The Killer Angels

by Michael Shaara

  Longstreet nodded.

  “You will have three divisions. Your objective will be that clump of trees … there.”

  He pointed. The center of the Union line, the center of the ridge. The clump of trees was clear, isolated. In the center of the clump was one large tree shaped like an umbrella. Unmistakable. Longstreet nodded, listened, tried not to think.

  “Your attack will be preceded by massed artillery fire. A feu d’enfer. We will concentrate all our guns on that small area. When the artillery has had its effect, your charge will break the line. The rest of Hill’s people will be waiting. Stuart has already gone round to the rear.”

  Lee turned. Now the excitement was in his eyes. He leaned forward, gazing at Longstreet, hoping to strike fire, but Longstreet said nothing, stood listening, head bowed.

  Lee said, “Those three divisions … will give you fifteen thousand men.”

  Longstreet said, “Yes, sir.” He stared at the ridge. He said suddenly, “Hancock is up there.”

  Lee nodded. “Yes, that’s the Second Corps.”

  Longstreet said, “Hard on Armistead.”

  Lee said, “You can begin at any time. But plan it well, plan it well. We stake everything on this.”

  “Sir?” Longstreet thought: I can’t. “Sir,” Longstreet said, “you are giving me two of Hill’s divisions, only one of mine. Most of the troops will be Hill’s. Wouldn’t it be better to give the attack to Hill?”

  Lee shook his head. He said, “General, I want you to make this attack.” Longstreet took another deep breath. Lee said, “General, I need you.”

  Longstreet said, “Sir, with your permission.”

  Lee waited. Longstreet spoke and did not want to look him in the face, but did, spoke looking at the weary face, the ancient eyes, the old man who was more than father of the army, symbol of war. “Sir, I have been a soldier all my life. I have served from the ranks on up. You know my service. I have to tell you now, sir, that I believe this attack will fail. I believe that no fifteen thousand men ever set for battle could take that hill, sir.”

  Lee raised a hand. Longstreet had seen the anger before, had never seen it turned toward him. It was as if Longstreet was betraying him. But Longstreet went on: “It is a distance of more than a mile. Over open ground. As soon as we leave the trees we will be under the fire of their artillery. From all over the field. At the top of the hill are Hancock’s boys—”

  Lee said, “That’s enough.”

  He turned away. He called Taylor. For a long moment Longstreet thought: he is relieving me. But Lee was sending for someone. Longstreet thought: he should relieve me. He should give it to A. P. Hill. But he knew Hill could not take it, no one could take it; there was no one else Lee could rely on, nothing else to do. It was all set and fated like the coming of the bloody heat, the damned rising of the damned sun, and nothing to do, no way to prevent it, my weary old man, God help us, what are you doing?

  Not thinking clearly anymore, Longstreet composed himself. Lee came back. Lee said calmly, “General, do you have any question?”

  Longstreet shook his head. Lee came to him, touched his arm.

  “General, we all do our duty. We do what we have to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Longstreet said, not looking at him.

  “Alexander is handling the artillery. He is very good. We will rely on him to break them up before Pickett gets there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Heth is still too ill for action. I am giving his division to Johnston Pettigrew. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  Longstreet nodded.

  “Pender is out of action, too. Who would you suggest for the command there?”

  Longstreet could not think. He said, “Anyone you choose.”

  “Well,” Lee meditated. “How about Isaac Trimble? No one in the army has more fight in him than Trimble.”

  “Yes,” Longstreet said.

  “Good. Then that’s agreed. Pettigrew, Pickett, and Trimble. The new commanders won’t really matter, in an attack of this kind. The men will know where to go.”

  He went over the plan again. He wanted to be certain, this day, that it all went well, laying it all out like the tracks of a railroad. He was confident, excited, the blood was up. He thought the army could do anything. Longstreet felt the weariness, the heat of the day. The objective was clear. All fifteen thousand men would concentrate, finally, on a small stone wall perhaps a hundred yards wide. They might break through. It was possible.

