The Killer Angels (12 page)

He moved back to the map table. The guilt stayed with him, ineradicable, like the silent alarm in the fragile chest. Swore to defend. Misty matters. Get on with the fight. He looked down at the map. The roads all converged, weblike, to Gettysburg. And where’s the spider? Nine roads in all. Message from Ewell: his troops were on the move, would be coming down into Gettysburg from the north. Lee looked at his watch: eight o’clock. The rain had stopped, the mist was blowing off. He thought: good. Too much rain would muck up the roads. The
first sun broke through, yellow and warm through steaming tree leaves, broad bright light blazed across the map table. Lee began to come slowly awake, blinking in the blaze of morning.

Out on the road the troops were moving in a great mottled stream: Longstreet’s First Corps, the backbone of the army, moving up behind Powell Hill. The barefoot, sunburned, thin and grinning army, joyful, unbeatable, already immortal. And then through the trees the familiar form: big man on a black horse, great round shoulders, head thick as a stump: James Longstreet.

It was reassuring just to look at him, riding slowly forward into the sunlight on the black Irish stallion: Dutch Longstreet, old Pete. He was riding along in a cloud of visitors, bright-clad foreigners, observers from Europe, plumes and feathers and helmeted horsemen, reporters from Richmond, the solemn members of Longstreet’s staff. He separated from the group and rode to Lee’s tent and the motley bright cloud remained respectfully distant. Lee rose with unconscious joy.

“General.”

“Mornin’.”

Longstreet touched his cap, came heavily down from the horse. He was taller than Lee, head like a boulder, full-bearded, long-haired, always a bit sloppy, gloomy, shocked his staff by going into battle once wearing carpet slippers. Never cared much for appearance, gave an impression of ominous bad-tempered strength and a kind of slow, even, stubborn, unquenchable anger: a soft voice, a ragged mouth. He talked very slowly and sometimes had trouble finding the right word, and the first impression of him around that gay and courtly camp was that he was rather dull-witted and not much fun. He was not a Virginian. But he was a magnificent soldier. With Jackson gone he was the rock of the army, and Lee felt a new clutching in his chest, looking at him, thinking that this was one man you could not afford to lose. Longstreet smiled his ragged smile, grumbled, jerked a finger over his shoulder.

“Her Majesty’s forces in the New World passed a restful night.”

Lee looked, saw the ludicrous man in the lustrous hat and the wide gray coat. The man made a sweeping, quixotic bow, nearly falling
from the horse. Colonel Fremantle was up. Lee gave a formal bow, smiling inwardly.

Longstreet observed with sloe-eyed surprise. “After a while, you know, he actually begins to grow on you.”

“You’re keeping him entertained?”

“Not exactly. He’s got his heart set on a cavalry charge. Drawn sabers, all that glorious French business. He was horrified when I had to tell him we didn’t use the British square.”

Lee smiled.

“But he’s a likable fella.” Longstreet took off his hat, scratched his head. “Can’t say he’s learning much. But he seems to like us, all right. He says you have a great reputation in Europe.”

Lee said, “There’ll be no help from there.”

“No.”

“President Davis has hope.”

“Well, I guess that won’t do him any harm to hope.”

“At least we’ll be good hosts.” Lee felt a sudden strength. It came out of Longstreet like sunlight. Lee said happily, “And how are
you
this morning, General?”

“Me?” Longstreet blinked. “I’m all right.” He paused, cocked his head to one side, stared at the old man.

Lee said happily, “You must take care of yourself.”

Longstreet was mystified. No one ever asked him how he felt. His health was legendary, he never tired.

Lee said diplomatically, “The Old Soldier’s illness is going around.”

“It’s the damned cherries,” Longstreet gloomed. “Too many raw cherries.”

Lee nodded. Then he said softly, “General, in the fight that’s coming, I want you to stay back from the main line.”

Longstreet looked at him, expressionless. Black eyes glistened, bright and hard under hairy eyebrows. Impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Lee said, “You are my only veteran commander.”

