The faces began to lighten. A bottle began to move. Pickett sat on the rail fence like old Baldy Ewell riding the horse. The laughter began again, and in the background they played something fast and light and the tenor did not sing. In a few moments Pickett was doing a hornpipe with Fremantle, and the momentary sadness had passed like a small mist. Longstreet wanted to move over there and sit down. But he did not belong there.
Armistead said, “You hear anything of Win Hancock?”
“Ran in to him today.” Longstreet gestured. “He’s over that way, mile or so.”
“That a fact?” Armistead grinned. “Bet he was tough.”
“He was.”
“Ha,” Armistead chuckled. “He’s the best they’ve got, and that’s a fact.”
“Yep.”
“Like to go on over and see him, soon’s I can, if it’s all right.”
“Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Well, that’ll be fine.” Armistead looked up at the moon. “That song there, ‘Kathleen Mavourneen’?” He shrugged. Longstreet looked at him. He was rubbing his face. Armistead said slowly, “Last time I saw old Win, we played that, round the piano.” He glanced at Longstreet, grinned vaguely, glanced away. “We went over there for the last dinner together, night before we all broke up. Spring of sixty-one.” He paused, looked into the past, nodded to himself.
“Mira Hancock had us over. One more evening together. You remember Mira. Beautiful woman. Sweet woman. They were a beautiful couple, you know that? Most beautiful couple I ever saw. He sure looks like a soldier, now, and that’s a fact.”
Longstreet waited. Something was coming.
“Garnett was there, that last night. And Sydney Johnston. Lot of fellas from the old outfit. We were leaving the next day, some goin’ North, some comin’ South. Splitting up. God! You remember.”
Longstreet remembered: a bright cold day. A cold cold day. A soldier’s farewell: goodbye, good luck, and see you in Hell. Armistead said, “We sat around the piano, toward the end of the evening. You know how it was. Mary was playing. We sang all the good songs. That was one of them, ‘Kathleen Mavourneen,’ and there was ‘Mary of Argyle,’ and … ah. It may be for years, and it may be forever. Never forget that.”
He stopped, paused, looked down into the whisky glass, looked up at Longstreet. “You know how it was, Pete.”
Longstreet nodded.
“Well, the man was a brother to me. You remember. Toward the end of the evening … it got rough. We all began, well, you know, there were a lot of tears.” Armistead’s voice wavered; he took a deep breath. “Well, I was crying, and I went up to Win and I took him by the shoulder and I said, ‘Win, so help me, if I ever lift a hand against you, may God strike me dead.’ ”
Longstreet felt a cold shudder. He looked down at the ground. There was nothing to say. Armistead said, shaken, “I’ve not seen him since. I haven’t been on the same field with him, thank God. It … troubles me to think on it.”
Longstreet wanted to reach out and touch him. But he went on looking at the dark ground.
“Can’t leave the fight, of course,” Armistead said. “But I think about it. I meant it as a vow, you see. You understand, Pete?”
“Sure.”
“I thought about sitting this one out. But … I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think that would be right either.”
“Guess not.”
Armistead sighed. He drank the last of the whisky in a swift single motion. He took off the soft black hat and held it in his hand and the gray hair glistened wetly, and the band of white skin at the forehead shone in the light. With the hat off he was older, much older, old courtly Lo. Had been a fiery young man. Lothario grown old.
“Thank you, Pete.” Armistead’s voice was steady. “Had to talk about that.”
“Course.”
“I sent Mira Hancock a package to be opened in the event of my death. I … you’ll drop by and see her, after this is done?”
Longstreet nodded. He said, “I was just thinking. Of the time you hit Early with the plate.”
Armistead grinned. “Didn’t hit him hard enough.”
Longstreet smiled. Then was able to reach out and touch him. He just tapped him once lightly, one touch, on the shoulder, and pulled back his hand.
Out in the camp in the light of the fire Pickett was winding down. He was telling the story about the time during a cannonade when there was only one tree to hide behind and how the men kept forming behind the tree, a long thin line which grew like a pigtail, and swayed to one side or the other every time a ball came close, and as Pickett acted it out daintily, gracefully, it was very funny.
Armistead said, “Wonder if these cherry trees will grow at home. You think they’ll grow at home?”
In a moment Armistead said, “Let’s go join the party. Pete? Why not? Before they drink up all the whisky.”
“No thanks. You go on.”
“Pete, tomorrow could be a long day.”
“Work to do.” But Longstreet felt himself yielding, softening, bending like a young tree in the wind.
“Come on, Pete. One time. Do you good.”
