meade. Lee said, “They should have gone to Reynolds.”

  “Thought so too. I think he turned it down.”

  Lee nodded. He smiled slightly. “I would have preferred to continue against General Hooker.”

  Longstreet grinned. “Me too.”

  “Meade will be … cautious. It will take him some time to take command, to organize a staff. I think … perhaps we should move quickly. There may be an opportunity here.”

  “Yes. If we swing in behind him and cut him off from Washingto
n …”

  “If your man is correct.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Lee bent toward the map. The mountains rose like a rounded wall between them and the Union Army. There was one gap east of Chambersburg and beyond that all the roads came together, weblike, at a small town. Lee put his finger on the map.

  “What town is that?”

  Longstreet looked. “Gettysburg,” he said.

  Lee nodded. “Well—” he was squinting—“I see no reason to delay. It’s their army I’m after, not their towns.” He followed the roads with his finger, all converging on that one small town. “I think we should concentrate in this direction. This road junction will be useful.”

  “Yes,” Longstreet said.

  Lee looked up with black diamond eyes. “We’ll move at first light.”

  Longstreet felt a lovely thrill. Trust the old man to move. “Yes, sir.”

  Lee started to rise. A short while ago he had fallen from a horse onto his hands, and when he pushed himself up from the table Longstreet saw him wince. Longstreet thought: Go to sleep and let me do it. Give the order and I’ll do it all. He said, “I regret the need to wake you, sir.”

  Lee looked past him into the soft blowing dark. The rain had ended. A light wind was moving in the tops of the pines—cool sweet air, gentle and clean. Lee took a deep breath.

  “A good time of night. I have always liked this time of night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Lee glanced once almost shyly at Longstreet’s face, then looked away. They stood for a moment in awkward silence. They had been together for a long time in war and they had grown very close, but Lee was ever formal and Longstreet was inarticulate, so they stood for a long moment side by side without speaking, not looking at each other, listening to the raindrops fall in the leaves. But the silent moment was enough. After a while Lee said slowly, “When this is over, I shall miss it very much.”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not mean the fighting.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Lee said. He looked to the sky. “It is all in God’s hands.”

  They said good night. Longstreet watched the old man back to his tent. Then he mounted and rode alone back to his camp to begin the turning of the army, all the wagons and all the guns, down the narrow mountain road that led to Gettysburg. It was still a long dark hour till dawn. He sat alone on his horse in the night and he could feel the army asleep around him, all those young hearts beating in the dark. They would need their rest now. He sat alone to await the dawn, and let them sleep a little longer.

  2.

  CHAMBERLAIN

  He dreamed of Maine and ice black water; he awoke to a murderous sun. A voice was calling: “Colonel, darlin’.” He squinted: the whiskery face of Buster Kilrain.

  “Colonel, darlin’, I hate to be a-wakin’ ye, but there’s a message here ye ought to be seein’.”

  Chamberlain had slept on the ground; he rolled to a sitting position. Light boiled in through the tent flap. Chamberlain closed his eyes.

  “And how are ye feelin’ this mornin’, Colonel, me lad?”

  Chamberlain ran his tongue around his mouth. He said briefly, dryly, “Ak.”

  “We’re about to be havin’ guests, sir, or I wouldn’t be wakin’ ye.”

  Chamberlain looked up through bleary eyes. He had walked eighty miles in four days through the hottest weather he had ever known and he had gone down with sunstroke. He felt an eerie fragility, like a piece of thin glass in a high hot wind. He saw a wooden canteen, held in the big hand of Kilrain, cold drops of water on varnished sides. He drank. The world focused.

  “… one hundred and twenty men,” Kilrain said.

  Chamberlain peered at him.

  “They should be arriving any moment,” Kilrain said. He was squatting easily, comfortably, in the opening of the tent, the light flaming behind him.

  “Who?” Chamberlain said.

  “They are sending us some mutineers,” Kilrain said with fatherly patience. “One hundred and twenty men from the old Second Maine, which has been disbanded.”

  “Mutineers?”

  “Ay. What happened was that the enlistment of the old Second ran out and they were all sent home except one hundred and twenty, which had foolishly signed three-year papers, and so they all had one year to go, only they all thought they was signing up to fight with the Second, and Second only, and so they mutineed. One hundred and twenty. Are you all right, Colonel?”

  Chamberlain nodded vaguely.

  “Well, these poor fellers did not want to fight no more, naturally, being Maine men of a certain intelligence, and refused, only nobody will send them home, and nobody knew what to do with them, until they thought of us, being as we are the other Maine regiment here in the army. There’s a message here signed by Meade himself. That’s the new General we got now, sir, if you can keep track as they go by. The message says they’ll be sent here this morning and they are to fight, and if they don’t fight you can feel free to shoot them.”