Longstreet nodded.

“If I should become once again indisposed,” Lee said.

“God forbid.” Longstreet stared. “And how are
you?
”

Lee smiled, waved a deprecating hand. “I am well, very well. Thank God. But there is always … a possibility. And now Jackson is gone, and we must all do more than before. And I do not know if Hill or Ewell are ready for command, but I know that you …”

He paused. Hard to speak in this fashion. Longstreet was staring with cold silent eyes. Lee said sternly, “You have a very bad habit, General, of going too far forward.”

Longstreet said, “You cannot lead from behind.”

“Well. Let me put it plainly. I cannot spare you.”

Longstreet stood silent for a moment. He bowed slightly, then he grinned. “True,” he said.

“You will oblige me?”

“My pleasure,” Longstreet said.

Lee rubbed his nose, looked down at the table. “Now, let us look to the day. Nothing will happen today. But we have an opportunity, I believe.”

“Nothing from Stuart?”

Lee shook his head. Longstreet grumbled, “The Federals are closing in.”

“I have no new information.”

“When Stuart comes back, if he does come back—which he will eventually, if only just to read the Richmond newspapers—you ought to court-martial him.”

“And will that make him a better soldier?”

Longstreet paused. He said, “All right. What will?”

“Reproach, I think. I must let him know how badly he has let us down.”

Longstreet chuckled. He shook his head, gazing at Lee. “Yes, by George. Maybe. Reproach from
you
. Yes.” Longstreet grinned widely. “Might do the job. But me … I’m no good at that.”

“Different men, different methods. Docile men make very poor soldiers.”

Longstreet grinned wryly. “An army of temperamentals. It isn’t an
army, it’s a gentlemen’s club. My God. Remember when old Powell Hill wanted to fight me a duel, right in the middle of the war?”

“And you ignored him. You did exactly right.”

“Yep. He might have shot me.”

Lee smiled. His heart rolled again, a soft sudden thump, leaving him breathless. Longstreet was grinning, staring off toward the road, did not notice. Lee said, “One new item. I have confirmed some of your man Harrison’s information. The new commander is definitely George Meade, not Reynolds. The news is carried in the local newspapers.”

Longstreet reached inside his coat, extracted a fat cigar.

“You can trust my man, I think. I sent him into Gettysburg last night. He said he saw two brigades of Union cavalry there.”

“Last night?”

“I sent you a report.”

Lee felt a tightening in his chest. He put his hand to his arm. He said slowly, “General Hill reports only militia.”

“It’s cavalry, I think.” Longstreet chewed, spat.

Where there is cavalry there will be infantry close behind.

“Whose troops?”

“John Buford.”

Longstreet meditated.

“Meade’s coming fast. Looks like he’s trying to get behind us.”

“Yes.” Lee thought: the direction does not matter. Fight him wherever he is. Lee said, “We have an opportunity.”

Longstreet chewed, nodded, grinned. “Yep. Objective was to get him out of Washington and in the open. Now he’s out. Now all we have to do is swing round between him and Washington and get astride some nice thick rocks and make him come to us, and we’ve got him in the open.”

Take the defensive. Not again. Lee shook his head. He pointed to Gettysburg.

“He has been forcing the march. The weather has been unusually hot. He will arrive strung out and tired, piece by piece. If we concentrate we can hit him as he comes up. If we ruin one or two corps we can even the odds.”

He was again breathless, but he bent over the map. Longstreet said nothing.

“He’s new to command,” Lee said. “It will take him some days to pick up the reins. His information will be poor, he will have staff problems.”

“Yes, and he will have Washington on his back, urging him to throw us out of Pennsylvania. He has to fight. We don’t.”

Lee put his hand to his eyes. He was fuzzy-brained. Longstreet loved the defense. But all the bright theories so rarely worked. Instinct said: Hit hard, hit quick, hit everything. But he listened. Then he said slowly, “That move will be what Meade expects.”

