… of the coming of the Lord
He came out of the tent into a fine cold rain. The troops were already up and moving out on the misty road beyond the trees. Some of them saw the white head and came to the fence to stare at him. The ground rocked. Lee floated, clutched the tent. Got up too quickly. Must move slowly, with care. Bryan came out of the mist, bearing steaming coffee in a metal cup. Lee took it in pained hands, drank, felt the heat soak down through him like hot liquid sunshine. The dizziness passed. There was fog flat and low in the treetops, like a soft roof. The rain was clean on his face. He walked slowly to the rail where the horses were tethered: gentle Traveler, skittish Lucy Long. Stuart had not come back in the night. If Stuart had come they would have wakened him. He said good morning to the beautiful gray horse, the great soft eyes, said a silent prayer. He thought: tonight we’ll all be together.
Troops were gathering along the rail fence, looking in at him. He heard a man cry a raucous greeting. Another man shushed him in anger. Lee turned, bowed slightly, waved a stiff arm. There was a cluster of sloppy salutes, broad wet grins under dripping hats. A bareheaded boy stood in reverent silence, black hat clutched to his breast. An officer moved down the fence, hustling the men away.
Lee took a deep breath, testing his chest: a windblown vacancy, a breathless pain. He had a sense of enormous unnatural fragility, like hollow glass. He sat silently on a rail, letting the velvet nose nuzzle him. Not much pain this morning. Praise God. He had fallen from his horse on his hands and the hands still hurt him but the pain in the chest was not bad at all. But it was not the pain that troubled him; it was a sick gray emptiness he knew too well, that sense of a hole clear through him like the blasted vacancy in the air behind a shell burst, an enormous emptiness. The thing about the heart was that you could not coax it or force it, as you could any other disease. Will power meant nothing. The great cold message had come in the spring, and Lee carried it inside him every moment of every day and all through the nights-that endless, breathless, inconsolable alarm: there is not much time, beware, prepare.
”Sir?”
Lee looked up. Young Walter Taylor. Lee came slowly awake, back to the misty world. Taylor stood in the rain with inky papers-a cool boy of twenty-four, already a major.
”Good morning, sir. Trust you slept well?”
The clear black eyes were concerned. Lee nodded. Taylor was a slim and cocky boy. Behind Lee’s back he called him “The Great Tycoon.” He did not know that Lee knew it. He had a delicate face, sensitive nostrils. He said cheerily, “Nothing from General Stuart, sir.”
Lee nodded.
”Not a thing, sir. We can’t even pick up any rumors. But we mustn’t fret now, sir.” A consoling tone. “They haven’t got anybody can catch General Stuart.”
Lee turned to the beautiful horse. He had a sudden rushing sensation of human frailty, death like a blowing wind: Jackson was gone, Stuart would go, like leaves from autumn trees. Matter of time.
Taylor said airily, “Sir, I would assume that if we haven’t heard from the general it is obviously because he has nothing to report.”
”Perhaps,” Lee said.
”After all, sir, Longstreet’s man is a paid spy. And an actor to boot.” Taylor pursed his lips primly, nicked way from a gray cuff.
Lee said, “If I do not hear from General Stuart by this evening I will have to send for him.”
”Yes, sir.”
”We’ll send the Maryland people. They’ll be familiar with the ground.”
”Very good, sir.” Taylor shifted wet papers. “Message here from General Hill, sir.”
”Yes.”
”The General wishes to inform you that he is going into Gettysburg this morning with his lead Division.” Taylor squinted upward at a lightening sky, “I expect he’s already under way He advises me that there is a shoe factory in the town and his men intend to, ah, requisition some footgear.”
Taylor grinned.
”General Ewell is moving down from the north?”
”Yes, sir. The rain may slow things somewhat. But General Ewell expects to be in the Cashtown area by noon.”
Lee nodded. Taylor peered distastefully at another paper.
”Ah, there is a report here, sir, of Union cavalry in Gettysburg, but General Hill discounts it.”
”Cavalry?”
”Yes, sir. General Pettigrew claims he saw them yesterday afternoon. General Hill says he was, ah, overeager.
General Hill says he expects no opposition but perhaps some local militia, with shotguns and such.”
Taylor grinned cheerily Lee remembered Longstreet’s spy. If it is Union cavalry, there will be infantry close behind it. Lee said, “Who is Hill’s head commander?”
”Ah, that will be General Heth, sir.”
Harry Heth. Studious. Reliable. Lee said, “General Hill knows I want no fight until this army is concentrated.”
”Sir, he does.”
”That must be clear.”
”I believe it is, sir.”
Lee felt a thump, a flutter in his chest. It was as if the heart was turning over. He put his hand there, passed one small breathless moment. It happened often: no pain, just a soft deep flutter. Taylor was eyeing him placidly. He had no fear of the Army of the Potomac.
”Will the General have breakfast?”
Lee shook his head.
”We have flapjacks in small mountains, sir. You must try them, sir. Fresh butter and bacon and wagons of hams, apple butter, ripe cherries. Never seen anything like it, sir. You really ought to pitch in. Courtesy of mine host, the great state of Pennsylvania. Nothing like it since the war began. Marvelous what it does for morale. Never saw the men happier. Napoleon knew a thing or two, what? For a Frenchman?”
Lee said, “Later.” There was no hunger in the glassy chest. Want to see Longstreet. Up ahead, in the mist, A. P. Hill probes toward Gettysburg like a blind hand. Hill was new to command. One-legged Ewell was new to command. Both had replaced Stonewall Jackson, who was perhaps irreplaceable. Now there was only Longstreet, and a thumping heart. Lee said, “We will move the headquarters forward today, this morning.”
”Yes, sir. Sir, ah, there are a number of civilians to see you.”
Lee turned sharply. “Trouble with our soldiers?”
”Oh no, sir. No problem there. The men are behaving very well, very well indeed. Oh yes, sir. But, ah, there are some local women who claim we’ve taken all their food, and although they don’t complain of our having paid for it all in the good dear coin of the mighty state of Virginia- “ Taylor grinned-“they do object to starving. I must say that Ewell’s raiding parties seem to have been thorough. At any rate, the ladies seek your assistance. Rather massive ladies, most of them, but one or two have charm.”
”See to it. Major.”
”Of course, sir. Except, ah, sir, the old gentleman, he’s been waiting all night to see you.”
”Old gentleman?”
”Well, sir, we conscripted his horse. At your orders, as you know. I explained that to the old man, fortunes of war and all that, but the old gentleman insists that the horse is blind, and can be of no use to us, and is an old friend.”
Lee sighed. “A blind horse?”
”Yes, sir. I didn’t want to trouble you, sir, but your orders were strict on this point.”
”Give him the horse. Major.”
”Yes, sir.” Taylor nodded.
”We must be charitable with these people. Major. We have enough enemies.”
”Oh yes, sir.” Taylor made a slight bow. “The men have the strictest orders. But I must say, sir, that those orders would be easier to follow had the Yankees shown charity when they were back in Virginia.”
”Major,” Lee said slowly, “we will behave ourselves.”
Taylor recognized the tone. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Lee rested against the rail fence. He noticed at last a struggling band: “Bonny Blue Rag.” A brave but tinny sound. He bowed in that direction, raised his coffee cup in tribute. A tall thin soldier waved a feathered hat: the music bounced away. Lee said, “I would like to see General Longstreet. My compliments, and ask him to ride with me this morning, if he is not otherwise occupied.”
