"The Killer Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Shaara Michael)

4. LONGSTREET.

In Longstreet’s camp, they were teaching the Englishman to play poker. They had spread a blanket near a fire and hung a lantern on a tree and they sat around the blanket slapping bugs in the dark, surrounded by campfires, laughter and music. The Englishman was a naturally funny man. He was very thin and perpetually astonished and somewhat gap-toothed, and his manner of talking alone was enough to convulse them, and he enjoyed it. His name was Fremantle-Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Lyon Fremantle- late of Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards, observing for the Queen. There were several other foreigners in the group and they followed Longstreet’s headquarters like a small shoal of colorful fish. They were gathered around the blanket now, watching Fremantle perform, and everyone was laughing except the Prussian, Scheiber, a stocky man in a stained white suit, who was annoyed that no one could speak German.

Longstreet sat with his back against a tree, waiting. His fame as a poker player was legendary but he had not played in a long time, not since the deaths of his children, and he did not feel like it now; but he liked to sit in the darkness and watch, passing the time silently, a small distance away, a member of it all warmed by the fire but still not involved in it, not having to talk.

What bothered him most was the blindness. Jeb Stuart had not returned. The army had moved all day in enemy country and they had not even known what was around the next bend. Harrison ’s news was growing old: the Union Army was on the move. Longstreet had sent the spy back into Gettysburg to see what he could find, but Gettysburg was almost thirty miles away and he had not yet returned.

Longstreet dreamed, storing up energy, knowing the fight was coming and resting deliberately, relaxing the muscles, feeling himself loose upon the earth and filling with strength slowly, as the lungs fill with clean air. He was a patient man; he could outwait the dawn. He saw a star fall: a pale cold spark in the eastern sky. Lovely sight. He remembered, counting stars at midnight in a pasture: a girl. The girl thought they were messages from God. Longstreet grinned: she loves me, she loves me not.

”Sir?”

He looked up-a slender, haughty face: G. Moxley Sorrel, Longstreet’s chief of staff. Longstreet said, “Major.”

”I’m just back from General Lee’s headquarters, sir. The General has retired for the night. Everything going nicely, sir. General Lee says we should all be concentrated around Gettysburg tomorrow evening.”

”Nothing from Stuart?”

”No, sir. But some of General Hill’s troops went into Gettysburg this afternoon and claim they saw Union cavalry there.”

Longstreet looked up sharply. Sorrel went on: “They had orders not to engage, so they withdrew. General Hill thinks they were mistaken. He says it must be militia. He’s going back in force in the morning.”

”Who saw cavalry? What officer?”

”Ah, Johnston Pettigrew, I believe, sir.”

”The scholar? Fella from North Carolina?”

”Ah, yes, sir. I think so, sir.”

”Blue cavalry?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Why doesn’t Hill believe him? Does Hill have other information?”

”No, sir. Ah, I would say, sir, judging from what I heard, that General Hill thinks that, ah, Pettigrew is not a professional and tends to be overexcited and perhaps to exaggerate a bit.”

”Urn.” Longstreet rubbed his face. If there was infantry coming, as Harrison had said, there would be cavalry in front of it.

”What does General Lee say?”

”The General, ah, defers to General Hill’s judgment, I believe.”

Longstreet grimaced. He thought: we have other cavalry.

Why doesn’t the old man send for a look? Tell you why: he can’t believe Stuart would let him down.

”Have you any orders, sir?” Sorrel was gazing longingly toward the poker game.

”No.”

”The men are anxious to have you join the game, sir. As you once did.”

”Not tonight. Major.”

Sorrel bowed. “Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, sir, General Pickett sends his compliments and states that he will be dropping by later this evening for a chat.”

Longstreet nodded. There’ll be a complaint from old George. But good to see him. Sorrel moved off into a burst of laughter, a cloud of lovely tobacco. Longstreet sat brooding.

