The Killer Angels

Longstreet nodded. The old man’s voice was very soft; Longstreet could hardly hear. Lee looked down on him from a long way away. Longstreet nodded again. There was motion in front of him and suddenly he saw George Pickett, bloodstained. His hat was gone; his hair streamed like a blasted flower. His face was pale; he moved his head like a man who has heard too loud a sound. He rode slowly forward. Lee turned to meet him. Longstreet was vaguely amazed that Pickett was still alive. He heard Pickett say something to Lee. George turned and pointed back down the hill. His face was oddly wrinkled.

Lee raised a hand. “General Pickett, I want you to reform your Division in the rear of this hill.”

Pickett’s eyes lighted as if a sudden pain had shot through him. He started to cry. Lee said again with absolute calm, “General, you must look to your Division.”

Pickett said tearfully, voice of a bewildered angry boy, “General Lee, I have no Division.” He pointed back down the hill, jabbing at the blowing smoke, the valley of wrecked men, turned and shuddered, waving, then saying, “Sir? What about my men?” as if even now there was still something Lee could do to fix it. “What about my men? Armistead is gone. Garnett is gone. Kemper is gone. All my colonels are gone. General, every one. Most of my men are gone. Good God, sir, what about my men?”

Longstreet turned away. Enough of this. He looked for his horse, beckoned. The groom came up. Longstreet could look down across the way and see blue skirmishers forming across his front. The land sloped to where the one battery was still firing uphill into the smoke. Longstreet nodded. I’m coming. He felt a tug at his leg, looked down: Sorrel. Let me go. Major. The staff was around him, someone had the reins of the horse. Longstreet felt the gathering of the last great rage. He looked down slowly and pulled at the reins slowly and said carefully, “Major, you better let this damned horse go.”

And then he pointed.

”They’re coming, do you see? I’m going to meet them. I want you to put fire down on them and form to hold right here. I’m going down to meet them.”

He rode off down the hill. He moved very quickly and the horse spurred and it was magnificent to feel the clean air blow across your face, and he was aware suddenly of the cold tears blurring his eyes and tried to wipe them away, Old Hero shying among all the dead bodies. He leaped a fence and became aware of a horse following and swung and saw the face of Goree, the frail Texan trailing him like the wind. Ahead of him the guns were firing into a line of blue soldiers and Longstreet spurred that way and Goree pulled alongside, screaming, “What are your orders, General? Where you want me to go?”

A shell blew up in front of him. He swerved to the right. Goree was down and Longstreet reined up. The bony man was scrambling, trying to get to his feet. Rifle fire was begi

The staff was around him, looking at him with wild eyes. Someone again had the bridle of his horse. Bullets still plucked the air: song of the dark guitar. He wanted to sleep. Someone was yelling, “Got to pull back,” and he shook his head violently, clearing it, and turned back to the guns, letting the mind begin to function. “Place the guns,” he bawled, “bring down some guns.” He began directing fire. He took another shell burst close by and again the great drone filled his ears and after that came a cottony murmury rush, like a waterfall, and he moved in a black dream, directing the fire, waiting for them to come, trying to see through the smoke where the shells were falling. But the firing began to stop. The storm was ending. He looked out through the smoke and saw no more blue troops; they had pulled back. He thought, to God: if there is any mercy in you at all you will finish it now.

But the blue troops pulled back, and there was no attack.

After a while Longstreet sat on a fence. He noticed the rifle still in his hand. He had never used it. Carefully, he placed it on the ground. He stared at it for a while. Then he began to feel nothing at all. He saw the dirt-streaked face of T. J. Goree, watching him.

”How are you?” Longstreet said.

”Tolerable.”

Longstreet pointed uphill. “They aren’t coming.”

Goree shook his head.

”Too bad,” Longstreet said.

”Yes, sir.”

”Too bad,” Longstreet said again.

”Yes, sir. We got plenty canister left. If they hit us now we could sure make it hot for them.”

Longstreet nodded. After a moment Goree said, “General, I tell you plain. There are times when you worry me.”

”Well,” Longstreet said.

”It’s no good trying to get yourself killed. General. The Lord will come for you in His own time.”

Longstreet leaned back against a fencepost and stared up into the sky. For a moment he saw nothing but the clean and wondrous sky. He sat for a moment, coming back to himself. He thought of Lee as he had looked riding that hill, his hat off so that the retreating men could see him and recognize him. When they saw him they actually stopped ru

It was darker now. Late afternoon. If Meade was coming he would have to come soon. But there was no sign of it. A few guns were still firing a long way off; heartbroken men would not let it end. But the fire was dying; the guns ended like sparks. Suddenly it was still, enormously still, a long pause in the air, a waiting, a fall. And then there was a different silence. Men began to turn to look out across the smoldering field. The wind had died; there was no motion anywhere but the slow smoke drifting and far off one tiny flame of a burning tree. The men stood immobile across the field. The knowledge began to pass among them, passing without words, that it was over. The sun was already begi

Longstreet sat looking out across the ground to the green rise of the Union line and he saw a blue officer come riding along the crest surrounded by flags and a cloud of men, and he saw troops rising to greet him.

”They’re cheering,” Goree said bitterly, but Longstreet could not hear. He saw a man raise a captured battle flag, blue flag of Virginia, and he turned from the sight. He was done. Sorrel was by his side, asking for orders. Longstreet shook his head. He would go somewhere now and sleep. He thought: couldn’t even quit. Even that is not to be allowed. He mounted the black horse and rode back toward the camp and the evening.

With the evening came a new stillness. There were no guns, no music. Men sat alone under ripped branchless trees. A great black wall of cloud was gathering in the west, and as the evening advanced and the sky grew darker they could begin to see the lightning although they could not yet hear the thunder. Longstreet functioned mechanically, placing his troops in a defensive line. Then he sat alone by the fire drinking coffee. Sorrel brought the first figures from Pickett’s command.

Armistead and Garnett were dead; Kemper was dying. Of the thirteen colonels in Pickett’s Division seven were dead and six were wounded. Longstreet did not look at the rest. He held up a hand and Sorrel went away.