”Breakfast, sir?”
”In a moment, Major.”
Taylor saluted formally, moved off. Lee sat for a moment alone, gazing eastward. Cavalry. If Longstreet’s spy was right, then there could truly be cavalry in Gettysburg and masses of infantry right behind. We drift blindly toward a great collision. Peace, until night. He rubbed the left arm.
Must show no pain, no weakness here. The strength now is in Longstreet. Trust to him.
He saw the old gentleman, who thanked him with tears for the return of the blind horse. A Pennsylvania woman flirted, asked for his autograph. He gave it, amazed, wondering what good it would do her in this country. He met with his aides: angry Marshall, gray-bearded Venable. Marshall was furious with the absent Stuart, was ready to draw up court-martial papers. Lee said nothing. The courteous Venable drew him politely away.
”Sir, I have a request to make.”
”Yes.”
Venable: a courtly man, a man of patience. He said, “Could you speak to Dorsey Pender, sir? He’s had a letter from his wife.”
Lee remembered: beautiful woman on a golden horse, riding with Pender on the banks of the Rappahannock. Lovely sight, a sunset sky.
”Mrs. Pender is, ah, a pious woman, and she believes that now that we have invaded Pennsylvania we are in the wrong, and God has forsaken us-you know how these people reason, sir-and she says she cannot pray for him.”
Lee shook his head. God protect us from our loving friends. He saw for one small moment the tragic face of his own frail wife, that unhappy woman, the stone strong face of his mother. Venable said, “I think a talk might help Pender, sir. Another man would shake it off, but he’s… taken it badly. Says he cannot pray himself.” Venable paused. “I know there are others who feel that way.”
Lee nodded. Venable said, “It was easier in Virginia, sir. On our home ground.”
”I know.”
”Will you speak to him, sir?”
”Yes,” Lee said.
”Very good, sir. I know it will help him, sir.”
Lee said, “I once swore to defend this ground.” He looked out across the misty grove. “No matter. No matter. We end the war as best we can.” He put his hand to his chest. “Napoleon once said, ‘The logical end to defensive warfare is surrender.’ You might tell him that.”
”Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
Venable went away. Lee felt a deeper spasm, like a black stain. I swore to defend. Now I invade. A soldier, no theologian. God, let it be over soon. While there’s time to play with grandchildren. It came too late. Fame came too late. I would have enjoyed it, if I were a younger man.
He moved back to the map table. The guilt stayed with him, ineradicable, like the silent alarm in the fragile chest. Swore to defend. Misty matters. Get on with the fight. He looked down at the map. The roads all converged, weblike, to Gettysburg. And where’s the spider? Nine roads in all. Message from Ewell: his troops were on the move, would be coming down into Gettysburg from the north. Lee looked at his watch: eight o’clock. The rain had stopped, the mist was blowing off. He thought: good. Too much rain would muck up the roads. The first sun broke through, yellow and warm through steaming tree leaves, broad bright light blazed across the map table. Lee began to come slowly awake, blinking in the blaze of morning.
Out on the road the troops were moving in a great mottled stream: Longstreet’s First Corps, the backbone of the army, moving up behind Powell Hill. The barefoot, sunburned, thin and grinning army, joyful, unbeatable, already immortal. And then through the trees the familiar form: big man on a black horse, great round shoulders, head thick as a stump: James Longstreet.
It was reassuring just to look at him, riding slowly forward into the sunlight on the black Irish stallion: Dutch Longstreet, old Pete. He was riding along in a cloud of visitors, bright-clad foreigners, observers from Europe, plumes and feathers and helmeted horsemen, reporters from Richmond, the solemn members of Longstreet’s staff. He separated from the group and rode to Lee’s tent and the motley bright cloud remained respectfully distant. Lee rose with unconscious joy.
”General.”
”Mornin’.”
Longstreet touched his cap, came heavily down from the horse. He was taller than Lee, head like a boulder, full-bearded, long-haired, always a bit sloppy, gloomy, shocked his staff by going into battle once wearing carpet slippers. Never cared much for appearance, gave an impression of ominous bad-tempered strength and a kind of slow, even stubborn, unquenchable anger: a soft voice, a ragged mouth. He talked very slowly and sometimes had trouble finding the right word, and the first impression of him around that gay and courtly camp was that he was rather dull-witted and not much fun. He was not a Virginian. But he was a magnificent soldier. With Jackson gone he was the rock of the army, and Lee felt a new clutching in his chest, looking at him, thinking that this was one man you could not afford to lose. Longstreet smiled his ragged smile, grumbled, jerked a finger over his shoulder.
”Her Majesty’s forces in the New World passed a restful night.”
Lee looked, saw the ludicrous man in the lustrous hat and the wide gray coat. The man made a sweeping, quixotic bow, nearly falling from the horse. Colonel Fremantle was up. Lee gave a formal bow, smiling inwardly.
Longstreet observed with sloe-eyed surprise. “After a while, you know, he actually begins to grow on you.”
”You’re keeping him entertained?”
”Not exactly. He’s got his heart set on a cavalry charge.
Drawn sabers, all that glorious French business. He was horrified when I had to tell him we didn’t use the British square.”
Lee smiled.
”But he’s a likable fella.” Longstreet took off his hat, scratched his head. “Can’t say he’s learning much. But he seems to like us, all right. He says you have a great reputation in Europe.”
Lee said, “There’ll be no help from there.”
”No.”
”President Davis has hope.”
”Well, I guess that won’t do him any harm to hope.”
”At least we’ll be good hosts.” Lee felt a sudden strength. It came out of Longstreet like sunlight. Lee said happily, “And how are you this morning. General?”
”Me?” Longstreet blinked. “I’m all right.” He paused, cocked his head to one side, stared at the old man.
Lee said happily, “You must take care of yourself.”
Longstreet was mystified. No one ever asked him how he felt. His health was legendary, he never tired.
Lee said diplomatically, “The Old Soldier’s illness is going around.”
”It’s the damned cherries,” Longstreet gloomed. “Too many raw cherries.”
Lee nodded. Then he said softly, “General, in the fight that’s coming, I want you to stay back from the main line.”
Longstreet looked at him, expressionless. Black eyes glistened, bright and hard under hairy eyebrows. Impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Lee said, “You are our only veteran commander.”
Longstreet nodded.
”If I should become once again indisposed,” Lee said.
”God forbid.” Longstreet stared. “And how are you?”
Lee smiled, waved a deprecating hand. “I am well, very well. Thank God. But there is always… a possibility. And now Jackson is gone, and we must all do more than before. And I do not know if Hill or Ewell are ready for command, but I know that you…”
He paused. Hard to speak in this fashion. Longstreet was staring with cold silent eyes. Lee said sternly, “You have a very bad habit. General, of going too far forward.”
Longstreet said, “You cannot lead from behind.”
”Well. Let me put it plainly. I cannot spare you.”
Longstreet stood silent for a moment. He bowed slightly, then he grinned. “True,” he said.
”You will oblige me?”
”My pleasure,” Longstreet said.
Lee rubbed his nose, looked down at the table. “Now, let us look to the day. Nothing will happen today. But we have an opportunity, I believe.”
”Nothing from Stuart?”
Lee shook his head. Longstreet grumbled,’ ‘The Federals are closing in.”
”I have no new information.”
”When Stuart comes back, if he does come back-which he will eventually, if only just to read the Richmond newspapers-you ought to court-martial him.”
”And will that make him a better soldier?”