Longstreet looked out at all the bright apple faces. He saw again in his mind the steady face of Lee. He thought: I don’t belong. But he wanted to join them. Not even to say anything. Just to sit there and listen to the jokes up close, sit inside the warm ring, because off here at this distance with the deafness you never heard what they said; you were out of it. But … if he joined there would be a stiffness. He did not want to spoil their night. And yet suddenly, terribly, he wanted it again, the way it used to be, arms linked together, all drunk and singing beautifully into the night, with visions of death from the afternoon, and dreams of death in the coming dawn, the night filled with a monstrous and temporary glittering joy, fat moments, thick seconds dropping like warm rain, jewel after jewel.
“Pete?”
Longstreet stood up. He let go the reins of command. He thought of the three Union corps, one of them Hancock, dug in on the hill, and he let them all go. He did not want to lead any more. He wanted to sit and drink and listen to stories. He said, “I guess one drink, if it’s all right.”
Armistead took him by the arm with a broad grin, and it was genuine; he took Longstreet by the arm and pulled him toward the circle.
“Hey, fellas,” Armistead bawled, “look what I got. Make way for the Old Man.”
They all stood to greet him. He sat down and took a drink and he did not think any more about the war.
*Little Round Top.
6.
LEE
He worked all that night. The noise went on around him until long after midnight. His staff was too small: must do something about that. But he could handle the work and there were many decisions that could be made only by the commanding officer, and the commanding officer should know as much as possible about the logistics of the situation, the condition of the army down to the last detail. He found that he could work right through the pain, that there came a second wind. If you sat quietly in a rocking chair you could work all night long. The trouble came when you tried to move. So he worked from the chair, not rising, and every now and then he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes and blanked the brain, and so rested. The noise did not bother him. But he did not like people crowding too close. After a while he knew it was time to be alone. He told Taylor to ask the people outside to disperse. In a few moments it was very quiet. He rose up out of the chair and stepped out into the night. Time to make a plan now, time to make a decision.
The night air was soft and warm. Across the road there were still many fires in the field but no more bands, no more singing. Men sat in quiet groups, talking the long slow talk of night in camp at war; many had gone to sleep. There were stars in the sky and a gorgeous white moon. The moon shone on the white cupola of the seminary across the road—lovely view, good place to see the fight. He had tried to climb the ladder but it turned out not to be possible. Yet t
here was little pain now. Move slowly, slowly. He said to Taylor, “What day is it now?”
Taylor extracted a large round watch.
“Sir, it’s long after midnight. It’s already Friday.”
“Friday, July third.”
“Yes, sir, I believe that is correct.”
“And tomorrow will be the Fourth of July.”
“Sir?”
“Independence Day.”
Taylor grunted, surprised. “I’d quite forgotten.”
Curious coincidence, Lee thought. Perhaps an omen?
Taylor said, “The good Lord has a sense of humor.”
“Wouldn’t it be ironic—” Lee could not resist the thought “—if we should gain our independence from them, on their own Independence Day?” He shook his head, wondering. He believed in a Purpose as surely as he believed that the stars above him were really there. He thought himself too dull to read God’s plan, thought he was not meant to know God’s plan, a servant only. And yet sometimes there were glimpses. To Taylor he said, “I’ll go sit with Traveler awhile and think. You will keep these people away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am sorry to keep you so late.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“We should have a larger staff.”
“Sir, I shall be offended.”
“Well, I want to think for a while, alone.”
“Sir.”
Lee moved off into the dark pasture. Now in motion he was aware of stiffness, of weakness, of a suspended fear. He moved as if his body was filled with cold cement that was slowly hardening, and yet there was something inside bright and hot and fearful, as if something somewhere could break at any moment, as if a rock in his chest was teetering and could come crashing down. He found the dark horse in the night and stood caressing the warm skin, thick bristly mane, feeding sugar, talking.
Two alternatives. We move away to better ground, as Longstreet suggests. Or we stay. To the end.
He sat on a rail fence. And so we broke the vow. Longstreet’s bitter phrase. It stuck in the mind like one of those spiny sticker burrs they had in the South, in Florida, small hooked seeds that lurk in the grass. Honest and stubborn man, Longstreet. We broke the vow. No point in thinking.
He remembered the night in Arlington when the news came: secession. He remembered a paneled wall and firelight. When we heard the news we went into mourning. But outside there was cheering in the streets, bonfires of joy. They had their war at last. But where was there ever any choice? The sight of fire against wood paneling, a bonfire seen far off at night through a window, soft and sparky glows always to remind him of that embedded night when he found that he had no choice. The war had come. He was a member of the army that would march against his home, his sons. He was not only to serve in it but actually to lead it, to make the plans and issue the orders to kill and burn and ruin. He could not do that. Each man would make his own decision, but Lee could not raise his hand against his own. And so what then? To stand by and watch, observer at the death? To do nothing? To wait until the war was over? And if so, from what vantage point and what distance? How far do you stand from the attack on your home, whatever the cause, so that you can bear it? It had nothing to do with causes; it was no longer a matter of vows.
