The Killer Angels

Goree moved out. There goes a damn good man.

Longstreet felt the warmth of unexpected gratitude. He swung the black horse toward Lee’s headquarters back on the road to Cashtown. Time now to talk. Good long talk.

Watch the anger. Careful. But it is true. The men shied from blaming Lee. The Old Man is becoming untouchable. Now more than anything else he needs the truth. But… well, it’s not his fault, not the Old Man. Longstreet jerked the horse, almost ran into Sorrel. They came out into a patch of bright moonlight. Longstreet saw: the man was hurt.

”Major,” Longstreet said harshly. “How are you?”

”Sir? Oh, I’m fine, sir. Juss minor problem.”

”That’s a godawful piece of horse you’ve got there.”

”Yes, sir. Lost the other one, sir. They shot it out from under me. It lost both legs. I was with Dealing’s Battery.

Hot time, sir.” Sorrel bobbed his head apologetically.

Longstreet pointed. “What’s the trouble with the arm?”

Sorrel shrugged, embarrassed. “Nothing much, sir. Bit painful, can’t move it. Shrapnel, sir. Hardly broke the skin. Ah, Osmun Latrobe got hit too.”

”How bad?”

”Just got knocked off the horse, I believe. This fighting is very hard on the horses, sir. I was hoping we could get a new supply up here, but these Yankee horses are just farm stock-too big, too slow. Man would look ridiculous on a plow horse.”

”Well,” Longstreet grumbled vaguely. “Take care of yourself. Major. You aint the most likable man I ever met, but you sure are useful.”

Sorrel bowed. “I appreciate your sentiments, sir. The General is a man of truth.”

”Have you got the casualty figures yet?”

”No, sir. I regret to say. Just preliminary reports. Indications are that losses will exceed one third.”

Longstreet jerked his head, acknowledging.

Sorrel said carefully, “Possibly more. The figures could go…”

”Don’t play it down,” Longstreet said.

”No, sir. I think that casualties were much worse in Hood’s Division. Won’t have an exact count for some time. But… it appears that the Yankees put up a fight. My guess is Hood’s losses will approach fifty percent.”

Longstreet took a deep breath, turned away. Eight thousand men? Down in two hours. His mind flicked on.

Not enough left now for a major assault. No way in the world. Lee will see. Now: the facts.

”I need a hard count. Major. As quickly as possible.”

”Yes, sir. But, well, it’s not easy. The men tend to suppress the truth. I hear, for example, that Harry Heth’s Division was badly hurt yesterday, but his officers did not report all the losses to General Lee because they did not want General Heth to get into trouble.”

”I want the truth. However black. But hard facts. Soon as you can. I rely on you. Also, I want an account of artillery available, rounds remaining, type of rounds, et cetera. Got that? Get out a note to Alexander.”

Up the road at a gallop: a handsome horseman, waving a plumed hat in the night. He reined up grandly, waved the hat in one long slow swop, bowed halfway down off the horse-a broad sweeping cavalier’s gesture. Fairfax, another of Longstreet’s aides.

”General Pickett’s compliments, sir. He wishes to a

Longstreet stared, grunted, gave an involuntary chuckle.

”Oh grand,” Longstreet said. “That’s just grand.” He turned to Sorrel. “Isn’t that grand, Major? Now, let the battle commence.” He grimaced, grunted. “Tell General Pickett I’m glad to have him here. At last.”

Fairfax had a wide mouth: teeth gleamed in moonlight.

”General Pickett is gravely concerned, sir. He wishes to inquire if there are any Yankees left. He says to tell you that he personally is bored and his men are very lonely.”

Longstreet shook his head. Fairfax went on cheerily: “General Pickett reported earlier today to General Lee, while General Longstreet was engaged in the entertainment on the right flank, but General Lee said that General Pickett’s men would not be necessary in the day’s action.

General Pickett instructs me to inform you that his is a sensitive nature and that his feelings are wounded and that he and his Division of pale Virginians awaits you in yon field, hoping you will come tuck them in for the night and console them.”

”Well,” Longstreet mused. “Fairfax, are you drunk?”

”No, sir. I am quoting General Pickett’s exact words, sir.

With fine accuracy, sir.”

”Well.” Longstreet smiled once slightly, shrugged. “You can tell General Pickett I’ll be along directly.”

Fairfax saluted, bowed, departed. Longstreet rode on into the dark. Pickett’s Division: five thousand fresh men. Damn fine men. It was like being handed a bright new shiny gun.

He felt stronger. Now talk to Lee. He spurred the horse and began to canter toward the lights on the Cashtown Road.

Headquarters could be seen from a long way off, like a small city at night. The glow of it rose above the trees and shone reflected in the haze of the sky. He could begin to hear singing. Different bands sang different songs: a melody of wind. He began to pass clusters of men laughing off in the dark. They did not recognize him. He smelted whisky, tobacco, roasting meat. He came out into the open just below the Seminary and he could see Headquarters field filled with smoke and light, hundreds of men, dozens of fires. He passed a circle of men watching a tall thin black boy dressed in a flowing red dress, dancing, kicking heels.

There was a sutler’s store, a white wagon, a man selling a strange elixir with the high blessed chant of a preacher. He began to see civilians: important people in very good clothes, some sleek carriages, many slaves. People come up from home to see how the army was doing, to deliver a package to a son, a brother. He rode out into the light and heads began to turn and fix on him and he felt the awkward flush come over his face as eyes looked at him and knew him and fingers began to point. He rode looking straight ahead, a crowd begi

Longstreet pulled up.

The cavalier, a beautiful man, was lounging against a fence, a white rail fence, in a circle of light, a circle of admirers. Reporters were taking notes. Stuart was dressed in soft gray with butternut braid along the arms and around the collar and lace at his throat, and the feathered hat was swept back to hang happily, boyishly from the back of the head, and curls peeked out across the wide handsome forehead. Full-bearded, to hide a weak chin, but a lovely boy, carefree, mud-spattered, obviously tired, languid, cheery, confident. He looked up at Longstreet, waved a languid hello. He gave the impression of having been up for days, in the saddle for days, and not minding it. Longstreet jerked a nod, unsmiling. He thought: we have small use for you now. But you are Lee’s problem. Longstreet slowed, not wanting to speak to Stuart. The crowd was begi