There was an odor of trouble, an indefinable wrong. It was like playing chess and making a bad move and not knowing why but knowing instinctively that it was a bad move. The instincts were yelling. As they used to do long ago at night in Indian country. He gazed out into the black.

The stars were obscured. It was the blindness that bothered him. Cavalry in Gettysburg? Harrison would know.

”Sir?”

He looked up again. In soft light: Fremantle.

”Beg your pardon, sir. Most humbly, sir. I’m not disturbing you?”

”Um,” Longstreet said. But there was something about the man, prepared for flight that made Longstreet grin. He was a scrawny man, toothy, with a pipe-like neck and a monstrous Adam’s apple. He looked like a popeyed bird who had just swallowed something large and sticky and triangular. He was wearing a tall gray hat and a remarkable coat with very wide shoulders, like wings.

He said cheerily, “If I am disturbing you at all, sir, my most humble apologies. But your fame, sir, as a practitioner of poker, is such that one comes to you for advice. I hope you don’t mind.”

”Not ‘t’all,” Longstreet said. Sometimes when you were around Englishmen there was this ridiculous tendency to imitate them. Longstreet restrained himself. But he grinned.

”What I wanted to ask you, sir, is this. I gather that you are the authority in these matters, and I learned long ago, sir, that in affairs of this kind it is always wisest to go directly, straightway, may I say, to the top.”

Longstreet waited. Fremantle relaxed slightly, conspiratorially, stroked a handlebar mustache.

”I am most curious, General, as to your attitude toward a subtle subject: the inside straight. On what occasion, or rather, under what circumstance, does one draw to an inside straight? In your opinion. Your response will be kept confidential, of course.”

”Never,” Longstreet said.

Fremantle nodded gravely, listening. There was nothing else. After a moment he inquired, “Never?”

”Never.”

Fremantle thought upon it. “You mean never,” he concluded.

Longstreet nodded.

”Quite,” Fremantle said. He drew back, brooding, then drew himself up. “Indeed,” he said. “Well, thank you, sir.

Your most humble servant. My apologies for the disturbance.”

”Not ‘fall.”

”I leave you to more important things.” He bowed, backed off, paused, looked up. “Never?” he said wistfully.

”Never,” Longstreet said.

”Oh. Well, right-ho.” Fremantle went away.

Longstreet turned to the dark. A strange and lacey race.

Talk like ladies, fight like wildcats. There had long been talk of England coming in on the side of the South. But Longstreet did not think they would come. They will come when we don’t need them, like the bank offering money when you’re no longer in debt.

A cluster of yells: he looked up. A group of horsemen were riding into camp. One plumed rider waved a feathered hat: that would be George Pickett. At a distance he looked like a French king, all curls and feathers. Longstreet grinned unconsciously. Pickett rode into the firelight, bronze-curled and lovely, hair down to his shoulders, regal and gorgeous on a stately mount. He gestured to the staff, someone pointed toward Longstreet. Pickett rode this way, bowing. Men were grinning, lighting up as he passed; Longstreet could see a train of officers behind him. He had brought along all three of his brigade commanders: Armistead, Garnett and Kemper. They rode toward Longstreet like ships through a gleeful surf, Pickett bowing from side to side. Someone offered a bottle. Pickett raised a scornful hand. He had sworn to dear Sallie ne’er to touch liquor.

Longstreet shook his head admiringly. The foreigners were clustering.

Pickett stopped before Longstreet and saluted grandly.

”General Pickett presents his compliments, sir, and requests permission to parley with the Commanding General, s ‘il vous plait.”

Longstreet said, “Howdy, George.”

Beyond Pickett’s shoulder Lew Armistead grinned hello, touching his hat. Longstreet had known them all for twenty years and more. They had served together in the Mexican War and in the old 6th Infantry out in California. They had been under fire together, and as long as he lived Longstreet would never forget the sight of Pickett with the flag going over the wall in the smoke and flame of Chapultepec.