  “Shoot?”

  “Ay.”

  “Let me see.” Chamberlain read painfully. His head felt very strange indeed, but he was coming awake into the morning as from a long way away and he could begin to hear the bugles out across the fields. Late to get moving today. Thank God. Somebody gave us an extra hour. Bless him. He read: … you are therefore authorized to shoot any man who refuses to do his duty. Shoot?

  He said, “These are all Maine men?”

  “Yes, sir. Fine big fellers. I’ve seen them. Loggin’ men. You may remember there was a bit of a brawl some months back, during the mud march? These fellers were famous for their fists.”

  Chamberlain said, “One hundred and twenty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Somebody’s crazy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many men do we now have in this Regiment?”

  “Ah, somewhat less than two hundred and fifty, sir, as of yesterday. Countin’ the officers.”

  “How do I take care of a hundred and twenty mutinous men?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kilrain sympathized. “Well, you’ll have to talk to them, sir.”

  Chamberlain sat for a long moment silently trying to function. He was thirty-four years old, and on this day one year ago he had been a professor of rhetoric at Bowdoin University. He had no idea what to do. But it was time to go out into the sun. He crawled forward through the tent flap and stood up, blinking, swaying, one hand against the bole of a tree. He was a tall man, somewhat picturesque. He wore stolen blue cavalry trousers and a three-foot sword, and the clothes he wore he had not taken off for a week. He had a grave, boyish dignity, that clean-eyed, scrubbed-brain, naïve look of the happy professor.

  Kilrain, a white-haired man with the build of an ape, looked up at him with fatherly joy. “If ye’ll ride the horse today, Colonel, which the Lord hath provided, instead of walkin’ in the dust with the other fools, ye’ll be all right—if ye wear the hat. It’s the walkin’, do you see, that does the great harm.”

  “You walked,” Chamberlain said grumpily, thinking: shoot them? Maine men? How can I shoot Maine men? I’ll never be able to go home.

  “Ah, but, Colonel, darlin’, I’ve been in the infantry since before you was born. It’s them first few thousand miles. After that, a man gets a limber to his feet.”

  “Hey, Lawrence. How you doin’?”

  Younger brother, Tom Chamberlain, bright-faced, high-voiced, a new lieutenant, worshipful. The heat had not seemed to touch him. Chamberlain nodded. Tom said critically, “You lookin’ kinda peaked. Why don’t you ride the horse?”

  Chamberlain gloomed. But the day was not as bright as it had seemed through the opening of the tent. He looked upward with relief toward a darkening sky. The troops were moving in the fields, but there had been no order to march. The wagons were not yet loaded. He thought: God bless the delay. His mind was beginning to function. All down the road and all through the trees the troo
ps were moving, cooking, the thousands of troops and thousands of wagons of the Fifth Corps, Army of the Potomac, of which Chamberlain’s 20th Maine was a minor fragment. But far down the road there was motion.

  Kilrain said, “There they come.”

  Chamberlain squinted. Then he saw troops on the road, a long way off.

  The line of men came slowly up the road. There were guards with fixed bayonets. Chamberlain could see the men shuffling, strange pathetic spectacle, dusty, dirty, ragged men, heads down, faces down: it reminded him of a history-book picture of impressed seamen in the last war with England. But these men would have to march all day, in the heat. Chamberlain thought: not possible.

  Tom was meditating. “Gosh, Lawrence. There’s almost as many men there as we got in the whole regiment. How we going to guard them?”

  Chamberlain said nothing. He was thinking: How do you force a man to fight—for freedom? The idiocy of it jarred him. Think on it later. Must do something now.

  There was an officer, a captain, at the head of the column. The captain turned them in off the road and herded them into an open space in the field near the regimental flag. The men of the regiment, busy with coffee, stood up to watch. The captain had a loud voice and used obscene words. He assembled the men in two long ragged lines and called them to attention, but they ignored him. One slumped to the ground, more exhaustion than mutiny. A guard came forward and yelled and probed with a bayonet, but abruptly several more men sat down and then they all did, and the captain began yelling, but the guards stood grinning confusedly, foolishly, having gone as far as they would go, unwilling to push further unless the men here showed some threat, and the men seemed beyond threat, merely enormously weary. Chamberlain took it all in as he moved toward the captain. He put his hands behind his back and came forward slowly, studiously. The captain pulled off dirty gloves and shook his head with contempt, glowering up at Chamberlain.