The Killer Angels

by Michael Shaara

  Lee shook his head quickly, raised a hand as if warding him off.

  “Let’s concentrate, General, concentrate. I can’t risk losing a brigade.”

  Hood said nothing, glanced at Longstreet. McLaws was not quite sure where to post his division. They discussed that for a while, and then explained it to Hill. Longstreet turned suddenly to Sorrel, who was standing by.

  “Major, I need something to eat.”

  “To eat, sir? Of course, sir. What would you like, sir?”

  “Marching food,” Longstreet said. “I don’t give a damn what.”

  Sorrel moved off. Longstreet looked up and saw Harry Heth, a white bandage on his head, standing weakly by a tree, looking down vacantly to the map table, trying to comprehend.

  “How are you, Harry?” Longstreet said.

  Heth turned, squinted, blinked. “I’m fine,” he said. “What’s happening? Are you going to attack? Where’s my division?”

  Lee said, “Your division will not fight today, General. I want you to rest.” There was that tone in his voice, that marvelous warmth, that made them all look not at Heth but at Lee, the graybeard, the dark-eyed, the old man, the fighter.

  “Sir, I’m fine,” Heth said. But he could not even stand without the hand on the tree.

  Lee smiled. “Of course, sir. But I would rather you rested. We will soon be needing you.” He turned back to the table. “Gentlemen?” he said.

  They moved out. Alexander was off to place the artillery. McLaws moved out to join his division. Hood walked for a moment at Longstreet’s side.

  “We marched all night,” Hood said. “Took a two-hour break, from two A.M. to four, then marched again to get here.”

  “I know,” Longstreet said.

  “Law’s people will come even farther, with no rest. It’s twenty-four miles to Guilford. He left at three A.M. When he gets here he’ll be pretty tired.” Hood squinted at the sun. “Not that it makes much difference, I guess. But one thing, General. Everybody here’s had first crack at the water. I want to round some up for Law’s boys when they arrive. They’ll be thirsty, wells may be dry.”

  “See to it,” Longstreet said. “Any way you can.” He paused, watched the men around him moving into motion, men mounting horses, cannon moving past and swinging into position, the artillery people beginning to dig trenches alongside the guns. He said, “Your idea of moving to the right was sound, but his mind was set. Well, we’ll do what we can.” He turned. At moments like this it was difficult to look a man in the eye. He put out his hand.

  “Well, Sam, let’s go to it. Take care of yourself.”

  Hood took the hand, held it for a moment. Sometimes you touched a man like this and it was the last time, and the next time you saw him he was cold and white and bloodless, and the warmth was gone forever.

  Hood said, “And you, Pete.” He walked away, thin, awkward, long bony strides. Longstreet thought: Best soldier in the army. If it can be done, he will do it. He and Pickett. My two. Oh God, there’s not enough of them. We have to spend them like gold, in single pieces. Once they’re gone, there will be no more.

  Sorrel appeared with a tin plate, a steaming slab of meat.

  “What’s that?” Longstreet sniffed.

  “Bit of steak, sir. Compliments of Major Moses.”

  Longstreet picked it up in his fingers, too hot, sucked the ends of his fingers: delicious.

  “Major Moses thought you wanted fighting food, sir.”

  Longstreet ate with slow delight. Hot food for a hot day. Will be much hotter later on.

  Longstreet moved toward his command. The corps was to be led into position by Lee’s engineer, Captain Johnston, who had scouted the area this morning. Lee had gone off to see Ewell, to explain the attack to him. Longstreet told Johnston, “Time doesn’t matter here. What matters is surprise. We must go on unobserved. We’re hitting them on the flank. If they see us coming they’ll have time to swing round their artillery and it’ll be a damn slaughter. So you take your time, Captain, but I don’t want us observed.”

  Johnston saluted, his face strained. “Sir,” he said, “may I make a point?”

  “Make away.”

  “General Lee has ordered me to conduct you to the field. But, sir, I scouted the Union position this morning, not the roads leading to it. I don’t know much more about how to get there than you do.”

  Longstreet sighed. Stuart’s fault. If there were cavalry here, the roads and routes would be known. Longstreet said, “All right, Captain. But anything you know is more than I know.”