Longstreet paused. He said, “All right. What will?”
”Reproach, I think. I must let him know how badly he has let us down.”
Longstreet chuckled. He shook his head, gazing at Lee.
”Yes, by George. Maybe. Reproach from you. Yes.” Longstreet grinned widely. “Might do the job. But me… I’m not good at that.”
”Different men, different methods. Docile men make very poor soldiers.”
Longstreet grinned wryly. “An army of temperamentals. It isn’t an army, it’s a gentlemen’s club. My God. Remember when old Powell Hill wanted to fight me a duel, right in the middle of the war?”
”And you ignored him. You did exactly right.”
”Yep. He might have shot me.”
Lee smiled. His heart rolled again, a soft sudden thump, leaving him breathless. Longstreet was grinning, staring off toward the road, did not notice. Lee said, “One new item. I have confirmed some of your man Harrison’s information. The new commander is definitely George Meade, not Reynolds. The news is carried in the local newspapers.”
Longstreet reached inside his coat, extracted a fat cigar.
”You can trust my man, I think. I sent him into Gettysburg last night. He said he saw two brigades of Union cavalry there.”
”Last night?”
”I sent you a report.”
Lee felt a tightening in his chest. He put his hand to his arm. He said slowly, “General Hill reports only militia.”
”It’s cavalry, I think.” Longstreet chewed, spat.
Where there is cavalry there will be infantry close behind.
”Whose troops?”
”John Buford.”
Longstreet meditated.
” Meade’s coming fast. Looks like he’s trying to get behind us.”
”Yes.” Lee thought: the direction does not matter. Fight him wherever he is. Lee said, “We have an opportunity.”
Longstreet chewed, nodded, grinned. “Yep. Objective was to get him out of Washington and in the open. Now he’s out. Now all we have to do is swing round between him and Washington and get astride some nice thick rocks and make him come to us, and we’ve got him in the open.”
Take the defensive. Not again. Lee shook his head. He pointed to Gettysburg.
”He has been forcing the march. The weather has been unusually hot. He will arrive strung out and tired, piece by piece. If we concentrate we can hit him as he comes up. If we min one or two corps we can even the odds.”
He was again breathless, but he bent over the map.
Longstreet said nothing.
”He’s new to command,” Lee said. “It will take him some days to pick up the reins. His information will be poor, he will have staff problems.”
”Yes, and he will have Washington on his back, urging him to throw us out of Pennsylvania. He has to fight. We don’t.”
Lee put his hand to his eyes. He was fuzzy-brained.
Longstreet loved the defense. But all the bright theories so rarely worked. Instinct said: hit hard, hit quick, hit everything. But he listened. Then he said slowly, “That move will be what Meade expects.”
”Yes. Because he fears it.”
Lee turned away from the table. He wanted no argument now. He had been down this road before, and Longstreet was immovable, and there was no point in argument when you did not even know where the enemy was. Yet it was good counsel. Trust Longstreet to tell the truth. Lee looked up and there was Traveler, led by a black groom. The staff had gathered, the tents were down. Time to move. Lee took a deep, delighted breath.
”Now, General,” he said, “let’s go see what George Meade intends.”
They moved out into the open, into the warm sunlight. It was becoming a marvelous day. Out on the road the army flowed endlessly eastward, pouring toward the great fight. Lee smelled the superb wetness of clean mountain air. He said, “General, will you ride with me?”
Longstreet bowed. “My pleasure.”
Lee mounted in pain, but the hot sun would heal the old bones. They rode out into a space in the great gray bristling stream. Another band played; men were shouting. It was lovely country. They rode through soft green rounded hills, a sunny mom, a splendid air, moving toward adventure as rode the plumed knights of old. Far back in the woods there was still fog in the trees, caught in the branches like fragments of white summer, and Lee remembered:
Bow down Thy Heavens, O Lord, and come down, Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke.
He closed his eyes.
Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my fingers to fight and my hands to war.
Amen.
They rode several miles before they heard the first thunder.
Lee reined to a stop. Silence. Motion of ragged white clouds. He said, “Did you hear that?”
Longstreet, who was slightly deaf, shook his head.
”It might have been thunder.” But Lee waited. Then it came: low, distant thumping. Ominous: angry. Longstreet said grimly, bright-eyes, angered, “I don’t hear too well any more.”
”That was artillery,” Lee said. Longstreet gazed at him with black marble eyes. “You don’t think…” Lee began, then stopped. “I’d better ride forward,” he said. Longstreet nodded. Lee looked at his watch. Not quite ten in the morning. He left Longstreet and rode toward the sound of the guns.
Just before dawn Buford rode down the line himself, waking them up, all the boyish faces. Then he climbed the ladder into the white cupola and sat listening to the rain, watching the light come. The air was cool and wet and delicious to breathe: a slow, fine, soaking rain, a farmer’s rain, gentle on the roof. The light came slowly: there were great trees out in the mist. Then the guns began.
A single shot. He sat up. Another. Two more widely spaced. Then a small volley, a spattering. A long silence: several seconds. He stared at white air, the rounded tops of smoky trees. Men were moving out in the open below him.
An officer paused on horseback in the road. The firing began again. Rebel guns, farther off, but not many. Buford was cold. He shuddered, waited.
The first attack was very short: a ragged fire. Buford nodded, listening. “Yes. Tried to brush us off. Got a bloody nose. Now he’ll get angry, all puffed up like a partridge.
Now he’ll form up a line and try us for real, and he’ll hit the main line.” The mist was lifting slowly, the rain was slackening, but Buford could not see the line. He felt the attack come and turned his face toward the sound of the guns, judging the size of the attack by the width of the sound, and he sat grinning alone in the cupola, while the Rebel troops pushed his line and drew back, bloody, and tried again in another place, the firing spreading all down the line like a popping fuse, and then there was another long silence, and Buford could feel them reforming again, beginning for the first time to take this seriously. The next assault would be organized. He looked at his watch.
Reynolds should be awake by now. They will have eaten their breakfast now, the infantry, and maybe they’re on the march.
There was a silence. He climbed down out of the cupola.
The staff waited whitefaced under dripping trees. Buford asked for coffee. He went back inside the Seminary and waited for the firing to begin again before sending his first word to Reynolds. It took longer than he expected. If whoever was out there attacking him had any brains he would probe this position first and find out what he was attacking. Buford listened for the scattered fire of patrols coming in, moving along his flanks, outlining him, but there was nothing. A long silence, then a massed assault.
Buford grinned, baring fangs. Damn fool. He’s got a brigade in position, that’s all. He’s hitting me with one brigade, and I’m dug in. Lovely, lovely He wrote to Reynolds: “Rebel infantry attacked at dawn.
Am holding west of Gettysburg, expecting relief. John Buford.”
The fire was hotting up. He heard the first cannon: Calef’s Battery opening up down the road, grinned again. No Reb cannon to reply: not yet. He sent the messenger off into the mist, climbed again into the cupola.
The light was much clearer. He saw speckles of yellow fire through the mist: winking guns. The road ran black through misty fields. He saw one black cannon spout red fire at the limits of his vision. On the far side of the road there was a deep railroad cut-an unfinished railroad; he had not noticed it before. He saw horsemen moving behind the line. Then he heard that ripply sound that raised the hair, that high thin scream from far away coming out of the mist unbodied and terrible, inhuman. It got inside him for a suspended second. The scream of a flood of charging men: the Rebel yell.