“Yes. Because he fears it.”

Lee turned away from the table. He wanted no argument now. He had been down this road before, and Longstreet was immovable, and there was no point in argument when you did not even know where the enemy was. Yet it was good counsel. Trust Longstreet to tell the truth. Lee looked up and there was Traveler, led by a black groom. The staff had gathered, the tents were down. Time to move. Lee took a deep, delighted breath.

“Now, General,” he said, “let’s go see what George Meade intends.”

They moved out into the open, into the warm sunlight. It was becoming a marvelous day. Out on the road the army flowed endlessly eastward, pouring toward the great fight. Lee smelled the superb wetness of clean mountain air. He said, “General, will you ride with me?”

Longstreet bowed. “My pleasure.”

Lee mounted in pain, but the hot sun would heal the old bones. They rode out into a space in the great gray bristling stream. Another band played; men were shouting. It was lovely country. They rode through soft green rounded hills, a sunny morn, a splendid air, moving toward adventure as rode the plumed knights of old. Far back in the woods there was still fog in the trees, caught in the branches like fragments of white summer, and Lee remembered:

He closed his eyes. Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my fingers to fight and my hands to war. Amen.

They rode several miles before they heard the first thunder.

Lee reined to a stop. Silence. Motion of ragged white clouds. He said, “Did you hear that?”

Longstreet, who was slightly deaf, shook his head.

“It might have been thunder.” But Lee waited. Then it came: low, distant thumping. Ominous: angry. Longstreet said grimly, bright-eyed, angered, “I don’t hear too well anymore.”

“That was artillery,” Lee said. Longstreet gazed at him with black marble eyes. “You don’t think …” Lee began, then stopped. “I’d better ride forward,” he said. Longstreet nodded. Lee looked at his watch. Not quite ten in the morning. He left Longstreet and rode toward the sound of the guns.

Just before dawn Buford rode down the line himself, waking them up, all the boyish faces. Then he climbed the ladder into the white cupola and sat listening to the rain, watching the light come. The air was cool and wet and delicious to breathe: a slow, fine, soaking rain, a farmer’s rain, gentle on the roof. The light came slowly: there were great trees out in the mist. Then the guns began.

A single shot. He sat up. Another. Two more widely spaced. Then a small volley, a spattering. A long silence: several seconds. He stared at white air, the rounded tops of smoky trees. Men were moving out in the open below him. An officer paused on horseback in the road. The firing began again, Rebel guns, farther off, but not many. Buford was cold. He shuddered, waited.

The first attack was very short: a ragged fire. Buford nodded, listening. “Yes. Tried to brush us off. Got a bloody nose. Now he’ll get angry, all puffed up like a partridge. Now he’ll form up a line and try us for real, and he’ll hit the main line.” The mist was lifting slowly, the rain was slackening, but Buford could not see the line. He felt the attack come and turned his face toward the sound of the guns, judging the size of the attack by the width of the sound, and he sat grinning alone in the cupola, while the Rebel troops pushed his line and drew back, bloody, and tried again in another place, the firing spreading all down the line like a popping fuse, and then there was another long silence, and Buford could feel them re-forming again, beginning for the first time to take this seriously. The next assault would be organized. He looked at his watch. Reynolds should be awake by now. They will have eaten their breakfast now, the infantry, and maybe they’re on the march.

There was a silence. He climbed down out of the cupola. The staff waited whitefaced under dripping trees. Buford asked for coffee. He went back inside the seminary and waited for the firing to begin again before sending his first word to Reynolds. It took longer than he expected. If whoever was out there attacking him had any brains he would probe this position first and find out what he was attacking. Buford listened for the scattered fire of patrols coming in, moving along his flanks, outlining him, but there was nothing. A long silence, then a massed assault. Buford grinned, baring fangs. Damn fool. He’s got a brigade in position, that’s all. He’s hitting me with one brigade, and I’m dug in. Lovely, lovely.