The Killer Angels (35 page)

“I have told you that there is no time for that. There is a fight tomorrow, and we need you. We need every man, God knows. You must take what I have told you and learn from it, as a man does. There has been a mistake. It will not happen again. I know your quality. You are a good soldier. You are as good a cavalry officer as I have known, and your service to this army has been invaluable. I have learned to rely on your information; all your reports are always accurate. But no report is useful if it does not reach us. And that is what I wanted you to know. Now.” He lifted a hand. “Let us talk no more of this.”

Stuart stood there, sword in hand. Lee felt a vast pity, yet at the same time he could feel the coming of a smile. Good thing it was dark. He said formally, “General, this matter is concluded. There will be no further discussion of it. Good night.”

He turned away. Stuart stood holding the sword, but he had too much respect for Lee to speak. He began to move slowly away. Lee saw him stop before going back out into the night and put the sword back on. A good boy. If he is a man, he will learn. But now he will be reckless, to prove himself. Must beware of that. Longstreet would not approve. But court-martial would have destroyed him. And he is spirited, and that is a great part of his value. Keep him on rein, but on a
loose rein. He has to be checked now and then. But he’s a fine boy. And I am sorry to have had to do that. Yet it was necessary.

He sat back on the fence. Another figure was coming. He sighed, wanting silence. But the man was Venable, back from Ewell’s camp. Like all of Lee’s aides he had too much to do and had slept little in the last two days and he was nearing exhaustion. He reported, speech blurred.

“Sir, I think I’ve, ah, pieced it together. I’ve been studying General Ewell’s, ah, operation. Regret to say, very strange. There is much confusion in that camp.”

“Is General Ewell in firm command?”

They had discussed it. Venable, who was fond of Dick Ewell, paused before answering. Then he said slowly, “Sir, I think General Ewell defers too much to General Early. He is … uncertain. I regret the necessity for speaking, sir. I would have preferred not …”

“I know.” Lee bowed his head. So. The choice of Dick Ewell had been a mistake. But how was one to know? Honest Old Baldy. Had been a fine soldier. But cannot command a corps. Could I have known? Who else was there? Dorsey Pender … is wounded.

Venable said, “General Ewell could not get his corps in position for the attack this afternoon until some hours after Longstreet had already begun. General Rodes got his men bottled up in the streets of Gettysburg and never attacked at all.”

“Not at
all
?”

“No, sir. General Early attacked at dusk—”

“At dusk. But that was hours late.”

“Yes, sir. Longstreet’s attack was virtually over before Early got into action. But Early made no progress and called off the attack very soon. General Johnson managed to capture some trenches. Casualties were, ah, light.”

Lee said nothing. He thought: Jackson would have
moved
 … no time for that. He stared at the bold moon.

“You gave General Ewell my orders for the morning?”

“Yes, sir. He understands he is to be in position to attack at first light.”

“He understands that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He will have all night to prepare. That should be nearly ample time.” There was in Lee’s voice a rare touch of bitterness.

Venable paused warily, then said, “Are there further orders, sir?”

“Not just yet.” Lee rested against the rail fence. Cannot depend on Ewell. Nor on Hill. There is only Longstreet. Pickett is fresh. Longstreet has fresh men. Virginians. For whom we broke the vow. Lee shook his head. Well, one thing is sure, if we attack tomorrow, it will be with Longstreet. He meditated a moment, weariness flowing through him like a bleak slow wind. Think
now
, before you get too tired. He dismissed Venable and turned back to the night.

He sat down once more against the rail fence. The horse moved in over him; he had to move to keep from being stepped on. He sat on the far side of the fence and reviewed the facts and made the decision.

It did not take him very long. He was by nature a decisive man, and although this was one of the great decisions of his life and he knew it, he made it quickly and did not agonize over it. He did not think of the men who would die; he had learned long ago not to do that. The men came here ready to die for what they believed in, for their homes and their honor, and although it was often a terrible death it was always an honorable death, and no matter how bad the pain it was only temporary, and after death there was the reward.

The decision was clear. It had been there in the back of his mind all that night, as he worked, remembering every moment the sight of his blue Virginia flags going up that long slope to the top, almost to victory, so close he could feel the world over there beginning to give like a rotten brick wall. He could not retreat now. It might be the clever thing to do, but cleverness did not win victories; the bright combinations rarely worked. You won because the men thought they would win, attacked with courage, attacked with faith, and it was the faith more than anything else you had to protect; that was one thing that was in your hands, and so you could not ask them to leave the field to the enemy. And even if you could do that, cleverly, there was no certainty they would find better ground anywhere else, not even any certainty
that they could extricate themselves without trouble, and so he had known all along that retreat was simply no longer an alternative, the way a man of honor knows that when he has faced an enemy and exchanged one round of blows and stands there bleeding, and sees the blood of the enemy, a man of honor can no longer turn away.

So he would stay. And therefore, he would attack. The rest was clear as an engraving, so natural there seemed no alternative. There would be no surprise now; speed no longer mattered. So motion meant nothing. The enemy had been attacked on both wings; he had reinforced there and would be strongest there. So the weak point was the center.

The enemy had high ground on each wing, but in the center there was a long slope. So he would be softest there, and if you hit him there with everything you had, all the artillery firing to prepare the way in a
pont au feu
, if you sent Pickett’s fresh Virginians straight up the center with Longstreet’s hand the guiding force, the dominant force, you would drive a split in the center and cut Meade’s army in two, break the rotten wall and send the broken pieces flying in all directions, so that if you sent Stuart’s cavalry around to the rear he could complete the rout, in among the wagons to finish the wreckage, yes, Stuart raw with wounded pride and so anxious to redeem himself that he would let nothing stop him, and neither would Pickett, who had come in that day so desperately eager for battle.