It died in massive fire. There was still no cannon on the other side. Calef’s Battery blasted the mist, thunder among the lighter fire. The assault began to die away The wounded were beginning to come back off the line.
Buford went down from the cupola, restless, found Bill Gamble in the field by Calef’s Battery, checking ammunition. There was blood on his left sleeve. His nose was still running. He grinned wetly at Buford.
”Hey, General. That was quite a scrap.”
”How are your losses?”
”Not bad. Not bad at all. We were dug in pretty good.
We got ‘em right out in the open. Really got a twist on ‘em.
Arrogant people, you know that? Came right at us. Listen, we got some prisoners. I talked to ‘em. They’re Harry Heth’s Division, of Hill’s Corps. That’s what I’ve got in front of me.”
Buford nodded. Gamble was talking very quickly, head moving in jerky twitches.
”Sir, as I remember, Heth’s got near ten thousand men.
They’re all within sound of the fight, back that road, between here and Cashtown.”
Buford squinted. The rain had quit but the sky was still low and gray. He could see a long way off through the trees, and there were ragged bodies in the fields, groups of men digging, cutting trees for cover.
Gamble said, “Sir, he’ll be back with all ten thousand.”
”It’ll take him a while to deploy,” Buford said.
”Yes, but he’s got Hill’s whole Corps behind him. Maybe twenty-five thousand. And Longstreet behind that. And Ewell in the north.”
”I know.”
”Thing is this. When John Reynolds gets here, he won’t have the whole army with him, only a part of it. Point is-“ he sniffled, wiped his nose-“as I see it, the Rebs will be here this afternoon with everything they’ve got.”
Buford said nothing. Gamble sniffed cheerily.
”Just thought I’d mention it. Now, what you want me to do here?”
Buford thought: if it was a mistake. God help us.
”Heth will be back in a bit,” Buford said. “If he’s got any brains at all, and he’s not stupid, he’ll know by now that he’s got a brigade in front of him. Don’t think he’ll wait to get his whole Division in line. That would take half the morning.”
”He doesn’t need his whole Division.”
”Right. Does Devin report any activity on his front?”
”Not a thing.”
”All right. I’ll have Devin pull some of his people out and leave a cover in the north and have him dig in alongside, lengthening your line. When Heth comes back he’ll run into two brigades. That should hold him until Reynolds gets here.”
”Right,” Gamble said. He peered up at the sky. “Glad the rain is gone. Don’t want anything to slow up Reynolds”
”Take care of yourself.”
”You know me: the soul of caution.”
Buford moved off toward the north. He sent a second message to Reynolds. He pulled Devin out of line in the north and brought him in alongside Gamble: two thousand men facing west. All that while whenever he came near the line he could see enemy troops moving in the fields across the way, spreading out as they came down the road, like a gray river spreading where it reaches the sea. If Heth was efficient and deliberate he had the power to come straight through like an avalanche. Buford could hear the artillery coming into place on the far side, heard the spattering of rifle fire from probing patrols. He looked at his watch; it was after eight. Reynolds had to be on the road. The infantry had to be coming. He rode back and forth along the line, watched Devin’s men digging in, heard bullets clip leaves above him as snipers crawled closer. We cannot hold ten thousand. Not for very long. If Heth attacks in force he will roll right over us, and we lose the two brigades and the high ground too, and it will have been my fault. And the road in the north is open; they can come in there and they’ll be behind us, on our flank.
There was nothing he could do about that; he had no more troops. But he pulled a squad out of Devin’s line and put the young Lieutenant with com-silk hair in charge and gave him orders.
”Son, you ride on out that road to the north about five miles. You squat across some high ground, where you can see. First sign you get of enemy coming down that road, you ride like hell this way and tell me. Understand?”
The squad galloped off. A cannon shell burst in the air nearby, raining fragments in the wet leaves around him. The first Reb cannon were in position, limbering up easily, casually, getting the range. Now Buford had a little time to think. It all depends on how fast Reynolds comes. It all depends on how many men he’s got with him and how fast Lee is moving this way. Nothing to do but fight now and hold this line. But he kept looking at his watch. There ought to be some word. He galloped back to the Seminary and climbed the cupola and gazed back to that southern road, but there was nothing there. A short while after that he saw the enemy come out in the open, line after line, heard the guns open up, dozens of guns, watched his own line disappear in smoke. The big attack had come.
Gamble was down. The first report was very bad, and Buford rode over and took command, but it was only concussion and Gamble was back on his feet in a few moments, ragged and dirty. There was a breakthrough on the right but some junior officers patched it. Lone infantry began bending around the right flank. Buford mounted some men and drove them off. There were moments in smoke when he could not see and thought the line was going; one time when a shell burst very close and left him deaf and still and floating, like a bloody cloud.
On the right there was another breakthrough, hand-to-hand fighting. He rode that way, leaping wounded, but it had been repulsed when he got there. One by one Calef’s guns were being silenced. No one had yet broken away, no one was running, but Buford could feel them giving, like a dam. He rode back to the Seminary, looked down the road.
Nothing. Not much more time. He felt the beginning of an awful anger, an unbearable sadness, suppressed it. He rode back to the line. The fire was weakening. He stood irresolute in the road. An aide suggested he go to cover. He listened. The Rebs were pulling back, forming to come again. But the Reb cannon were pounding, pounding. He heard the great whirring of fragments in the air, saw air bursts in bright electric sparks. He rode slowly along the smoking line, looking at the faces. The brigades were wrecked. There was not much ammunition. They were down in the dirt firing slowly, carefully from behind splintery trees, piled gray rails, mounds of raw dirt. They had maybe half an hour.
Pull out before then. Save something. He rode back toward the Seminary. He climbed the cupola, looked out across the field of war. Wreckage everywhere, mounded bodies, smoking earth, naked stumps of trees. He could see a long way now, above the rolling smoke which had replaced the mist, and the road coming down from the faroff mountains was packed with soldiers, thousands of soldiers, sunlight glittering on jeweled guns. He looked toward the south-and there was Reynolds.
He was coming at a gallop across the fields to the south, a line of aides strung out behind him, cutting across the field to save time. No mistaking him: matchless rider gliding over rail fences in parade-ground precision, effortless motion, always a superb rider. Buford blinked, wiped his face, thanked God. But the road behind Reynolds was empty.
The General rode into the yard below, dismounted.
Buford waited in the cupola, weariness suddenly beginning to get to him in waves. In a moment Reynolds was up the ladder.
”Good morning, John.”
An immaculate man, tidy as a photograph, soft-voiced, almost elegant. Buford put out a hand.
”General, I’m damned glad to see you.”
Reynolds stepped up for a look. Buford explained the position. In all his life he had never been so happy to see anybody. But where was the infantry? Reynolds swung, pointed a gloved hand.
The blue line had come around the bend. Buford saw with a slight shock the first column of infantry, the lovely flags. Reynolds said softly, “That’s the First Corps. The Eleventh is right behind it.”
Buford watched them come. He leaned against the side of the cupola. Reynolds had turned, was surveying the hills to the south. There was a set, hard, formal look to him, but a happiness in his eyes. Buford thought: he has brains to see.
Reynolds said, “Good job, John.”
”Thank you.”
”This is going to be very interesting.”
”Yes,” Buford said.
”They seem to be forming for another assault. That’s Harry Heth, isn’t it? Very good. He’ll come in here thinking he’s up against two very tired cavalry brigades, and instead he’ll be hitting two corps of fresh Union infantry.”