Pickett had not aged a moment since. Longstreet thought: my permanent boy. It was more a family than an army. But the formalities had to be observed. He saluted. Pickett hopped out of the saddle, ringlets aflutter as he jumped.

Longstreet whiffed a pungent odor.

”Good Lord, George, what’s that smell?”

”That’s me,” Pickett said proudly. “Ain’t it lovely?”

Armistead dismounted, chuckling. “He got it off a dead Frenchman. Evening, Pete.”

”Woo,” Longstreet said. “I bet the Frenchman smelled better.”

Pickett was offended. “I did not either get it off a Frenchman. I bought it in a store in Richmond.” He meditated. “Did have a French name, now that I think on it. But Sallie likes it.” This concluded the matter. Pickett glowed and primped, grinning. He was used to kidding and fond of it. Dick Garnett was dismounting slowly. Longstreet caught the look of pain in his eyes. He was favoring a leg.

He had that same soft gray look in his face, his eyes. Too tired, much too tired.

Longstreet extended a hand. “How are you, Dick?”

”Fine, General, just fine.” But the handclasp had no vitality. Lew Armistead was watching with care.

Longstreet said easily, “Sorry I had to assign you to old smelly George. Hope you have a strong stomach.”

”General,” Garnett said formally, gracefully, “you must know how much I appreciate the opportunity.”

There was a second of silence. Garnett had withdrawn the old Stonewall Brigade without orders. Jackson had accused him of cowardice. Now Jackson was dead, and Garnett’s honor was compromised, and he had not recovered from the stain, and in his company there were many men who would never let him recover. Yet Longstreet knew the quality of the man, and he said slowly, carefully, “Dick, I consider it a damned fine piece of luck for me when you became available for this command.”

Garnett took a deep breath, then nodded once quickly, looking past Longstreet into the dark. Lew Armistead draped a casual arm across his shoulders.

”Dick’s been eating too many cherries. He’s got the Old Soldier’s Disease.”

Garnett smiled weakly. “Sure do.” He rubbed his stomach. “Got to learn to fight from the squatting position.”

Armistead grinned. “I know what’s wrong with you. You been standing downwind of ole George. You got to learn to watch them fumes.”

A circle had gathered at a respectful distance. One of these was Fremantle, of Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards, wide-hatted. Adam’s-appled. Pickett was regarding him with curiosity.

Longstreet remembered his manners. “Oh, excuse me, Colonel. Allow me to present our George Pickett. Our loveliest general. General Pickett, Colonel Fremantle of the Coldstream Guards.”

Pickett bowed low in the classic fashion, sweeping the ground with the plumed hat.

”The fame of your regiment, sir, has preceded you.”

”General Pickett is our ranking strategist,” Longstreet said. “We refer all the deeper questions to George.”

”They do,” Pickett admitted, nodding. “They do indeed.”

”General Pickett’s record at West Point is still the talk of the army.”

Armistead hawed.

”It is unbecoming to a soldier, all this book-learning,” Pickett said haughtily.

”It aint gentlemanly, George,” Armistead corrected.

”Nor that either,” Pickett agreed.

”He finished last in his class,” Longstreet explained.

”Dead last. Which is quite a feat, if you consider his classmates.”

”The Yankees got all the smart ones,” Pickett said placidly, “and look where it got them.”

Fremantle stood grinning vaguely, not quite sure how to take all this. Lew Armistead came forward and bowed silently, delicately, old courtly Lo, giving it a touch of elegance. He did not extend a hand, knowing the British custom. He said, “Good evening, Colonel. Lo Armistead.

The ‘Lo’ is short for Lothario. Let me welcome you to ‘Lee’s Miserables.’ The Coldstream Guards? Weren’t you fellas over here in the discussion betwixt us of 1812? I seem to remember my daddy telling me about… No, it was the Black Watch. The kilted fellas, that’s who it was.”

Fremantle said, “Lee’s Miserables?”