  “But, sir, General Lee is giving me responsibility for an entire corps.” Johnston sweated.

  “I know, Captain. It’s a weight, isn’t it? Well. You lead on as best you can. If you get nervous, call. But I don’t want us observed.”

  “Yes, sir, very good, sir.” He rode off.

  Longstreet took out a treasured cigar, lighted it, chomped it. Stuart. He ought to be court-martialed.

  Would you do it? Court-martial Stuart?

  Yes, I would.

  Seriously? Or are you just talking?

  Longstreet thought a moment. Lee wouldn’t. Lee won’t.

  But I would.

  The long march began at around noon, the sun high in a cloudless sea of burning haze. A messenger came in from Law: he had joined Hood’s column back at Willoughby Run. A superb march. Longstreet sent his compliments, hoped Hood got him the water. On little things like that—a cup of water—battles were decided. Generalship? How much of a factor is it, really?

  He rode in the dust of a blazing road, brooding in his saddle. The hot meat had fired him. He rode alone, and then there was cheering behind him, raw, hoarse cheering from dusty throats, and there was Lee—the old man with the slight smile, the eyes bright with new vigor, revived, the fight coming up to warm him like sunrise.

  “General.” Longstreet touched his cap.

  “You don’t mind if I accompany you?” Lee said in the gravely formal gentleman’s way.

  Longstreet bowed. “Glad to have you with us.” There was a peculiar hilarity in Longstreet’s breast, the mulish foolish hungry feeling you get just before an assault. There was a certain wild independence in the air, blowing like a hot wind inside his head. He felt an absurd impulse to josh old Lee, to pat him on the back and ruffle the white hair and tell immoral stories. He felt foolish, fond, and hungry. Lee looked at him and abruptly smiled, almost a grin, a sudden light blazing in black round eyes.

  “Heat reminds me of Mexico,” Longstreet said. Visions of those days rolled and boiled: white smoke blowing through broken white buildings, wild-haired Pickett going over the wall, man’s face with pools of dirt in the eyes, sky wheeling in black blotches, silver blotches, after the wound. Lieutenant Longstreet: for distinguished service on the field of battle …

  “Yes, but there it was very dry.” Lee squinted upward. “And I believe it was warmer. Yes, it was undoubtedly warmer.”

  “That was a good outfit. There were some very good men in that outfit.”

  “Yes,” Lee said.

  “Some of them are up ahead now, waiting for us.”

  And the past flared again in Longstreet’s mind, and the world tilted, and for a moment they were all one army again, riding with old friends through the white dust toward Chapultepec. And then it was past. He blinked, grimaced, looked at Lee. The old man was gazing silently ahead into the rising dust.

  “It troubles me sometimes,” Longstreet said. His mind rang a warning, but he went on grimly, as you ride over rocks. “They’re never quite the enemy, those boys in blue.”

  “I know,” Lee said.

  “I used to command those boys,” Longstreet said. “Difficult thing to fight men you used to command.”

  Lee said nothing.

  “Swore an oath too,” Longstreet said. He shook his head violently. Strange thought to have, at this moment. “I must say, there are times when I’m troubled. But … couldn’t fight against home. Not against your ow
n family. And yet … we broke the vow.”

  Lee said, “Let’s not think on this today.”

  “Yes,” Longstreet said. There was a moment of dusty silence. He grumbled to himself: why did you start that? Why talk about that now? Damn fool.

  Then Lee said, “There was a higher duty to Virginia. That was the first duty. There was never any doubt about that.”

  “Guess not,” Longstreet said. But we broke the vow.

  Lee said, “The issue is in God’s hands. We will live with His decision, whichever way it goes.”

  Longstreet glanced at the dusty face, saw a shadow cross the eyes like a passing wing. Lee said, “I pray it will be over soon.”

  “Amen,” Longstreet said.

  They rode for a while in silence, a tiny island in the smoky stream of marching men. Then Lee said slowly, in a strange, soft, slow tone of voice, “Soldiering has one great trap.”

  Longstreet turned to see his face. Lee was riding slowly ahead, without expression. He spoke in that same slow voice.

  “To be a good soldier you must love the army. But to be a good officer you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love. That is … a very hard thing to do. No other profession requires it. That is one reason why there are so very few good officers. Although there are many good men.”