Reynolds smiled slightly. “Poor Harry,” he said.
”Yes, sir,” Buford said.
”You can start pulling your boys out. As soon as we set up. Well done. Well done indeed. You can put them out on my flanks. Keep an eye on that north road. I expect Dick Ewell to be coming in shortly.”
”Yes, sir.”
They went down out of the cupola. Reynolds mounted a beautiful black horse. Buford came out into the open, saw his staff tidying itself up, combing hair, buttoning buttons.
Shells were falling on the ridge nearby and bullets were slicing leaves, but Reynolds sat astride the horse in a motionless calm, looking out toward the fight, picture of a soldier, painted against the trees. Reynolds called in one of his officers. He said slowly, somewhat delicately, pronouncing each word in turn, evenly, machinelike, “Captain, I want you to ride as fast as you can to General Meade. Tell him the enemy is advancing in strong force and that I am afraid they will get the heights beyond the town before I can. We will fight them here inch by inch, through the town if necessary, barricading the streets. We will delay them as long as possible. I am sending messages to all my commanders to come to this place with all possible speed.
Repeat that.”
The Captain did, and was gone. Reynolds sent messages to other commanders: Doubleday, Sickles. Then he said, to Buford, “I think I’ll move over and hurry the boys along.”
”Obliged,” Buford said.
”Not at all.” He wheeled the horse gracefully, still something of that elegant quality of display in the fluid motion, and rode off. In the direction he took Buford heard music. A blue band was playing. Buford issued his own orders. The great weight was off him. Now it belonged to Reynolds. And there was no regret. Through most of his life he had resented the appearance of higher command. Now it came to save him. A new thing. He did not mind at all.
Must be the age. Well, you have gone to the limit, lad. You have reached your own personal end.
Tom Devin was up. He was annoyed to be pulled out.
Buford looked at him, shook his head. In a moment Reynolds was back, leading blue troops at double time through the fields, tearing down rail fences as they came.
Buford’s heart was stirred: the Black Hats, Simon Cutler’s Iron Brigade, best troops in the Union Army. An omen. They began to move out onto the road by the Seminary, regiment after regiment, moving with veteran gloom, veteran silence, steady men, not many boys. One man was eating cherries hurriedly from a mess tin; another had a banjo on his back, which was bothering him, and he swung it around to cover his front and banged the man in front of him, who complained, to peculiar laughter. One man asked one of Buford’s aides loudly which way was the war and offered to go the other way, and an officer turned and began sending them into line along the crest Gamble had held.
Then Reynolds was back.
The Rebel shells were beginning to pass overhead. They had seen new troops coming and some of the fire was falling now on Gettysburg. Reynolds summoned another aide.
”Lieutenant, get on into town and tell these people to stay in off the streets. There’s liable to be a fair-sized dispute here today, and give anyone you meet my compliments, along with my suggestion that every person stay indoors, in cellars if possible, and out of harm’s way. Especially children.” He peered at the aide. “Joe, how do you see with those things on?” The aide wore glasses that were very muddy. He took them and tried to clean them and smeared them with jittery fingers. A shell hit a treetop across the road and splinters flickered through the grove and spattered against the brick wall. Reynolds said pleasantly, “Gentlemen, let’s place the troops.”
He motioned to Buford. They rode out into the road.
Buford felt a certain dreamy calm. Reynolds, like Lee before him, had once commanded the Point. There was a professional air to him, the teacher approaching the class, utterly in command of his subject. Reynolds said, “Now, John, he’s got a good fifteen thousand men out there, wouldn’t you say?”
”Yes. Be a lot more in a little while.”
”Yes. Well, between us we can put almost twenty thousand in the field in the next half hour. We’re in very good shape, I think.”
”For a while,” Buford said.
Reynolds nodded.
He turned in his saddle, looked back toward the hills.
”Isn’t that lovely ground?” he said.
”I thought so.”
”Keep at it, John. Someday, if you’re spared, you may make a soldier.” He bowed his head once slightly. It came over Buford like a sunrise that he had just received Reynolds’ greatest compliment. At that moment it mattered very much. “Now,” Reynolds said, “let’s go surprise Harry Heth.”
They rode out together, placing the troops. The First Corps moved into line on the left. The Eleventh Corps moved in behind them, swung out to the right. Through all that the Reb cannon were firing steadily and smoke was filling up the hollow between the armies and no one could see the motion of the troops. The Eleventh was still not in line when the new Reb attack came rolling up out of the smoke. Reynolds moved off to the left, close to the line.
Buford heard music, an eerie sound like a joyful wind, began to recognize it: “The Campbells Are Coming.” He recognized Rufus Dawes and the Sixth Wisconsin moving up, more Wisconsin men behind them, deploying in line of skirmishers and firing already as they moved up, the line beginning to go fluid as the first Reb troops poured over a partly deserted crest, and met the shock of waves of new troops coming up from the south.
Buford got one last glimpse of Reynolds. He was out in the open, waving his hat, pointing to a grove of trees. A moment later Buford looked that way and the horse was bare-backed. He did not believe it. He broke off and rode to see. Reynolds lay in the dirt road, the aides bending over him. When Buford got there the thick stain had already puddled the dirt beneath his head. His eyes were open, half asleep, his face pleasant and composed, a soft smile.
Buford knelt. He was dead. An aide, a young sergeant, was crying. Buford backed away. They put a blanket over him.
Off to the left there was massive firing. There was a moment of silence around them. Buford said, “Take him out of here.”
He backed off. Across the road a woman was chasing a wild-haired child. A soldier ran past her and caught the child and gave it to her. Buford went to a great shade tree and stood in the dark for a moment. Too good a man, Reynolds. Much too good a man. Buford wandered slowly back out into the light. It was very hot now; he could feel sweat all down his face.
A detail from a New York regiment carried Reynolds away, under a blanket. Buford’s aides came to him, back to the shepherd. There were no orders to give.
The battle went on without a commander. The men fought where Reynolds had placed them. Buford slowly withdrew his cavalry, as Reynolds had ordered. All the rest of that morning gray Rebel troops came pouring down that narrow road. No messages came. The line continued to hold. There did not seem to be anyone in command, but the line held. After a while Buford mounted what was left of his cavalry and rode slowly out that road to the north. He could not hold for long, but he could hold for a little while, and the yellow-haired lieutenant was out there alone.
They had stripped the rails from both sides of the road, to widen the passage, and some of the men were marching in the fields.
The road was already going to dust and the dust was rising, and there was nothing to see ahead but troops in the dust toiling upward toward the crest of a divide. The bands played as he went by. He nodded, touching his cap, head cocked, listening, searching beyond the music and the noise of rolling wagons and steely clinking of sabers and guns for the distant roll of artillery which was always there, beyond the hills. They came to a narrow pass: rocky country, dark gorges, heavily wooded. He thought: if there is a repulse, this will be good country to defend. Longstreet could bring up his people and hold this place and we would shelter the army back in the mountains.
He began almost to expect it. He had seen retreat. There would be clots of men out in the fields, out far from the road, moving back the other way, men with gray stubborn faces who would not listen. Then there would be the wounded. But here they would block the road. No room to maneuver. If Longstreet’s spy was right and there had been masses of cavalry ahead, what the blue cavalry could do to his packed troops…
Lee knew that he was worrying too much, recognized it, put a stop to it. He bowed his head and prayed once quickly, then was able to relax and compose himself. He rode up into the pass and the country began to flatten out, to go down toward Cashtown. The day was hazy and he could not see far ahead. He began to pass empty houses, dark doors, dark windows. The people had fled. He entered Cashtown and there at the crossroads, mounted, watching the troops pass, was Powell Hill.
