The Killer Angels

Lawley, the correspondent, seemed ill again and had not made up his mind whether or not to ride today. There were the three medical people-Maury, Cullen, Barksdale-and others of Longstreet’s staff: Latrobe, Goree, and the charming little Jew, Major Moses. They sat down to a splendid breakfast, and although Fremantle continued to wake up slowly, coming alive as the day came alive, warmly, brightly, with no clouds anywhere, the wind begi

The morning at war. Marvelous. Good men around a table. What a joy to be with the wi

He ate hot eggs, warm bread, reveled in steaming tea, although the water from which the tea was made left an aftertaste in the mouth, afterthoughts in the brain: from what nearby barn? The men all chatted, joked. Fremantle was sorry to see breakfast end. But the sun was fully up.

Now once more he could expect the big thunder of ca

Must not miss it today. Sorrel promised to keep him informed. They rode together toward the lines, hoping for a good view.

So Fremantle came to Gettysburg, saw the bodies unburied in the fields, begi

He felt his stomach tighten, his breath grow sharp. In the presence of the enemy! In range of the guns! He passed a battery of Southern artillery, mixed Napoleons and Parrots, served by wagons stamped USA.

Sorrel said, “We got most of our wagons from the enemy. Many of the guns. Their artillery is very good. But ours will get better.”

The Austrian, Ross, had ridden up beside them. One of the gu

Sorrel put his hand over his mouth. Ross stared back, uncomprehending.

Fremantle said cheerily, “The fellow is referring to the waxed mustache, old friend.”

Ross grumbled, twitched the mustache, stroked the ends lovingly, glowered. They rode to Lee’s headquarters, then beyond, up the ridge to where the Generals were meeting.

There was a gathering of officers, too many men. Sorrel suggested that if Fremantle wanted a good view, he should find a convenient tree. Fremantle wandered forward, with Lawley, through the cool green woods, to the same commanding position he had the day before, climbed the same wide oak. There below him, not fifty feet away, he recognized Longstreet, then Lee. The officers were in consultation.

Lee was standing with his back to the group, bareheaded, the white hair flicking in the breeze. He was gazing out toward the Union lines, which were clearly visible in the east. He put his field glasses to his eyes, looked, put them down, walked two or three paces south, turned, looked again, slowly walked back and forth. Longstreet was sitting on a camp stool, whittling slowly on a stick, making a point, sharpening the point, sharpening, sharpening. A. P. Hill, looking much healthier than the day before, was chatting with another officer, unidentified. Sitting next to Longstreet, on a stump, also whittling, was a tall slim man with an extraordinary face, eyes with a cold glint in them, erect in posture even as he sat, cutting a stick. Fremantle asked, impressed, “Who is that?”

Lawley: “That’s Hood. John Bell Hood. They call him ‘Sam,’ I think. He commands one of Longstreet’s divisions. From Texas, I believe.”

”Does his behavior in battle match his appearance?”

”He does his job,” Lawley said laconically.

”An interesting army,” Fremantle said. “Most interesting.”

Lee had turned, was saying something to Longstreet.

Longstreet shook his head. Hill came closer.

Lawley said, “The Yankees have dug in. But I don’t see any trenches anywhere here. That means we’ll attack.”

The “we” was inevitable, but Fremantle noticed it. He felt a part, almost a member, of this marvelous group of outnumbered men. Englishmen. They called themselves Americans, but they were transplanted Englishmen. Look at the names: Lee, Hill, Longstreet, Jackson, Stuart. And Lee was Church of England. Most of them were. All gentlemen.

No finer gentlemen in England than Lee. Well, of course, here and there, possibly one exception. Or two.

Nevertheless, they are our people. Proud to have them.

And perhaps they will rejoin the Queen and it will be as it was, as it always should have been.

They had talked of that the evening before. Every one of the officers had insisted that the South would be happier under the Queen than under the Union. Of course, hard to say what they meant. But if England came to help now, would it not be possible? That this soil would once again be English soil?

He had borrowed glasses from Sorrel, was looking at the Union lines. He could see the ca

He looked down, saw Longstreet rise, move off, shoulders bowed, wandering head down and lumbering, like a bearded stump, to stare out at the lines. Hood joined him.

Once more Longstreet shook his head. Lee came back to a small table, stared at a map, looked up, back toward the Union lines, keeping his hand on the map. Fremantle had a good look at that extraordinary face. Lee looked weary, more pale than before. The sun was climbing; it was noticeably hotter. Fremantle felt a familiar rumble in his own stomach. Oh God, not the soldier’s disease. Those damned cherries.

There seemed no point in remaining in the tree. Soldiers had observed him, hanging in the air like a plump gray fruit, were begi

Ross said, “They play even during an attack. Not very good. But inspiring. Have you heard the Rebel yell?”

Fremantle nodded. “Godawful sound. I expect they learned it from Indians.”

Ross opened wide his eyes. “Never thought of that,” he said. His silver helmet shifted. Sweat was all over his brow.

”I say, old friend, you really aren’t going to wear that thing all day, are you? In this charming climate?”

”Well,” Ross said. He tweaked his mustache. “One must be properly dressed. Teach these fellas respect.”