”A joke,” Longstreet said patiently. “Somebody read Victor Hugo-believe it or not I have officers who read and ever since then we’ve been Lee’s Miserables.”

Fremantle was still in the dark. Longstreet said, “Victor Hugo. French writer. Novel. Les Miserables.”

Fremantle brightened. Then he smiled. Then he chuckled. “Oh that’s very good. Oh, I say that’s very good indeed, Haw.”

Pickett said formally. “Allow me to introduce my commanders. The elderly one here is Lewis Armistead. The ‘Lothario’ is a bit of a joke, as you can see. But we are democratic. We do not hold his great age against him. We carry him to the battle, and we aim him and turn him loose. “ His is what we in this country call an ‘Old Family’-“

Armistead said briefly, “Oh God”-“although doubtless you English would consider him still an immigrant. There have been Armisteads in all our wars, and maybe we better change the subject, because it is likely that old Lo’s grandaddy took a pot-shot at your grandaddy, but anyway, we had to let him in this war to keep the string going, do you see? Age and all.”

”Creak,” Armistead said.

”The next on here is Dick Garnett. Ah, Richard Brooke Garnett.”

Garnett bowed. Pickett said, “Old Dick is a good lad, but sickly. Ah well-“ Pickett made a sad face-“some of us are born puny, and others are blessed with great natural strength. It is all God’s will. Sit down, Dick. Now this next one here-“ he indicated stoic Jim Kemper-“this one is not even a soldier, so watch him. Note the shifty beady eye?

He’s a politician. Only reason he’s here is to gather votes come next election.”

Kemper stepped forward, hand extended warily. He had been speaker of the Virginia House and he was not fond of foreigners. Fremantle took the hand with forced good will.

Kemper said brusquely, “Look here now, Colonel. Been | wondering when you people were going to get out and break than damned Yankee blockade. How about that?”

Fremantle apologized, grinning foolishly. Now the Prussian was here and the Austrian, Ross. A crowd was forming. Pickett went on to introduce some of his staff: Beau Harrison, his IG, and Jim Crocker. Crocker was moodily sentimental, already a bit drunk. He was returning now after an absence of thirteen years to his old alma mater, Pennsylvania College, in Gettysburg. Someone suggested they drink to that, but Pickett reminded one and all soulfully of his oath to Sallie, schoolgirl Sallie, who was half his age, and that brought up a round of ribald kidding that should have insulted Pickett but didn’t. He glowed in the midst of it, hairy, happy. Fremantle looked on, never quite certain what was kidding and what wasn’t. He produced some brandy; Armistead came up with a flask; Kemper had a bottle of his own. Longstreet thought: careful. He sat off to one side, withdrawing, had one long hot swig from Armistead’s flask, disciplined himself not to take another, withdrew against the trunk of a cool tree, letting the night come over him, listening to them talk, reminiscing. He knew enough to stay out of it. The presence of the commander always a damper. But after a few moments Pickett detached himself from the group and came to Longstreet.

”General? A few words?”

”Sure, George. Fire.”

”By George you’re looking well, sir. Must say, never saw you looking better.” “You look lovely too, George.” Longstreet liked this man. He was not overwhelmingly bright, but he was a fighter. Longstreet was always careful to give him exact instructions and to follow him to make sure he knew what to do, but once pointed, George could be relied on. A lovely adventurous boy, thirty-eight years old and never to grow older, fond of adventure and romance and all the bright sparkles of youth. Longstreet said happily, “What can I do for you, George?”

”Well, sir, now I don’t mean this as a reflection upon you, sir. But well, you know, sir, my Division, my Virginia boys, we weren’t at Chancellorsville.”

”No.”

”Well, you know we were assigned away on some piddling affair, and we weren’t at Fredericksburg either; we were off again doing some other piddling thing, and now they’ve taken two of my brigades, Corse and Jenkins, and sent them off to guard Richmond-Richmond, for the love of God-and now, General, do you know where I’m placed in line of march? Last, sir, that’s where. Exactly last. I bring up the damned rear. Beg pardon.”