  Lee rarely lectured. Longstreet sensed a message beyond it. He waited. Lee said, “We don’t fear our own deaths, you and I.” He smiled slightly, then glanced away. “We protect ourselves out of military necessity, not fear. You, sir, do not protect yourself enough and must give thought to it. I need you. But the point is, we are not afraid to die. We are prepared for our own deaths and for the deaths of comrades. We learn that at the Point. But I have seen this happen: We are not prepared for as many deaths as we have to face, inevitably as the war goes on. There comes a time …”

  He paused. He had been gazing straight ahead, away from Longstreet. Now, black-eyed, he turned back, glanced once quickly into Longstreet’s eyes, then looked away.

  “We are never prepared for so many to die. Do you understand? No one is. We expect some chosen few. We expect an occasional empty chair, a toast to dear departed comrades. Victory celebrations for most of us, a hallowed death for a few. But the war goes on. And the men die. The price gets ever higher. Some officers … can pay no longer. We are prepared to lose some of us.” He paused again. “But never all of us. Surely not all of us. But … that is the trap. You can hold nothing back when you attack. You must commit yourself totally. And yet, if they all die, a man must ask himself, will it have been worth it?”

  Longstreet felt a coldness down his spine. He had never heard Lee speak this way. He had not known Lee thought of this kind of thing. He said, “You think I feel too much for the men.”

  “Oh no.” Lee shook his head quickly. “Not too much. I did not say ‘too much.’ But I … was just speaking.”

  Longstreet thought: Possible? But his mind said: No. It is not that. That’s the trap all right, but it’s not my trap. Not yet. But he thinks I love the men too much. He thinks that’s where all the talk of defense comes from. My God … But there’s no time.

  Lee said, “General, you know, I’ve not been well lately.”

  That was so unlike him that Longstreet turned to stare. But the face was calm, composed, watchful. Longstreet felt a rumble of unexpected affection. Lee said, “I hope my illness has not affected my judgment. I rely on you always to tell me the truth as you see it.”

  “Of course.”

  “No matter how much I disagree.”

  Longstreet shrugged.

  “I want this to be the last battle,” Lee said. He took a deep breath. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, as if to confide something terribly important. “You know, General, under this beard I’m not a young man.”

  Longstreet chuckled, grumbled, rubbed his nose.

  A courier came toiling down the dusty lane, pushing his horse through the crowded troops. The man rode to Lee. In this army Lee was always easy to find. The courier, whom Longstreet did not recognize, saluted, then for some unaccountable reason took off his hat, stood bareheaded in the sun, yellow hair plastered wetly all over his scalp.

  “Message from General Hood, sir.”

  “Yes.” Politely, Lee waited.

  “The General says to tell you that the Yankees are moving troops up on the high Rocky Hill, the one to the right. And there’s a signal team up there.”*

  Lee nodded, gave his compliments.

  “That was to be expected. Tell General Hood that General Meade might have saved himself the trouble. We’ll have that hill before night.”

  The courier put his hat back on and rode off. They rode on for a while in silence. Then Lee halted abruptly in the center of the road. He said, “I suppose I should be getting back. I’ll only be in your way.”

  “Not at all,” Longstreet said. But it was Lee’s practice to back off, once the fight had begun, and let the commanders handle it. He could see that Lee was reluctant to go. Gradually it dawned on him that Lee was worried for him.

  “You know,” Lee said slowly, looking eastward again, toward the heights, “when I awoke this morning I half thought he’d be gone, General Meade, that he would not want to fight here. When I woke up I thought, yes, Meade will be gone, and Longstreet will be happy, and then I can please Old Pete, my warhorse.”

  “We’ll make him sorry he stayed.” Longstreet grinned.

  “They fought well yesterday. Meredith’s brigade put up a fine fight. They will fight well again today.”

  Longstreet smiled. “We’ll see,” he said.

  Lee put out a hand. Longstreet took it. The grip no longer quite so firm, the hand no longer quite so large.

  “God go with you,” Lee said. It was like a blessing from a minister. Longstreet nodded. Lee rode off.