When Virginia left the Union she bore his home away as surely as if she were a ship setting out to sea, and what was left behind on the shore was not his any more. So it was no cause and no country he fought for, no ideal and no justice. He fought for his people, for the children and the kin, and not even the land, because not even the land was worth the war, but the people were, wrong as they were, insane even as many of them were, they were his own, he belonged with his own. And so he took up arms wilfully, knowingly, in perhaps the wrong cause against his own sacred oath and stood now upon alien ground he had once sworn to defend, sworn in honor, and he had arrived there really in the hands of God, without any choice at all; there had never been an alternative except to run away, and he could not do that. But Longstreet was right, of course: he had broken the vow. And he would pay. He knew that and accepted it. He had already paid. He closed his eyes. Dear God, let it end soon.
Now he must focus his mind on the war.
Alternatives? Any real choice here?
Move on, to higher ground in another place.
Or stay and fight.
Well, if we stay, we must fight. No waiting. We will never be stronger. They will be gaining men from all directions. Most of the men will be militia and not the match of our boys, but they will come in thousands, bringing fresh guns. Supplies will come to them in rivers, but nothing will come to us. Richmond has nothing to send. So if we stay, we fight soon. No more chance of surprise. No more need for speed or mobility. But no more delay. We cannot sit and wait. Bad effect on the troops.
And if we pull out?
He saw that in his mind’s eye: his boys backing off, pulling out, looking up in wonder and rage at the Yankee troops still in possession of the high ground. If we fall back, we will have fought here for two days and we will leave knowing that we did not drive them off, and if it was no defeat, surely it was no victory. And we have never yet left the enemy in command of the field.
I never saw soldiers fight well after a retreat.
We have always been outgunned. Our strength is in our pride.
But they have good ground. And they have fought well. On home ground.
He saw a man coming toward him, easy gait, rolling and serene, instantly recognizable: Jeb Stuart. Lee stood up. This must be done. Stuart came up, saluted pleasantly, took off the plumed hat and bowed.
“You wish to see me, sir?”
“I asked to see you alone,” Lee said quietly. “I wished to speak with you alone, away from other officers. That has not been possible until now. I am sorry to keep you up so late.”
“Sir, I was not asleep,” Stuart drawled, smiled, gave the sunny impression that sleep held no importance, none at all.
Lee thought: here’s one with faith in himself. Must protect that. And yet, there’s a lesson to be learned. He said, “Are you aware, General, that there are officers on my staff who have requested your court-martial?”
Stuart froze. His mouth hung open. He shook his head once quickly, then cocked it to one side.
Lee said, “I have not concurred. But it is the opinion of some excellent officers that you have let us all down.”
“General Lee,” Stuart was struggling. Lee thought: now there will be anger. “Sir,” Stuart said tightly, “if you will tell me who these gentlemen …”
“There will be none of that.” Lee’s voice was cold and sharp. He spoke as you speak to a child, a small child, from a great height. “There is no time for that.”
“I only ask that I be allowed—”
Lee cut him off. “There is no time,” Lee said. He was not a man to speak this way to a brother officer, a fellow Virginian; he shocked Stuart to silence with the iciness of his voice. Stuart stood like a beggar, his hat in his hands.
“General Stuart,” Lee said slowly, “you were the eyes of this army.” He paused.
Stuart said softly, a pathetic voice, “General Lee, if you please …” But Lee went on.
“You were my eyes. Your mission was to screen this army from the enemy cavalry and to report any movement by the enemy’s main body. That mission was not fulfilled.”
Stuart stood motionless.
Lee said, “You left this army without word of your movements, or of the movements of the enemy, for several days. We were forced into battle without adequate knowledge of the enemy’s position, or strength, without knowledge of the ground. It is only by God’s grace that we have escaped disaster.”
“General Lee.” Stuart was in pain, and the old man felt pity, but this was necessary; it had to be done as a bad tooth has to be pulled, and there was no turning away. Yet even now he felt the pity rise, and he wanted to say, it’s all right, boy, it’s all right; this is only a lesson, just one
painful quick moment of learning, over in a moment, hold on, it’ll be all right. His voice began to soften. He could not help it.
“It is possible that you misunderstood my orders. It is possible I did not make myself clear. Yet this must be clear: you with your cavalry are the eyes of the army. Without your cavalry we are blind, and that has happened once but must never happen again.”
There was a moment of silence. It was done. Lee wanted to reassure him, but he waited, giving it time to sink in, to take effect, like medicine. Stuart stood breathing audibly. After a moment he reached down and unbuckled his sword, theatrically, and handed it over with high drama in his face. Lee grimaced, annoyed, put his hands behind his back, half turned his face. Stuart was saying that since he no longer held the general’s trust … but Lee interrupted with acid vigor.
“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.”