Longstreet sighed.

Pickett said, “Well, I tell you, sir, frankly, my boys are beginning to wonder at the attitude of the high command toward my Division. My boys-“

”George,” Longstreet said.

”Sir, I must-“ Pickett noted Longstreet’s face. “Now, I don’t mean to imply this command. Not you, sir. I was just hoping you would talk to somebody.”

”George.” Longstreet paused, then he said patiently, “Would you like us to move the whole army out of the way and let you go first?”

Pickett brightened. That seemed a good idea. Another look at Longstreet’s face.

”I only meant, sir, that we haven’t-“

”I know, George. Listen, there’s no plot. It’s just the way things fell out. I have three divisions, right? There’s you, and there’s Hood and McLaws. And where I go you go.

Right? And my HQ is near the Old Man, and the Old Man chooses to be here, and that’s the way it is. We sent your two brigades to Richmond because we figured they were Virginia boys and that was proper. But look at it this way: if the army has to turn and fight its way out of here, you’ll be exactly first in line.”

Pickett thought on that.

”That’s possible?”

”Yup.”

”Well,” Pickett mused. At that moment Lew Armistead came up. Pickett said wistfully, “Well, I had to speak on it, sir. You understand. No offense?”

”None.”

”Well then. But I mean, the whole war could be damn well over soon, beg pardon, and my boys would have missed it. And these are Virginians, sir, and have a certain pride.” It occurred to him that Longstreet not being a Virginian, he might have given another insult.

But Longstreet said, “I know I can count on you, George, when the time comes. And it’ll come, it’ll come.”

Armistead broke in, “Sorry to interrupt, but they’re calling for George at the poker table.” He bowed. “Your fame, sir, has preceded you.”

Pickett excused himself, watchful of Longstreet. Pickett was always saying something to irritate somebody, and he rarely knew why, so his method was simply to apologize in general from time to time and to let people know he meant well and then shove off and hope for the best. He apologized and departed, curls ajiggle.

Armistead looked after him. “Hope he brought some money with him.” He turned back to Longstreet, smiling.

”How goes it, Pete?”

”Passing well, passing well.” An old soldier’s joke, vaguely obscene. It had once been funny. Touched now with memories, sentimental songs. Longstreet thought: he’s really quite gray. Has reached that time when a man ages rapidly, older with each passing moment. Old Lothario.

Longstreet was touched. Armistead had his eyes turned away, following Pickett.

”I gather that George was trying to get us up front where we could get shot. Correct? Thought so. Well, must say, if you’ve got to do all this damn marching at my age there ought to be some action some time. Although-“ he held up a hand-“I don’t complain, I don’t complain.” He sat, letting a knee creak. “Getting rickety.”

Longstreet looked: firelight soft on a weary face. Armistead was tired. Longstreet watched him, gauging. Armistead noticed.

”I’m all right, Pete.”

”Course.”

”No, really. I…”He stopped in mid-sentence. “I am getting a little old for it. To tell the truth. It, ah…” He shrugged. “It isn’t as much fun when your feet hurt. Ooo.”

He rubbed his calf. He looked away from Longstreet’s eyes. “These are damn good cherries they grow around here.

Wonder if they’d grow back home.”

Laughter broke from Pickett’s group. A cloud passed over the moon. Armistead had something on his mind.

Longstreet waited. Harrison had to be back soon. Armistead said, “I hear you have some word of the Union Army.”

”Right.” Longstreet thought: Hancock.

”Have you heard anything of old Win?”

”Yep. He’s got the Second Corps, headed this way. We should be running into him one of these days.” Longstreet felt a small jealousy. Armistead and Hancock. He could see them together-graceful Lo, dashing and confident Hancock. They had been closer than brothers before the war. A rare friendship. And now Hancock was coming this way with an enemy corps.