Hill was sitting with his hat down over his eyes, slouching in the saddle, a pasty illness in his face. He smiled a ghostly smile, drew himself up, saluted, waved toward a brick house just off the road.
Lee said, “General, you don’t look well.”
”Momentary indisposition.” Hill grinned weakly.
”Touch of the Old Soldier’s Disease. Would you like to go indoors, sir?”
Lee turned to Taylor. “We will establish temporary headquarters here. All dispatches to this place.” To Hill he said, “What artillery is that?”
Hill shook his head, looked away from Lee’s eyes. “I don’t know, sir. I sent forward for information a while back.
Harry Heth is ahead. He has instructions not to force a major action. I told him myself, this morning.”
”You have no word from him?”
”No, sir.” Hill was not comfortable. Lee said nothing.
They went to the brick house. There was a woman at the gate to whom Lee was introduced. Near her stood a small boy in very short pants, sucking his thumb. Lee was offered coffee.
Lee said to Hill, “I must know what’s happening ahead.”
”Sir, I’ll go myself.”
Hill was up abruptly, giving instructions to aides. Lee started to object, said nothing. Hill was a nervous, volatile, brilliant man. He had been a superb division commander, but now he commanded a corps, and it was a brutal military truth that there were men who were marvelous with a regiment but could not handle a brigade, and men who were superb with a division but incapable of leading a corps. No way of predicting it. One could only have faith in character.
But to be ill, on this day-very bad luck. Lee watched him.
He seemed well enough to ride. Good. Hill was gone.
Lee began work on a plan of withdrawal. Moments later Walter Taylor was in with General Anderson, who had just come into town to look for Hill. Anderson ’s Division, of Hill’s Corps, was stacking up on the road south of town, moving in behind Pender and Heth. Anderson had come to find out about the sound of the guns. He knew nothing.
Sitting in the house was galling. Lee was becoming agitated. Anderson sat by, hat in hand, watchfully.
Lee said abruptly, impulsively, “I cannot imagine what’s become of Stuart. I’ve heard nothing. You understand, I know nothing of what’s in front of me. It may be the entire Federal army.”
He stopped, controlled himself. But he could wait no longer. He called for Traveler and moved on out of Cashtown, toward Gettysburg.
Now he could begin to hear rifle fire, the small sounds of infantry. He touched his chest, feeling a stuffiness there. So it was more than a duel of artillery. Yet Heth was not a fool.
Heth would have reasons. Suspend judgment. But Jackson is not here. Ewell and Hill are new at their commands; all in God’s hands. But there was pain in his chest, pain in the left arm. He could see smoke ahead, a long white cloud, low, like fog, on the horizon. The troops around him were eager, bright-faced; the bands were playing. He came out into a field and saw men deploying, moving out on both sides of the road, cutting away the fences: Pender’s Division. He put his binoculars to his eyes. Troops were running in a dark grove of trees. Taylor said that Gettysburg was just ahead.
Lee rode left up a flat grassy rise. Below him there was a planted field, rows of low green bush, rolling toward a creek, broken by one low rail fence and a few thick clumps of trees. Beyond the stream there was a rise and atop the rise was a large red building with a white cupola. To the left was an open railroad cut, unfinished, a white wound in the earth.
There was smoke around the building. A battery of artillery was firing from there. Lee saw blue hills to the south, in the haze, but now, sweeping the glasses, he could begin to see the lines of fire, could sense by the blots of smoke and the pattern of sound what had happened, was happening, begin piecing it together.
Heth’s Division had formed on a front about a mile, had obviously been repulsed. The Union infantry was firing back from a line at least as long as Heth’s. There did not seem to be many cannon, but there were many rifles. Was this the whole Union force or only an advance detachment?
Ewell was off to the north; Longstreet was miles away.
What had Hem gotten himself into?
The fire from Heth’s front was slowing. His troops were not moving. Lee could see many wounded, wagons under trees, clusters of men drifting back through a field to the right. Aides began coming up with messages. Taylor had gone to look for Heth. Lee was thinking: how do we disengage? how do we fall back? where do we hold until Longstreet comes up?
He sent a message to Ewell to advance with all possible speed. He sent a note to Longstreet telling him that the Union infantry had arrived in force. But he knew Longstreet could do nothing; there were two divisions in his way. Lee looked at his watch: well after two o’clock. Darkness a long way away. No way of knowing where the rest of Meade’s army was. Possibly moving to the south, to get between Lee and Washington.
And here, at last, was Harry Heth.
He rode up spattering dust, jerking at the horse with unnatural motions, a square-faced man, a gentle face. He blinked, saluting, wiping sweat from his eyes. He had never been impulsive, like Hill; there was even at this moment something grave and perplexed about him, a studious bewilderment. He had been the old army’s leading authority on the rifle; he had written a manual. But he had gotten into a fight against orders and there was a blankness in his eyes, vacancy and shame. Lee thought: he does not know what’s happening.
Heth coughed. “Sir, beg to report.”
”Yes.”
”Very strange, sir. Situation very confused.”
”What happened?”
Lee’s eyes were wide and very dark. Heth said painfully, “Sir. I moved in this morning as directed. I thought it was only a few militia. But it was dismounted cavalry. John Buford. Well, there weren’t all that many and it was only cavalry, so I just decided to push on it. The boys wouldn’t hold back. I thought we shouldn’t ought to be stopped by a few dismounted cavalry. But they made a good fight. I didn’t expect… They really put up a scrap.”
”Yes.” Lee was watching his eyes.
Heth grimaced, blowing. “Well, sir, they wouldn’t leave.
My boys got the dander up. We deployed the whole division and went after them. We just about had them running and then all of a sudden I see us moving in on infantry. They got infantry support up from the south. The boys got pushed back. Then we re-formed and tried again, couldn’t stop there, sir, but there’s more infantry now, I don’t know how many. But I don’t know what else we could have done. Sir, I’m sorry. But it started out as a minor scrap with a few militia and the next thing I know I’m tangling with half the Union army.”
”Who are they?”
”Sir?”
Lee was watching the fight, which was now relatively quiet. The smoke was clearing, blowing toward the north.
He could see blue troops moving in the trees on the Union right, moving out on the flank. He looked north, but he could see nothing beyond the ridge. The blue troops seemed to be pulling back that way, retreating, reforming. Strange.
The battery up by the cupola had stopped firing. Riding up through the haze: Dorsey Pender. Letter from a pious wife.
To Heth Lee said, “What units have you engaged?”
”The cavalry was Buford, sir. Two brigades. They really fought. Then there was the First Corps, the black hats, John Reynolds’ old corps. Then there was another corps, but we still haven’t got it identified.”
At Lee’s shoulder, Taylor said quietly, insistently, “General, you are in range of the enemy batteries.”
Lee said, “It’s quiet now.” He looked once more at Heth; his anger died. No time for blame. But there must be information.
Taylor insisted, “You gentlemen are standing together.
May I suggest that you move at least to the shelter of the trees?”
There was a sudden fire on the left, a burst in the north.
Lee felt an acute spasm of real anger. He clutched his chest.
I know nothing.
Heth said, “I’d better look to my flank.” He moved away. A rider came up-a courier from Rodes.