  Now Longstreet was alone. And now he felt a cold depression. He did not know why. He chewed another cigar. The army ahead halted. He rode past waiting men, gradually began to become annoyed. He looked up and saw Captain Johnston riding back, his face flushed and worried.

  “General,” Johnston said, “I’m sorry, but if we go on down this road the enemy will view us.”

  Longstreet swore. He began to ride ahead, saw Joe Kershaw ahead, on horseback, waiting with his South Carolina Brigade. Longstreet said, “Come on, Joe, let’s see what’s up.”

  They rode together, Johnston following, across a road crossing from east to west. On the north corner there was a tavern, deserted, the door open into a black interior. Beyond the tavern was a rise—Herr Ridge, Johnston said, a continuation of the ridge leading out from town, facing Seminary Ridge about a mile away, not two miles from the Rocky Hill. Longstreet rode up from under a clump of trees into the open. In front of him was a broad green field at least half a mile wide, spreading eastward. To the south loomed the Rocky Hill, gray boulders clearly visible along the top, and beyond it the higher eminence of the Round Hill. Any march along here would be clearly visible to troops on that hill. Longstreet swore again.

  “Damn!” he roared, then abruptly shut his mouth.

  Johnston said worriedly, “General, I’m sorry.”

  Longstreet said, “But you’re dead right. We’ll have to find another road.” He turned to Kershaw. “Joe, we’re turning around. I’m taking over as guide. Send somebody for my staff.”

  Sorrel and Goree were coming up, then Osmun Latrobe. Longstreet outlined the change: both divisions would have to stop where they were and turn around. Longstreet rode gloomily back along the line. God, how long a delay would there be? It was after one now. Lee’s attack was en echelon. That took a long time. Well, we’ll get this right in a hurry. He sent Sorrel to Lee with word of the change of direction. Then he scouted for a new path. He rode all the way back to the Cashtown Road, getting madder and madder as he rode. If Stuart had appeared at that moment Longstreet would have arrested him.

  To save time, he ordered the brigades to do
uble the line of march. But time was passing. There was a flurry over near the center. Longstreet sent Goree to find out what was happening and it turned out to be nothing much—a skirmish of pickets in Anderson’s front.

  They marched, seventeen thousand men, their wagons, their artillery. Captain Johnston was shattered; it was all his fault. Longstreet propped him up. If it was anybody’s fault, it was Stuart’s. But it was maddening. He found a new route along Willoughby Run, followed it down through the dark woods. At least it was out of the sun. Most of these men had marched all the day before and all the night and they were fading visibly, lean men, hollow-eyed, falling out to stare whitely at nothing as you passed, and they were expected to march now again and fight at the end of it. He moved finally out through the woods across country in the general direction he knew had to be right and so came at last within sight of that gray tower, that damned rocky hill, but they were under cover of the trees along Seminary Ridge and so there ought to be at least some semblance of surprise. Sorrel rode back and forth with reports to Lee, who was becoming steadily more unnerved, and Sorrel had a very bad habit of being a bit too presumptuous on occasion, and finally Longstreet turned in his saddle and roared, “Sorrel, God damn it! Everybody has his pace. This is mine.”

  Sorrel retreated to a distance. Longstreet would not be hurried. He placed Hood to the right, then McLaws before him. Anderson’s division of Hill’s corps should be next in line. The soldiers were still moving into line when McLaws was back. He was mildly confused.

  “General, I understood General Lee to say that the enemy would be up on the ridge back there and we would attack across the road and up the ridge.”

  Longstreet said, “That’s correct.”

  McLaws hummed, scratched his face.

  “Well?” Longstreet said ominously.

  “Well, the enemy’s right in front of me. He’s dug in just across that road. He’s all over that peach orchard.”

  Longstreet took out his glasses, rode that way, out into the open, looked. But this was a poor point, low ground; there was brush country ahead and he could not see clearly. He began to ride forward. He heard the popping of rifle fire to the north. Nothing much, not yet. But then there was the whine of a bullet in the air, here and past, gone away, death sliding through the air a few feet above him, disappearing behind him. Longstreet grunted. Sniper? From where? He scanned the brush. God knows. Can’t worry now. He rode to a rail fence, stared down a slope, saw a battery a long way off, down in flat ground beyond the peach orchard. Blue troops speckled a long fence. He could see them moving rails.