The Killer Angels

by Michael Shaara

  The morning at war. Marvelous. Good men around a table. What a joy to be with the winners! All these men had nothing but contempt for the Yankees, whom they had beaten so often. There was even an air of regret at the table, a sense of seize the day, as if these bright moments of good fellowship before battle were numbered, that the war would soon be over, and all this would end, and we would all go back to the duller pursuits of peace. Fremantle enjoyed himself enormously. Southerners! They were Englishmen, by George. Fremantle was at home.

  He ate hot eggs, warm bread, reveled in steaming tea, although the water from which the tea was made left an aftertaste in the mouth, afterthoughts in the brain: from what nearby barn? The men all chatted, joked. Fremantle was sorry to see breakfast end. But the sun was fully up. Now once more he could expect the big thunder of cannon. Must not miss it today. Sorrel promised to keep him informed. They rode together toward the lines, hoping for a good view.

  So Fremantle came to Gettysburg, saw the bodies unburied in the fields, beginning to become offensive in the heat of the morning, poor chaps. They turned off to the right and rode up through a grove of trees to higher ground, and through the trees Fremantle could already see the blue ridge to the east, soft in the morning haze, where the Yankees were camped. But he could see no troops, no movement. He felt his stomach tighten, his breath grow sharp. In the presence of the enemy! In range of the guns! He passed a battery of Southern artillery, mixed Napoleons and Parrots, served by wagons stamped USA.

  Sorrel said, “We get most of our wagons from the enemy. Many of the guns. Their artillery is very good. But ours will get better.”

  The Austrian, Ross, had ridden up beside them. One of the gunners, a lean, barefoot man in dusty brown, stared at him unbelievingly as he passed, then bawled in a piercing voice that carried all along the line, “Hey, mister. You in blue. What you do, man, you look like you swallowed some mice.”

  Sorrel put his hand over his mouth. Ross stared back, uncomprehending.

  Fremantle said cheerily, “The fellow is referring to the waxed mustache, old friend.”

  Ross grumbled, twitched the mustache, stroked the ends lovingly, glowered. They rode to Lee’s headquarters, then beyond, up the ridge to where the generals were meeting.

  There was a gathering of officers, too many men. Sorrel suggested that if Fremantle wanted a good view, he should find a convenient tree. Fremantle wandered forward, with Lawley, through the cool green woods, to the same commanding position he had the day before, climbed the same wide oak. There below him, not fifty feet away, he recognized Longstreet, then Lee. The officers were in consultation.

  Lee was standing with his back to the group, bareheaded, the white hair flicking in the breeze. He was gazing out toward the Union lines, which were clearly visible in the east. He put his field glasses to his eyes, looked, put them down, walked two or three paces south, turned, looked again, slowly walked back and forth. Longstreet was sitting on a camp stool, whittling slowly on a stick, making a point, sharpening the point, sharpening, sharpening. A. P. Hill, looking much healthier than the day before, was chatting with another officer, unidentified. Sitting next to Longstreet, on a stump, also whittling, was a tall slim man with an extraordinary face, eyes with a cold glint in them, erect in posture even as he sat, cutting a stick. Fremantle asked, impressed, “Who is that?”

  Lawley: “That’s Hood. John Bell Hood. They call him ‘Sam,’ I think. He commands one of Longstreet’s divisions. From Texas, I believe.”

  “Does his behavior in battle match his appearance?”

  “He does his job,” Lawley said laconically.

  “An interesting army,” Fremantle said. “Most interesting.”

  Lee had turned, was saying something to Longstreet. Longstreet shook his head. Hill came closer.

  Lawley said, “The Yankees have dug in. But I don’t see any trenches anywhere here. That means we’ll attack.”

  The “we” was inevitable, but Fremantle noticed it. He felt a part, almost a member, of this marvelous group of outnumbered men. Englishmen. They called themselves Americans, but they were transplanted Englishmen. Look at the names: Lee, Hill, Longstreet, Jackson, Stuart. And Lee was Church of England. Most of them were. All gentlemen. No finer gentlemen in England than Lee. Well, of course, here and there, possibly one exception. Or two.