”General Rodes’ compliments, sir. I have the honor to inform you that the General has joined the engagement with his entire division and is attacking the Union right. He begs me to inform you that General Early is behind him and will be on the field within the hour. Do you have any instructions, sir?”
Lee felt a thrill of delight, mixed with alarm. Rodes had come in right on the Union flank; the blue troops were turning to meet a new threat. And Early was close behind.
A flank assault, already begun. Lee sat staring north. No way to tell. He could order forward the entire army Heth was here and Pender. Rodes’ attack might almost have been planned.
But he did not know how many Federals were ahead.
Rodes might be attacking half the Union army. Another Sharpsburg. And yet, and yet, I cannot call him back; he is already committed. Lee said, “Nothing for now. Wait here.”
He turned to Taylor. “I want all possible knowledge of yam the enemy strength. Ride forward yourself and observe.
And be careful.”
Taylor saluted formally and rode off, the grin breaking across his face just as he turned. Lee turned and began heading back toward the road. Now Heth was back.
”Sir, Rodes is heavily engaged. Shall I attack?”
Lee shook his head, then said loudly, “No.” He rode on, then he said over his shoulder, “We are not yet prepared for a full engagement. Longstreet is not up.”
Heth said, “There aren’t that many of the enemy, sir.”
”What are your casualties?”
”Moderate, sir. There’s been some fighting. But Pender is in position. Together, sir, we could sweep them.”
Lee waited. It did not feel right. There was something heavy and dark and tight about the day, riding stiffly in the broad barren field, in harsh sunlight. The firing in the north was mounting. Batteries of artillery had opened up.
”Who is commanding there?” Lee pointed to the hills beyond the town.
Heth blinked, suddenly remembering. “Sir, I’d forgotten. We have word that General Reynolds was killed.”
Lee turned. “John Reynolds?”
”Yes, sir. Prisoners state he was killed this morning. I believe Doubleday has succeeded him.”
”Are you sure?”
”The news seems reliable.”
”I’m sorry,” Lee said. His mind flashed a vision of Reynolds. A neat trim man. A gentleman, a friend. Lee shook his head. It was queer to be so strange and tight in the mind. He seemed unable to think clearly. Reynolds dead.
Gone. Doubleday behind him. Doubleday an unknown quantity, but certainly nothing spectacular. But Reynolds’ First Corps was solid. What to do?
”I can support Rodes, sir,” Heth said.
Lee looked at him. He knows he has brought this on; he wants to fight now to retrieve it. His answer is to fight, not to think; to fight, pure and simple. Lee rode slowly forward, nearing the trees ahead alongside the road. You can depend on the troops, but can you count on the generals? Why has Rodes attacked? Will Hill fight well, or Rodes either? What I need is Longstreet and he is not here. A mistake to bring him up last.
Another courier. “General Early has arrived, begs to report that he is attacking to the north of General Rodes.”
Lee stopped, looked north. It was working almost like a plan. It was possible to see Intention in it. The Union formed to face him and fought well and now was being flanked from the north, simply because Lee’s men had orders to come to Gettysburg, and they were coming in almost behind the Union defenses. Lee felt a sharpness in the air. His blood was rising. He had tried to be discreet, but it was all happening without him, without one decision; it was all in God’s hands. And yet he could leave it alone himself no longer. Rodes and Early were attacking; Heth and Pender were waiting here in front of him. Lee’s instinct sensed opportunity. Let us go in together, as God has decreed a fight here.
He swung to Heth. “General, you may attack.”
To Pender he said the same. He gave no further directions. The generals would know what to do now. With that word it was out of his hands. It had never really been in his hands at all. And yet his was the responsibility.
He rode forward to the rise ahead, across the small creek.
Now he had a clearer view. Pender’s Division was on the move; he heard the great scream of the massed Rebel yells.
Now batteries were in position behind him, beginning to open up on the woods near the cupola. Lee ducked his head as the shot whickered over him. He did not like to stand in front of artillery. Some of the artillery was moving forward.
Rifle fire was breaking out. The wind shifted; he was enveloped in smoke. Marshall ’s face appeared, an incoherent message. Lee tried to find some place to watch the assault. Pender’s whole force was streaming forward across the fields, into the woods. Lee saw flags floating through white smoke, disembodied, like walking sticks. Shell bursts were appearing in the air, white flakes, round puffs. One blossomed near. There was Marshall again. Lee heard fragments split the air near him. He moved into a grove of trees: oak, chestnut. There was a white house nearby, a white rail fence, a dead horse lying in a black mound in the sun.
He waited in the grove, listening to the enormous sound of war. Eventually he sat, resting himself against the bole of a tree. It was dark and cool back in here out of the sun. Men were dying up ahead. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, felt his life beating in his chest. The fight went on. Lee thought for the first time that day of his son.
Rooney, wounded, lying not far from here. He closed his eyes, prayed for his boy, for all of them. He put his hand down on black dirt, was reminded: Pennsylvania. I am the invader.
Once more the Rebel yell-inhuman screaming of the onrushing dead. Another unit was going. He rose and went forward, trying to see, but no point in that. There was too much smoke. Yet it might help if he was seen. He moved up out of the grove of trees, onto the road. The road ahead was crowded with wounded. There were men lying under wagons, out of the sun, most of them semi-naked, covered with bandages, blood. He saw another dead horse, a splintered wagon; the severed forefoot of a horse lay near him in gray dust. Smoke was pouring down the road as from a great furnace. He moved forward; his staff followed him.
Here was A. P. Hill.
Hill said, white-faced, “Very hard going. Heth is down.”
Lee looked at him, waiting.
”Wounded in the head. I don’t know how serious. But the Division is moving. Pender is on the flank. But the Yankees are fighting well. I don’t recall them fighting this well before.”
Hill seemed peculiarly calm, vacant, as if he was not wholly present. He was a handsome man who had a great deal of money but was not “society” and was overly aware of it and very touchy about it.
Lee said, “Let me know General Heth’s condition as soon as possible.”
Lee sat down against a rail fence. A band came by, playing an incoherent song, fifes and bugles. The sky was overcast with blowing white smoke, the smell of hot guns, of blasted earth, the sweet smell of splintery trees. Lee was in the way, in the road; men were gathering around him, calling to him. He saw a house, an empty front porch. He moved toward that way and stared down toward the smoke.
Firing was intense. He sent couriers to Early and Rodes to advise them of his new headquarters and to ask for progress.
He had no idea of the whereabouts of Ewell, who was supposed to be in command over there and who probably knew less of what was happening than Lee did. Longstreet was right: command was too loose. But no time for that now.
A courier from Early: The enemy was falling back. Lee could hear an officer near him erupt in a high scream.
”They’re runnin’. Great God Amighty, they’re runnin’!”
Lee looked down the smoky street, saw a man helping another man along the road, saw masses of men moving vaguely through a field, saw flashes of artillery. The fire seemed to be slowing down. There were many men yelling.
A lieutenant came down the road, pointing back toward the smoke, yelling wildly that someone was hurt.
A. P. Hill said, at Lee’s elbow, “General Heth’s surgeon has examined him, sir. He says he ought to be all right, but he will be out of action for a while.”
”Where is he?”
”In a house over this way.” Hill pointed.
”You will take good care of him, of course. And, General, see to yourself. You can do no more good now. I want you to rest.”
Hill said softly, calmly, vacantly, “I’m fine. General, just fine.”