  Lee said, “The line there is not strong. Meade has strengthened both his flanks; he must be weak in the center. I estimate his strength in the center at not much more than five thousand men. The artillery barrage will upset them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there anything you need? Take whatever time you need.”

  “I have always been slow,” Longstreet said.

  “There is no one I trust more.”

  “If the line can be broken …” Longstreet said.

  “It can. It will.” Lee paused, smiled.

  “If it can be done, those boys will do it.” Longstreet moved back formally, saluted.

  Lee returned the salute, tall, erect, radiating faith and confidence. He said slowly, the voice of the father, “General Longstreet, God go with you.”

  Longstreet rode off to summon his staff.

  What was needed now was control, absolute control. Lee was right about that: a man who could not control himself had no right to command an army. They must not know my doubts, they must not. So I will send them all forward and say nothing, absolutely nothing, except what must be said. But he looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Control took a few moments. He was not sure he could do it. There had never been anything like this in his life before. But here was Pickett, wide-eyed, curious, long hair ringed and combed, mounted on a black horse, under a great tree.

  Longstreet told him the orders. Pickett whooped with joy. Longstreet let him go off to form his troops. He looked at his watch: not yet noon. It would be some time yet. He sent for the other officers, for Porter Alexander. The fight on the far left was dying; Ewell was done. There would be no support there. He felt a moment of curious suspension, as when you have been awake for a long time you have certain moments of unreality, of numbness, of the beginning of sleep. It passed. He heard cannon fire to the left, closer. A. P. Hill was shooting at something. Alexander rode up: a young man, nondescript face but very capable. He was excited, hatless. He apologized for the loss of the hat.

  “Sir, ah, we seem to have upset Colonel Walton. He has just reminded me that he is the senior artillery officer in this corps.”

  Longstreet moved out to the edge of the trees. He indicated the limits of the attack, where the fire should converge. He explained it slowly, methodically, with great care. The Union cannon up on the Rocky Hill would cause trouble. Alexander should assign guns to keep them quiet. He should have more guns ready to move forward with the attack, keeping the flanks clear. It occurred to Longstreet that this was a grave responsibility. He interrupted himself, said suddenly, “How old are you, son?”

  “Sir? Ah, twenty-six, sir.”

  Longstreet nodded, looked into the unlined face, the bright, dark, anxious eyes. Best gunner in the corps. We make do with what we have. He said, “Can you clean those guns off that hill, son?”

  “Sir? Well, sir, I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “Well,” Longstreet said. He thought: I’m seeking reassurance. Let it go. He said, “I am relying on you, son.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alexander bobbed his head several times, kicked the turf. “I’ll sure keep ’em shootin’, sir.”

  “Don’t open fire until I give you the word, until everything’s in position. Then fire with everything you have. Get yourself a good observation point so you can see the damage we’re doing. We’ve got to drive some of those people off that hill. If we don’t do that … I’ll rely on your judgment.”

  A great weight to put upon him.
But nothing else to do. Alexander saluted, moved off. Here came Sorrel, bringing with him, on horseback, Generals Pettigrew and Trimble. Longstreet greeted them, sent for Pickett. He got down from his horse and walked over to the open space on the ground where the staff had spread the camp stools, and asked for coffee. They sat in a circle, lesser officers at a distance, almost in files, by rank. Longstreet wore the expressionless face, drank the coffee, said nothing at all, looked at them.

  Johnston Pettigrew: handsome, fine-featured. An intellectual. Very few intellectuals in this army. He had attended the University of North Carolina and they talked of his grades there with reverence and awe. Curious thing, Longstreet thought. He smiled slightly. Here’s our intellectual, Pettigrew, going into battle side by side with old Pickett, last in his class. He chuckled. The men were watching him, sensing his mood. They seemed happy to see him grin. Longstreet looked at Pettigrew.

  “They tell me you’ve written a book.”

  “Sir? Oh, yes, sir.” Firm sound to the voice, clear calm eye. Lee thinks the world of him. He will do all right.

  “What was it about?”

  “Oh, it was only a minor work, sir.”

  “I’ll have to read it.”