Armistead said, “Never thought it would last this long.”

He was staring off into the dark.

”Me neither. I was thinking on that last night. The day of the one-battle war is over, I think. It used to be that you went out to fight in the morning and by sundown the issue was decided and the king was dead and the war was usually over. But now…”He grunted, shaking his head. “Now it goes on and on. War has changed, Lewis. They all expect one smashing victory. Waterloo and all that. But I think that kind of war is over. We have trenches now. And it’s a different thing, you know, to ask a man to fight from a trench. Any man can charge briefly in the morning. But to ask a man to fight from a trench, day after day…”

”Guess you’re right,” Armistead said. But he was not interested, and Longstreet, who loved to talk tactics and strategy, let it go. After a moment Armistead said, “Wouldn’t mind seeing old Win again. One more time.”

”Why don’t you?”

”You wouldn’t mind?”

”Hell no.”

”Really? I mean, well, Pete, do you think it would be proper?”

”Sure. If the chance comes, just get a messenger and a flag of truce and go on over. Nothing to it.”

”I sure would like just to talk to him again,” Armistead said. He leaned back, closing his eyes. “Last time was in California. When the war was beginning. Night before we left there was a party.”

Long time ago, another world. And then Longstreet thought of his children, that Christmas, that terrible Christmas, and turned his mind away. There was a silence.

Armistead said, “Oh, by the way, Pete, how’s your wife?

Been meaning to ask.”

”Fine.” He said it automatically. But she was not fine.

He felt a spasm of pain like a blast of sudden cold, saw the patient high-boned Indian face, that beautiful woman, indelible suffering. Children never die: they live on in the brain forever. After a moment he realized that Armistead was watching him.

”If you want me to leave, Pete.”

”No.” Longstreet shook his head quickly.

”Well, then, I think I’ll just set a spell and pass the time of day. Don’t get to see much of you any more.” He smiled: a touch of shyness. He was five years older than Longstreet, and now he was the junior officer, but he was one of the rare ones who was genuinely glad to see another man advance.

In some of them there was a hunger for rank-in Jubal Early it was a disease-but Armistead had grown past the hunger, if he ever had it at all. He was an honest man, open as the sunrise, cut from the same pattern as Lee: old family, Virginia gentleman, man of honor, man of duty. He was one of the men who would hold ground if it could be held; he would die for a word. He was a man to depend on, and there was this truth about war: it taught you the men you could depend on.

He was saying, “I tell you one thing you don’t have to worry on, and that’s our Division. I never saw troops anywhere so ready for a brawl. And they’re not just kids, either. Most of them are veterans and they’ll know what to do. But the morale is simply amazing. Really is. Never saw anything like it in the old army. They’re off on a Holy War.

The Crusades must have been a little like this. Wish I’d a been there. Seen old Richard and the rest.”

Longstreet said, “They never took Jerusalem.”

Armistead squinted.

”It takes a bit more than morale,” Longstreet said.

”Oh sure.” But Longstreet was always gloomy. “Well, anyhow, I’ve never seen anything like this. The Old Man’s accomplishment. Incredible. His presence is everywhere.

They hush when he passes, like an angel of the Lord. You ever see anything like it?”

”No.”

”Remember what they said when he took command? Called him Old Granny. Hee.” Armistead chuckled. “Man, what damn fools we are.”

”There’s talk of making him President, after the war.”

”They are?” Armistead considered it. “Do you suppose he’d take it?”

”No, I don’t think he would take it. But, I don’t know. I like to think of him in charge. One honest man.”

”A Holy War,” Longstreet said. He shook his head. He did not think much of the Cause. He was a professional: the Cause was Victory. It came to him in the night sometimes with a sudden appalling shock that the boys he was fighting were boys he had grown up with. The war had come as a nightmare in which you chose your nightmare side. Once chosen, you put your head down and went on to win. He thought: shut up. But he said: “You’ve heard it often enough: one of our boys can lick any ten of them, that nonsense.”

