The Killer Angels: The Classic Novel of the Civil War Read online

  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 ’t’all.”

  “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 plaît.”

  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 Sixth 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. “Aint 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 this 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 slightly, 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 Misérables.”

  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 potshot 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 one 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 that 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, forty-two 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 a jiggle.

  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 midsentence. “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 s
ee 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.