  Nevertheless, they are our people. Proud to have them. And perhaps they will rejoin the Queen and it will be as it was, as it always should have been.

  They had talked of that the evening before. Every one of the officers had insisted that the South would be happier under the Queen than under the Union. Of course, hard to say what they meant. But if England came to help now, would it not be possible? That this soil would once again be English soil?

  He had borrowed glasses from Sorrel, was looking at the Union lines. He could see the cannon now, rolled out in front of the trees. He could see men moving among the caissons, men on horseback moving in the trees; here and there a pennant blew. He saw a flash of gold. Breastworks were going up, twisted sticks, small, very far away. There was an open valley below him, partly cultivated, then a long bare rise to the Union line. To the left was the high hill, Cemetery Hill, that Ewell had failed to take the day before, the hill that had worried Longstreet. To the center was a wooded ridge. To the right were two round hills, one rocky, the other wooded. The Union position was approximately three miles in length, or so it seemed from here. All this Fremantle saw with continually rising excitement.

  He looked down, saw Longstreet rise, move off, shoulders bowed, wandering head down and lumbering, like a bearded stump, to stare out at the lines. Hood joined him. Once more Longstreet shook his head. Lee came back to a small table, stared at a map, looked up, back toward the Union lines, keeping his hand on the map. Fremantle had a good look at that extraordinary face. Lee looked weary, more pale than before. The sun was climbing; it was noticeably hotter. Fremantle felt a familiar rumble in his own stomach. Oh God, not the Soldier’s Disease. Those damned cherries.

  There seemed no point in remaining in the tree. Soldiers had observed him, hanging in the air like a plump gray fruit, were beginning to point and grin. Fremantle descended with dignity, joined the other foreigners. He heard, for the first time that day, music: a polka. He listened with surprise. He could not identify the sound but he knew the beat. It was followed by a march.

  Ross said, “They play even during an attack. Not very good. But inspiring. Have you heard the Rebel yell?”

  Fremantle nodded. “Godawful sound. I expect they learned it from Indians.”

  Ross opened wide his eyes. “Never thought of that,” he said. His silver helmet shifted. Sweat was all over his brow.

  “I say, old friend, you really aren’t going to wear that thing all day, are you? In this charming climate?”

  “Well,” Ross said. He tweaked his mustache. “One must be properly dressed. Teach these fellas respect.”

  Fremantle nodded. Understandable. One tried to be neat. But that helmet. And Ross did tend to look a bit ridiculous. Like some sort of fat plumed duck. These chaps all looked so natural, so … earthy. Not the officers. But the troops. Hardly any uniform at all. Brown and yellow. Americans. Odd. So near, yet so far.

  He saw Moxley Sorrel, walking briskly off on a mission, “corralled him,” as the Americans would put it.

  Sorrel said, “We’ve sent out engineers to inspect the ground to our right. We’ll be attacking later in the day. Don’t know where yet, so you can relax, I should say, for two hours or so at least.”

  “Have you heard from General Stuart?”

  “Not a word. General Lee has sent out scouts to find him.” Sorrel chuckled. “Cheer up, you may have your charge.”

  “I hope to have a good position today.”

  “We’ll do all we can. I suggest you stay close to Longstreet. There’ll be action where he is.”

  Sorrel moved off. Through the trees Fremantle saw Longstreet mounting his horse. Frema
ntle led his own horse that way. Longstreet had Goree with him, the aide from Texas. The greeting was friendly, even warm. Fremantle thought, startled, he likes me, and flushed with unexpected pride. He asked if he could ride with the General; Longstreet nodded. They rode down to the right, along the spine of the ridge, in under the trees. Most of Longstreet’s staff had joined them.