  “You will have a copy, sir, with my compliments.” To Longstreet’s surprise, Pettigrew rose, summoned an aide, dispatched the man for the book.

  Longstreet grinned again. He said, “General, I doubt if I’ll have time today.”

  “At your leisure, sir.” Pettigrew bowed formally.

  Longstreet looked at Isaac Trimble. He was breathing hard, face red and puffy, a bewildered look to him. He had a reputation as a fire-breather. He did not look like it. His beard was fully white, his hair puffed and frizzled. Well, Longstreet thought, we shall see.

  Pickett came up, joined the circle. Introductions were unnecessary. Longstreet ordered coffee all around, but Trimble would not take any; his stomach was troubling him. Sorrel was the only other officer to hear the orders. Longstreet explained it all slowly, watching them. Pickett was excited, could not sit still, sat rubbing his thighs with both hands, nodding, patting himself on the knees. Pettigrew was calm and pale and still. Trimble breathed deeply, rubbed his nose. His face grew more and more crimson. Longstreet began to understand that the old man was deeply moved. When he was done with the orders Longstreet drew the alignment in the dirt:

  They all understood. Then Longstreet rose and walked out to the edge of the trees, out into the open, for a look at the Union line. He pointed to the clump of trees. There were a few minor questions. Longstreet told them to keep that clump in sight as they moved back to their troops, to make sure that there was no confusion. The attack would guide on Pickett. More minor questions, then silence. They stood together, the four men, looking up at the Union line. The mist had burned away; there were a few clouds, a slight haze. Hill’s guns had stopped; there was a general silence.

  Longstreet said, “Gentlemen, the fate of your country rests on this attack.”

  All eyes were on his face. He put out his hand.

  “Gentlemen, return to your troops.”

  Pettigrew took his hand. “Sir, I want to say, it is an honor to serve under your command.”

  He moved off. Trimble took the hand. He was crying. He said huskily, tears all down the red glistening cheeks, “I want to thank you, sir, for the opportunity you have given me, sir, to serve here. I have prayed, sir.” He stopped, choked. Longstreet pressed his hand. Trimble said, “I will take that wall, sir.”

  Pickett stayed. Longstreet said, “George, can you take that hill?”

  Pickett grinned. My curly boy. He rushed off, hair flying. Here was Alexander, galloping up through the trees, exasperated.

  “Sir, General Hill’s artillery is dueling the Union people for some damned barn, sir, excuse me, but it’s a tragic waste of ammunition. We don’t have a limitless supply.”

  Longstreet said, “Give General Hill my compliments and tell him I suggest he reserve his ammunition for the assault.”

  Alexander rode off.

  And so it’s in motion.

  Seminary Ridge was thick with trees, but the fields on both sides were bare. Pickett’s troops were beginning to form in the fields to the west, out of sight of the Union line. Longstreet rode to watch them, then back out through the trees to face east, looking up toward the Union line. His staff was with him: gaunt Goree asleep in his saddle, refusing to lie down. Longstreet saw a familiar figure standing some distance out in the field, alone, looking toward the Union line. He rode that way: Armistead. Looking up toward Hancock’s wall. Longstreet stopped, nodded, let the man alone, rode away. Poor old Lo. Well. All over soon. One way or the other.

  Lee was coming back down the line, aides preceding him, to keep the men from cheering. Alexander’s guns were moving, realigning; horses were pulling caissons into position, stirring the dust. Lee was trim and calm, all business. He suggested they ride the lines again. Longstreet agreed silently. Pickett rode up, asked to accompany them. All the attack would guide on Pickett; it was necessary there be no mistake at all. The three men rode together along the front of the dark woods, in front of the cannon, the troops, the woods behind them a dark wall, and the long flat green rise in front of them, spreading upward and outward to the Emmitsburg Road, the rise beyond that, the visible breastworks, the stone wall near the crest, well named, Cemetery Ridge. Lee discussed the attack with Pickett; Longstreet was silent. There was a dip in the ground near the center; they rode down out of sight of the Union line. Lee was telling Pickett how to maneuver his troops sideways when he reached the road so that they would converge on that clump of trees toward the center. He had many suggestions as to how to use the ground. Longstreet dropped slightly behind them. They came out into the open again, in front of the point of woods from which Lee would watch the assault. Longstreet looked up the long rise.