”Well.”

”Well, you’ve fought with those boys over there, you’ve commanded them.” He gestured vaguely east. “You know damn well they can fight. You should have seen them come up that hill at Fredericksburg, listen.” He gestured vaguely, tightly, losing command of the words. “Well, Lo, you know we are dying one at a time and there aren’t enough of us and we die just as dead as anybody, and a boy from back home aint a better soldier than a boy from Minnesota or anywhere else just because he’s from back home.”

Armistead nodded carefully. “Well, sure.” He paused watchfully “Of course I know that. But then, on the other hand, we sure do stomp them consistently, now don’t we, Pete? We… I don’t know, but I feel we’re something special. I do. We’re good, and we know it. It may just be the Old Man and a few other leaders like you. Well, I don’t know what it is. But I tell you, I believe in it, and I don’t think we’re overconfident.”

Longstreet nodded. Let it go. But Armistead sat up.

”Another thing, Peter, long as the subject is up. I’ve been thinking on your theories of defensive war, and look, Pete, if you don’t mind the opinion of an aging military genius, just this once? Technically, by God, you’re probably right.

Hell, you’re undoubtedly right. This may be a time for defensive war. But, Pete, this aint the army for it. We aren’t bred for the defense. And the Old Man, Lord, if ever there was a man not suited for slow dull defense, it’s old R.E.”

Longstreet said, “But he’s a soldier.”

”Exactly. And so are you. But the Old Man is just plain, well, too proud. Listen, do you remember when he was assigned to the defense of Richmond and he started digging trenches, you remember what they started calling him?”

”The King of Spades.” God, the Richmond newspapers.

”Right. And you could see how hurt he was. Most people would be. Stain on the old honor. Now, Pete, you’re wise enough not to give a damn about things like that. But Old Robert, now, he’s from the old school, and I’ll bet you right now he can’t wait to get them out in the open somewhere where he can hit them face to face. And you know every soldier in the army feels the same way, and it’s one of the reasons why the morale here is so good and the Union morale is so bad, and isn’t that a fact?”

Longstreet said nothing. It was all probably true. And yet there was danger in it; there was even something dangerous in Lee. Longstreet said, “He promised me he would stay on the defensive. He said he would look for a good defensive position and let them try to hit us.”

”He did?”

”He did.”

”Well, maybe. But I tell you, Pete, it aint natural to him.”

”And it is to me?”

Armistead cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled, shook his head, and reached out abruptly to slap Longstreet’s knee.

”Well, might’s well be blunt, old soul, and to hell with the social graces. Truth is, Peter, that you are by nature the stubbomest human being, nor mule either, nor even army mule, that I personally have ever known, or ever hope to know, and my hat is off to you for it, because you are also the best damn defensive soldier I ever saw, by miles and miles and miles, and that’s a fact. Now-“ he started to rise-“I’ll get a-movin’, back to my virtuous bed.”

Longstreet grunted, found himself blushing. He rose, went silently with Armistead toward the crowd around Pickett. Moxley Sorrel was on his feet, pounding his palm with a clenched fist. The Englishman, Fremantle, was listening openmouthed. The Prussian, Scheiber, was smiling in a nasty sort of way. Longstreet caught the conclusion of Sorrel’s sentence.

”… know that government derives its power from the consent of the governed. Every government, everywhere. And, sir, let me make this plain: We do not consent. We will never consent.”

They stood up as Longstreet approached. Sorrel’s face was flushed. Jim Kemper was not finished with the argument, Longstreet or no. To Fremantle he went on: “You must tell them, and make it plain, that what we are fighting for is our freedom from the rule of what is to us a foreign government. That’s all we want and that’s what this war is all about. We established this country in the first place with strong state governments just for that reason, to avoid a central tyranny-“

”Oh Lord,” Armistead said, “the Cause.”

