The Killer Angels

”Yes,” Longstreet said. Damn fool things to say to a guest.

”If I have disturbed you, sir…”

”Not at all. Things on my mind. If you don’t mind, Colonel…”

Fremantle apologized. Longstreet said good night. He sat alone on his horse in the dark. There was a fire in the field.

A boy was playing a harmonica, frail and lovely sound.

Longstreet thought of Barksdale as he had gone to die, streaming off to death, white hair trailing him like white fire. Hood’s eyes were accusing. Should have moved to the right. He thought: tactics are old Napoleon and a lot of chivalry.

He shuddered. He remembered that day in church when he prayed from the soul and listened and knew in that moment that there was no one there, no one to listen.

Don’t think on these things. Keep an orderly mind. This stuff is like heresy.

It was quieter now and very warm and wet, a softness in the air, a mountain peace. His mind went silent for a time and he rode down the long road between the fires in the fields and men passed him in the night unknowing, and soldiers chased each other across the road. A happy camp, behind the line. There was music and faith. And pride. We have always had pride.

He thought suddenly of Stonewall Jackson, old Thomas, old Blue Light. He could move men. Yes. But you remember, he ordered pikes for his men, spears, for the love of God. And the pikes sit by the thousands, rusting now in a Richmond warehouse because Jackson is dead and gone to glory. But he would have used them. Pikes. Against ca

They come from another age. The Age of Virginia. Must talk to Lee in the morning. He’s tired. Never saw him that tired. And sick. But he’ll listen. They all come from another age.

General Lee, I have three Union corps in front of me. They have the high ground, and they are dug in, and I am down to half my strength. He will smile and pat you on the arm and say: go do it. And perhaps we will do it.

He was approaching his own camp. He could hear laughter ahead, and there were many bright fires. He slowed, let Hero crop grass. He felt a great sense of shame.

A man should not think these things. But he could not control it. He rode into camp, back to work. He came in silently and sat back under a dark tree and Sorrel came to him with the figures. The figures were bad. Longstreet sat with his back against a tree and out in the open there was a party, sounds of joy: George Pickett was telling a story.

He was standing by a fire, wild-haired, gorgeous, stabbing with an invisible sword. He could tell a story. A circle of men was watching him; Longstreet could see the grins, flash of a dark bottle going round. Off in the dark there was a voice of a young man singing: clear Irish tenor.

Longstreet felt a long way off, a long, long way. Pickett finished with one mighty stab, then put both hands on his knees and crouched and howled with laughter, enjoying himself enormously. Longstreet wanted a drink. No. Not now. Later. In a few days. Perhaps a long bottle and a long sleep. He looked across firelight and saw one face in the ring not smiling, not even listening, one still face staring unseeing into the yellow blaze: Dick Garnett. The man Jackson had court-martialed for cowardice. Longstreet saw Lo Armistead nudge him, concerned, whisper in his ear.

Garnett smiled, shook his head, turned back to the fire.

Armistead went on watching him, worried. Longstreet bowed his head.

Saw the face of Robert Lee. Incredible eyes. An honest man, a simple man. Out of date. They all ride to glory, all the plumed knights. Saw the eyes of Sam Hood, accusing eyes. He’ll not go and die. Did not have the black look they get, the dying ones, around the eyes. But Barksdale is gone, and Semmes, and half of Hood’s Division…

”Evening, Pete.”

Longstreet squinted upward. Tall man holding a tall glass, youthful grin under steel-gray hair: Lo Armistead.

”How goes it, Pete?”

”Passing well, passing well.”

”Come on and join us, why don’t you? We liberated some Pe

Longstreet shook his head.

”Mind if I sit a spell?” Armistead squatted, perched on the ground sitting on his heels, resting the glass on his thigh. “What do you hear from Sam Hood?”

”May lose an arm.”

Armistead asked about the rest. Longstreet gave him the list. There was a moment of silence. Armistead took a drink, let the names register. After a moment he said, “Dick Garnett is sick. He can’t hardly walk.”

”I’ll get somebody to look after him.”

”Would you do that, Pete? He’ll have to take it, coming from you.”

”Sure.”

”Thing is, if there’s any action, he can’t stand to be out of it. But if you ordered him.”

Longstreet said nothing.

”Don’t suppose you could do that,” Armistead said wistfully.

Longstreet shook his head.

”I keep trying to tell him he don’t have to prove a thing, not to us,” Armistead brooded. “Well, what the hell.” He sipped from the glass. “A pleasant brew. The Dutchmen make good whisky. Oh. Beg your pardon.”

Longstreet looked out into the firelight. He recognized Fremantle, popeyed and gri

Armistead said, “I been talking to that Englishman. He isn’t too bright, is he?”

Longstreet smiled. He thought: devious Lee.

Armistead said, “We put it to him, how come the limeys didn’t come help us. In their own interest and all. Hell, perfectly obvious they ought to help. You know what he said? He said the problem was slavery. Now what do you think of that?”

Longstreet shook his head. That was another thing he did not think about. Armistead said disgustedly, “They think we’re fighting to keep the slaves. He says that’s what most of Europe thinks the war is all about. Now, what we supposed to do about that?”

Longstreet said nothing. The war was about slavery, all right. That was not why Longstreet fought but that was what the war was about, and there was no point in talking about it, never had been.

Armistead said, “Ole Fremantle said one thing that was interestin’. He said, whole time he’s been in this country, he never heard the word ‘slave.’ He said we always call them ‘servants.’ Now you know, that’s true. I never thought of it before, but it’s true.”

Longstreet remembered a speech: In a land where all slaves are servants, all servants are slaves, and thus ends democracy. A good line. But it didn’t pay to think on it.

Armistead was saying, “That Fremantle is kind of fu

Pickett’s party was quieting. The faces were turning to the moon. It was a moment before Longstreet, slightly deaf, realized they had turned to the sound of the tenor singing.

An Irish song. He listened.

… oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?

Oh has thou forgotten how soon we must part?

It may be for years, it may be forever…

”That boy can sing,” Longstreet said. “That’s ‘Kathleen Mavourneen,’ am I right?” He turned to Armistead.

The handsome face had gone all to softness. Longstreet thought he was crying, just for a moment, but there were no tears, only the look of pain. Armistead was gazing toward the sound of the voice and then his eyes shifted suddenly and he looked straight down. He knelt there unmoving while the whole camp grew slowly still and in the dark silence the voice sang the next verse, softer, with great feeling, with great beauty, very far off to Longstreet’s dull ear, far off and strange, from another time, an older softer time, and Longstreet could see tears on faces around the fire, and men begi