  Longstreet said to Hood, “I’ll do what I can. His mind seems set on it.”

  Hood shrugged. He seemed smaller now when you were close. He had extraordinary eyes. The eyebrows were shaggy and tilted and the eyes were dark as coal so that he seemed very sad. Fremantle had a sudden numbing thought: by evening this man could be dead. Fremantle stared at him, transfixed, trying to sense a premonition. He had never had a premonition, but he had heard of them happening, particularly on the battlefield. Men often knew when their time had come. He stared at Hood, but truthfully, except for the sadness in the eyes, which may have been only weariness, for Hood had marched all night, there was no extra sensation, nothing at all but a certain delicious air of impending combat which was with them all, Longstreet most of all, sitting round and immobile on the black horse, gazing eastward.

  Hood said, “Well, if he’s right, then the war is over by sundown.”

  Longstreet nodded.

  “We’ll see. But going in without Pickett is like going in with one boot off. I’ll wait as long as I can.”

  Hood cocked his head toward the Union lines. “Do you have any idea of the force?”

  Longstreet ticked off the corps so far identified: five, counting the two involved in the first day’s action. He thought there would be more very soon, that perhaps even now the entire army was up. Lee did not think so. But yesterday he had not thought the Yankees would be there at all, and they were there in force, and now today the Yankees were on the high ground and with Stuart gone there was no way of knowing just how many corps lay in wait beyond the haze of that far ridge.

  Fremantle rode along politely, silently, listening. He had developed a confidence that was almost absolute. He knew that Longstreet was tense and that there was a certain gloom in the set of his face, but Fremantle knew with the certainty of youth and faith that he could not possibly lose this day, not with these troops, not with Englishmen, the gentlemen against the rabble. He rode along with delight blossoming in him like a roseate flower, listening. Longstreet looked at him vacantly, saw him, then looked at him.

  “Colonel,” he said abruptly, “how are you?”

  “By George, sir, I am fine, I must say.”

  “You slept well?”

  Fremantle thought: everyone seems concerned that I sleep well.

  “Oh, very well.” He paused. “Not long, mind you, but well.”

  Longstreet smiled. There seemed to be something about Fremantle that amused him. Fremantle was oddly flattered; he did not know why.

  “I would like someday to meet the Queen,” Longstreet said.

  “I’m sure that could be arranged. Sir, you would be considered most welcome in my country, a most distinguished visitor.”

  There was firing below, a sharp popping, a scattering of shots, a bunch, another bunch, then silence. Longstreet put on his glasses, looked down into the valley. “Pickets,” he said.

  Fremantle, who did not know what to expect, started, gulped, stared. But he was delighted. He saw puffs of white smoke start up down in the valley, like vents in the earth, blow slowly lazily to his left, to the north. He looked up at the ridge, but he could see only a few black cannon, a single flag. He said abruptly, “I say, sir, you say you won’t be attacking for a bit?”

  Longstreet shook his head.

  “Then, ah, if I may be so bold, what’s to prevent the Yankees from attacking you?”

  Longstreet looked at Hood.

  “I mean, ah, I don’t see that you have bothered to entrench,” Fremantle went on.

  Longstreet grinned. Hood grinned.

  “An interesting thought.” Longstreet smiled. “I confess, it had not occurred to me.”

  “Me neither,” Hood said.

  “But I suppose it’s possible,” Longstreet said.

  “You really think so?”

  “Well.” Longstreet hedged. He grinned, reached up along the edge of his hat, scratched his head. “I guess not.” More soberly, he turned to Fremantle. “It would be most unlike General Meade to attack. For one thing, he is General Meade. For another, he has just arrived on the field and it will take him some time to understand the position, like perhaps a week. Also, he has not yet managed to gather the entire Army of the Potomac, all two hundred thousand men, and he will be reluctant to move without his full force. Then again, he will think of reasons.” Longstreet shook his head, and Fremantle saw that he had again lost his humor. “No, Meade will not do us the favor, the great favor. We will have to make him attack. We will have to occupy dangerous ground between him and Washington and let the politicians push him to the assault. Which they will most certainly do. Given time. We need time.”