Fremantle rose, trying to face Longstreet and continue to listen politely to Kemper at the same moment. Pickett suggested with authority that it was growing quite late and that his officers should get back to their separate commands.

There were polite farewells and kind words, and Longstreet walked Pickett and Armistead to their horses. Kemper was still saying firm, hard, noble things to Sorrel and Sorrel was agreeing absolutely-mongrelizing, money-grubbing Yankees-and Longstreet said, “What happened?”

Pickett answered obligingly, unconcerned, “Well, Jim Kemper kept needling our English friend about why they didn’t come and join in with us, it being in their interest and all, and the Englishman said that it was a very touchy subject, since most Englishmen figured the war was all about, ah, slavery, and then old Kemper got a bit outraged and had to explain to him how wrong he was, and Sorrel and some others joined in, but no harm done.”

”Damn fool,” Kemper said. “He still thinks it’s about slavery.”

”Actually,” Pickett said gravely, “I think my analogy of the club was best. I mean, it’s as if we all joined a gentlemen’s club, and then the members of the club started sticking their noses into our private lives, and then we up and resigned, and then they tell us we don’t have the right to resign. I think that’s a fair analogy, hey, Pete?”

Longstreet shrugged. They all stood for a moment agreeing with each other, Longstreet saying nothing. After a while they were mounted, still chatting about what a shame it was that so many people seemed to think it was slavery that brought on the war, when all it was really was a question of the Constitution. Longstreet took the reins of Pickett’s horse.

”George, the army is concentrating toward Gettysburg.

Hill is going in in the morning and we’ll follow, and Ewell is coming down from the north. Tomorrow night we’ll all be together.”

”Oh, very good.” Pickett was delighted. He was looking forward to parties and music.

Longstreet said, “I think that sometime in the next few days there’s going to be a big fight. I want you to do everything necessary to get your boys ready.”

”Sir, they’re ready now.”

”Well, do what you can. The little things. See to the water. Once the army is gathered in one place all the wells will run dry. See to it, George.”

”I will, I will.”

Longstreet thought: don’t be so damn motherly.

”Well, then. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

They said their good nights. Armistead waved farewell.

”If you happen to run across Jubal Early, Peter, tell him for me to go to hell.”

They rode off into the dark. The moon was down; the night sky was filled with stars. Longstreet stood for a moment alone. Some good men there. Lo had said, “Best defensive soldier.” From Lewis, a compliment. And yet, is it really my nature? Or is it only the simple reality?

Might as well argue with stars.

The fires were dying one by one. Longstreet went back to his place by the camp table. The tall silent aide from Texas, T. J. Goree, had curled up in a bedroll, always near, to be used at a moment’s notice. For “The Cause.” So many good men. Longstreet waited alone, saw one falling star, reminding him once more of the girl in a field a long time ago.

Harrison came back long after midnight. He brought the news of Union cavalry in Gettysburg. Longstreet sent the word to Lee’s headquarters, but the Old Man had gone to sleep and Major Taylor did not think it important enough to wake him. General Hill had insisted, after all, that the reports of cavalry in Gettysburg were foolish.

Longstreet waited for an answer, but no answer came. He lay for a long while awake, but there was gathering cloud and he saw no more falling stars.

Just before dawn the rain began: fine misty rain blowing cold and clean in soft mountain air. Buford’s pickets saw the dawn come high in the sky, a gray blush, a bleak rose. A boy from Illinois climbed a tree. There was mist across Marsh Creek, ever whiter in the growing light. The boy from Illinois stared and felt his heart beating and saw movement. A blur in the mist, an unfurled flag. Then the dark figures, row on row: skirmishers. Long, long rows, like walking trees, coming up toward him out of the mist. He had a long paralyzed moment, which he would remember until the end of his life. Then he raised the rifle and laid it across the limb of the tree and aimed generally toward the breast of a tall figure in the front of the line, waited, let the cold rain fall, misting his vision, cleared his eyes, waited, prayed, and pressed the trigger.