  He could begin to see it. When the troops came out of the woods the artillery would open up. Long-range artillery, percussion and solid shot, every gun on the hill. The guns to the right, on the Rocky Hill, would enfilade the line. The troops would be under fire with more than a mile to walk. And so they would go. A few hundred yards out, still in the open field, they would come within range of skirmish, aimed rifles. Losses would steadily increase. When they reached the road they would be slowed by the fence there, and the formation, if it still held, would begin to come apart. Then they would be within range of the rifles on the crest. When they crossed the road, they would begin to take canister fire and thousands of balls of shrapnel wiping huge holes in the lines. As they got closer, there would be double canister. If they reached the wall without breaking, there would not be many left. It was a mathematical equation. But maybe the artillery would break up the defense. There was that hope. But that was Hancock up there. And Hancock would not run. So it is mathematical after all. If they reach the road and get beyond it, they will suffer fifty percent casualties. I do not think they will even reach the wall.

  Lee asked his advice on artillery support. Longstreet gave it quietly. They rode back down the line. A quietness was beginning to settle over the field. The sun was rising toward noon. They came back toward Longstreet’s line. Lee said, “Well, we have left nothing undone. It is all in the hands of God.”

  Longstreet thought: it isn’t God that is sending those men up that hill. But he said nothing. Lee rode away.

  Pickett said earnestly, “Sir, how much time do we have?”

  Terrible question. But he did not know what he was asking. Longstreet said, “Plenty of time. The guns will fire for at least an hour.”

  Pickett slapped his thighs.

  “It’s the waiting, sir, you know? Well, sir, I think I’ll have the troops lie down. Then I’ll write to Sallie. You’ll see it’s delivered, sir?”

  Longstreet nodded.

  Pickett rode off.

  Nothing to do now but wait. The guns were in line, the caissons were stacking shot, the gunners digging their small tre
nches. One hundred and forty guns. And the Union boys will reply. It will be the greatest concentration of artillery ever fired.

  Longstreet got down from his horse. He was very, very tired. He walked toward a cool grove of trees. Sorrel and Goree followed, but Longstreet waved them away. He sat with his back against a tree, put his head in his hands.

  There is one thing you can do. You can resign now. You can refuse to lead it.

  But I cannot even do that. Cannot leave the man alone. Cannot leave him with that attack in the hands of Hill. Cannot leave because I disagree, because, as he says, it’s all in the hands of God. And maybe God really wants it this way. But they will mostly all die. We will lose it here. Even if they get to the hill, what will they have left, what will we have left, all ammunition gone, our best men gone? And the thing is, I cannot even refuse, I cannot even back away, I cannot leave him to fight it alone, they’re my people, my boys. God help me, I can’t even quit.

  He closed his eyes. From a tree close by Colonel Fremantle saw him, thought he was resting before the great battle, could not help but wonder at the enormous calm of the man. What an incredible time to go to sleep!

  3.

  CHAMBERLAIN

  Past Little Round Top the ground dipped down into a saddle but the line ran straight, unbroken, along the saddle and up the ridge, rising toward the trees and the cemetery, that northern hill. The line was a marvelous thing to see: thousands of men and horses and the gleaming Napoleons, row on row, and miles of wagons and shells. Marching along the crest, they could see back to the Taneytown Road and the rows of tents, the hospitals, the endless black rows of more cannon, wagon trains. The sun was hot along the ridge, and men had stuck bayonets in the ground and rigged shelter halves, and here and there through scarred trees they could see down into the rocks below, bodies there in black clumps, soft among the gray boulders. Back in the woods of Little Round Top, up on the summit of the hill, they had been alone, but now they were in the midst of the army, the great army, a moving fragment of this unending line of men and guns lined along the spine of that ridge going out of sight to the north. Chamberlain gathered strength, limping along the ridge, tucking himself in under his soft black hat, out of the sun.