  He paused, shook his head. They rode on in silence. Fremantle began to realize how remarkably still it was. Down in the valley the fields were open and still, the breeze had slowed, there was no movement of smoke. A few cows grazed in the shade, rested in dark pools of shade under the trees. Fremantle could feel the presence of that vast army; he knew it was there, thousands of men, thousands of horses, miles of cannon, miles of steel. And spread out beyond him and around him Lee’s whole army in the dark shade, moving, settling, lining up for the assault, and yet from this point on the ridge under the tree he could look out across the whole valley and see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, not even a trembling of the earth, not even one small slow rumble of all those feet and wheels moving against the earth, moving in together like two waves meeting in a great ocean, like two avalanches coming down together on facing sides of a green mountain. The day had dawned clear, but now there were clouds beginning to patch the sky with hazy blots of cottony white, and not even any motion there, just the white silence against the blue. It was beginning to be very hot, hotter even than before, and Fremantle noticed perspiration on all the faces. He had not slept well, and suddenly the silence and the heat began to get to him. He was a man from a northern clime and England did not have this sort of weather, and when you have not slept …

  He was most anxious to move on with Longstreet, but he saw Lawley and Ross pull off into an open field and sit down, and so he bade Longstreet goodbye and rode off to join his fellow Europeans. He let his horse roam with the others in a fenced field and found himself a grassy place under a charming tree and lay flat on his back, gazing up serenely into the blue, watching those curious flecks that you can see if you stare upward against the vacant blue, the defects of your own eye.

  They chatted, telling stories of other wars. They discussed the strategy of Napoleon, the theories of Jomini, the women of Richmond. Fremantle was not that impressed by Napoleon. But he was impressed by the women of Richmond. He lay dreamily remembering certain ladies, a ball, a rose garden …

  This land was huge. England had a sense of compactness, like a garden, a lovely garden, but this country was without borders. There was this refreshing sense of space, of blowing winds, too hot, too cold, too huge, raw in a way raw meat is raw—and yet there were the neat farms, the green country, so much like Home. The people so much like Home. Southern Home. Couldn’t grow flowers, these people. No gardens. Great weakness. And yet. They are Englishmen. Should I tell Longstreet? Would it annoy him?

  He thinks, after all, that he is an American.

  Um. The great experiment. In democracy. The equality of rabble. In not much more than a generation they have come back to class. As the French have done. What a tragic thing, that Revolution. Bloody George was a bloody fool. But no matter. The experiment doesn’t work. Give them fifty years, and all that equality rot is gone. Here they have that same love of the land and of tradition, of the right form, of breeding, in their horses, their women. Of course
slavery is a bit embarrassing, but that, of course, will go. But the point is they do it all exactly as we do in Europe. And the North does not. That’s what the war is really about. The North has those huge bloody cities and a thousand religions, and the only aristocracy is the aristocracy of wealth. The Northerner doesn’t give a damn for tradition, or breeding, or the Old Country. He hates the Old Country. Odd. You very rarely hear a Southerner refer to “the Old Country.” In that pained way a German does. Or an Italian. Well, of course, the South is the Old Country. They haven’t left Europe. They’ve merely transplanted it. And that’s what the war is about.

  Fremantle opened an eye. It occurred to him that he might have come across something rather profound, something to take back to England. The more he thought about it, the more clear it seemed. In the South there was one religion, as in England, one way of life. They even allowed the occasional Jew—like Longstreet’s Major Moses, or Judah Benjamin, back in Richmond—but by and large they were all the same nationality, same religion, same customs. A little rougher, perhaps, but … my word.

  Fremantle sat up. Major Clarke was resting, back against a tree. Fremantle said, “I say, Major, Longstreet is an English name, I should imagine.”