Lee knelt and began to pray. His engineer’s mind went on thinking while he prayed. He could find no flaw: we will go up the center and split them in two, on the defense no longer, attacking at last, Pickett and Hood and McLaws. By the end of the prayer he was certain: he felt a releasing thrill. This was the way, as God would have it. Face to face with the enemy, on grounds of his own choosing. End with honor.

The weight of it was gone. He felt a grave drowsiness. The horse nuzzled his ear; he smiled and rubbed the delicate nostrils. Then he began to drift off. He should go in to bed now, but he was not comfortable lying down; he could not breathe. It was far better to sit in the night alone with the beautiful horse standing guard above him. It was not so bad to be an old man, drifting. Soon to see the Light. He wondered
what it would be like to enter the Presence. They said there would be a fierce blinding light. How could they know, any of them? He wondered: Do you see all the old friends? At what age will they be? Will I see my father?

But it was all beyond him, and he accepted it. He had done his best: the Lord knew it. The heart thumped twice, a grave reminder. Lee nodded, as if at a summons, and prayed to the Lord for a little more time. After a while, he slept. He dreamed of little girls, dancing a cotillion. Then he dreamed of horses, herds of great horses, thundering by through black canyons of cloud. Beyond his tree, as he slept, the first blood light of dawn was rising up the sky.

At dawn he climbed a tree and watched the day come. He was high on the summit of Round Top, higher than any man in either army. The sky was thick and gray, smelling of heat and rain; long mists drifted down between the ridges, lay in pools in the woods, rose toward the sun like white steam. He could see campfires burning in groups and clusters, like little cities sparkling in the mist, far, far off toward the blue hills to the east. He could look directly down on the gray crest of Little Round Top, saw the gunners there rising and stretching and heating coffee near black cannon. There were lights all down the Union line, a few horses moving, here and there a bugle, lights in the cemetery, a spattering of lights in Gettysburg. Here at the summit of Round Top the air was cool, there was no wind, the odor of death was very slight, just that one pale yellow scent, a memory in the silent air. The odor of coffee was stronger. Chamberlain sniffed and hoped, but he had none. All rations were gone. He lay back and watched the morning come.

The men lay below him in a line below the crest, receding down into the trees, the dark. In the night they had built a stone wall, had set out pickets, had taken prisoners. They had been joined at last by the 83rd Pennsylvania and the 44th New York, but they were still the extreme
end of the Union line, the highest point on the field. Chamberlain kept pickets out all night, changing them every two hours, making them report every half hour. He did not sleep. As long as he kept moving the pain in the leg did not trouble him, but the foot kept bleeding and annoying him. No one had any rations. They had left Union Mills with three days’ worth, but the troops had philosophically eaten most of that first chance they got. Chamberlain searched for coffee, which he badly needed. Just before sunup he began to get very, very tired, and so he climbed the tree and rested his legs. Dawn was always the worst time. Almost impossible to keep the eyes open. Close them and he thought of her, the red robe. This morning, oddly, he thought of her and of his two children. He could see them clearly, when he closed his eyes, playing at her feet like cubs, she looking up at him smiling calmly, waiting, pouting—but they would not even be up yet. Too early for them. They will sleep two more hours, at least. And here I sit on a hill in Pennsylvania. High on a hill, perched in a tree, watching the dawn come. A year ago I was in Maine, a teacher of languages. Amazing. The ways of God. Who would have thought? Well. It will be hard to go home again after this. Yesterday was … he closed his eyes. Saw the men behind the rocks, Tozier with the flag, the smoke, white faces, a scream for bayonets. Yesterday was … a dream.

He almost dozed. Came awake. Need someone to talk to. Sky all thick and gray. Rain? I hope so. But no, another scorcher. They don’t even know about this kind of weather back in Maine.

“Colonel?” At the foot of the tree: Tom. Chamberlain smiled.

“Hey, Colonel, I got you some coffee.”

He held aloft a steaming cup. Chamberlain’s stomach twinged in anticipation. Tom clambered up, reaching.

Chamberlain took the hot cup, held it lovingly. “Oh, that’s fine. Where did you find that?”

“Well …” Tom grinned. “Gee, you sure can see a ways from up here.” He squinted. “Golly, that’s the whole damn Reb army.”

“Don’t swear,” Chamberlain said automatically. He thought of yesterday. I used him to plug a hole. My brother. Did it automatically, as if he was expendable. Reached out and put him there, as you move a chess piece.

“We sent out a detail,” Tom said cheerily, yawning, “and found some poor departed souls down there and they were carrying coffee for which they had no more use, so we took it.”

Chamberlain grimaced. “Ghoul,” he said. But he drank, and the coffee was sweet with brown sugar, and strength boiled into him.

“How you feel, Colonel, sir? You notice I don’t say ‘Lawrence.’ ”

“I feel fine.”

“You know, I bet we’re higher than anybody in the whole army. In
both
blame armies.” Tom was pleased. “Now there’s a thing to tell your children. My, what a view.”

Chamberlain drank. After a moment he said, without thinking, “I miss old Buster.”

“Kilrain? Yep. But he’ll be all right.”

The vacancy was there, a hole in the air, a special kind of loneliness. You wanted to have Buster to talk to when it was all over, to go over it, to learn, to understand, to see what you should have done.

Tom said, “You know, Lawrence? I close my eyes, I fall asleep.”

“Better get down off the tree.”