But he looked as if he were about to faint. Lee was thinking: if Longstreet were only here. How many in the Union Army? If the First Corps is here and the Eleventh, the rest must not be far behind. He heard more men yelling. In the street he saw officers waving their hats, grinning enormous grins. Victory? A rider came up, from Pender. A young man with a marvelous wide mustache said, “General Pender begs to report the enemy is falling back.” Officers threw hats in the air. Lee smiled, could not be heard. One man touched him, another patted his back. He raised his glasses and looked to the clearing smoke.
He turned to Marshall. “I’ll go forward.”
Traveler was at the rail outside. Lee mounted and rode.
Men were cheering him now, touching the horse as he went by. He tried to control his face. The wounded were everywhere. Some of them were Union boys, looking at him insensibly as he went by. A courier from Early: a rout on the left flank. The Union Eleventh Corps was running. More cheers. Lee closed his eyes once briefly. God’s will. My trust in Thee. Oh Lord, bless You and thank You.
He moved forward to the rise ahead, across a small creek.
Taylor said, “This must be Willoughby Run.” Lee halted at the crest. Now he could see; the land lay before him wreathed in smoky ridges. Half a mile away lay the town, white board buildings, dirt roads. Beyond it was a high hill that rose above a series of ridges running off to the east.
Blue troops were pouring back through the town, moving up the sides of the hill. The couriers were right: they were retreating. Victory. Lee put his glasses to his eyes, felt his hands tremble, focused, saw: Union artillery forming on the high hill, men digging. The fight was not over. Must not let those men occupy the high ground. Lee turned. To Taylor he said, “Find Hill’s chief of artillery, tell him I want fire placed on that hill. I don’t want it occupied. What word do you have from Ewell? And send General Hill to me.”
Taylor moved off. Lee was thinking: we must continue the assault. The blue troops are on the move; now we must keep them moving. But Heth is down. He looked for Pender’s courier, informed him to tell General Pender to continue the assault. But Early and Rodes were closer, on the left. If they only kept moving. The guns on the high hill were beginning to fire.
Here was Powell Hill, looking worse. He said, “The men have done all they can do. Heth’s division is exhausted.
Pender says he has had the hardest fighting of the war.”
Lee studied him, looked away, back to the hill above Gettysburg. Hill may be sick but Pender was trustworthy. If Pender had doubts…
Taylor arrived. “General Ewell is with General Early, sir.
We are in communication.”
”Good,” Lee said. “Deliver this message in person.
Tell General Ewell the Federal troops are retreating in confusion. It is only necessary to push those people to get possession of those heights. Of course, I do not know his situation, and I do not want him to engage a superior force, but I do want him to take that hill, if he thinks practicable, as soon as possible. Remind him that Longstreet is not yet up.”
Taylor repeated the message, rode off. Beyond that hill Lee could begin to feel the weight of the Union Army, the massive blue force pouring his way. What kind of soldier would Meade turn out to be? We must not give him the high ground. Lee looked southeast, saw two rounded hills. We might swing around that way. They have marched quicker than I expected. Thank the Lord for Longstreet’s spy.
He heard more cheering, to the rear, looked, saw Longstreet. Moving forward slowly, calmly, like a black rock, grinning hungrily through the black beard. Lee flushed with pleasure. Longstreet dismounted, extended a hand.
”Congratulations, General. Wish I could have been here.”
Lee took the hand warmly. “Come here, I want you to see this.” He waved toward the field ahead, the hill beyond Gettysburg.
An officer near him said, “General Lee, it’s Second Manassas all over again!”
”Not quite,” Lee said cheerily, “not quite.” He was delighted to have Longstreet here. Now through the streets Johnson’s Division was moving, Longstreet’s people could not be far behind. With every step of a soldier, with every tick of the clock, the army was gaining safety, closer to victory, closer to the dream of independence.
Longstreet studied the field. After a moment he said, “We were lucky.”
”It couldn’t have worked better if we had planned it.”
Longstreet nodded. Lee explained the position that Ewell had orders to move to the left and take that hill. Longstreet studied the hill [1] while Lee spoke. After a moment he said, “Fine. But this is fine. This is almost perfect.” He turned to Lee. “They’re right where we want them. All we have to do is swing around that way-“ he pointed toward Washington-“and get between them and Lincoln and find some good high ground, and they’ll have to hit us, they’ll have to, and we’ll have them. General, we’ll have them!”
His eyes were flashing; he was as excited as Lee had ever seen him. Lee said, amazed, “You mean you want me to disengage?”
”Of course.” Longstreet seemed surprised. “You certainly don’t mean-sir, I have been under the impression that it would be our strategy to conduct a defensive campaign, wherever possible, in order to keep this army intact.”
”Granted. But the situation has changed.”
”In what way?”
”We cannot disengage. We have already pushed them back. How can we move off in the face of the enemy?”
Longstreet pointed. “Very simply. Around to the right. He will occupy those heights and wait to see what we are going to do. He always has. Meade is new to the command. He will not move quickly.”
Lee put his hand to his face. He looked toward the hill and saw the broken Union corps falling back up the slope.
He felt only one urge: to press on and get it done. He said nothing, turning away. There was a messenger from General Ewell. Lee recognized the man. Captain James Power Smith, Ewell’s aide. The Captain was delighted to see the Commanding General.
Ewell’s message was cautious: “General Ewell says he will direct Early and Rodes to move forward, but he requests support of General Hill on his right. He says that there is a strong Union position south of the town which should be taken at once.”
Lee asked which position Ewell meant. He handed Smith the glasses. Smith said the position was beyond the one in front, at the top of which there was a cemetery.
Lee looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. Still two hours of daylight. He said to Longstreet, “General, how far way is your lead division?”
”McLaws. About six miles. He is beyond Johnson’s train of wagons.”
Lee shook his head. To Smith he said, “I have no force to attack the hill. General Hill’s Corps has had hard fighting.
Tell General Ewell to take that hill if at all possible. Have you seen Major Taylor?”
”No, sir.”
”You must just have passed him.”
Lee sent Smith away. He remembered: he had ordered artillery to fire on the hill, but none was firing. He sent to find out why. He began to realize he was really very tired.
But if a strong Union force was on a hill to the south…
but without Longstreet’s Corps a general assault was impossible. Where was the artillery? Where was Hill? Why had Early and Rodes stopped their attacks? He could see the town below choked with soldiers, horses, but there was no advance.
He turned, saw Longstreet watching him. He had the look of a man suppressing his thoughts. Lee said, “Say it, General.”
”We shouldn’t have attacked here, General. Heth had his orders.”
Lee waved a hand. “I know that. But we have pushed them back.”
”In the morning we will be outnumbered.”
Lee shrugged. Numbers were meaningless. “Had I paid attention to numbers, General…” Lee left the rest unsaid.
Longstreet said, “If we moved south, toward Washington, we could fight on ground of our choosing.”
”The enemy is here. General. We did not want the fight, but the fight is here. What if I ask this army to retreat?”
”They will do as you order.”
Lee shook his head again. He was growing weary of this.
Why didn’t Ewell’s assault begin? A cautious commander, new to his command. And A.P. Hill is sick. Yet we won.
The soldiers won. Lee pointed toward the hill.
”They will probably retreat. Or Ewell will push them off.
But if Meade is there tomorrow, I will attack him.”
”If Meade is there,” Longstreet said implacably, “it is because he wants you to attack him.”
That was enough. Lee thought: docile men do not make good soldiers. He said nothing. Longstreet could see the conversation was at an end. He said, “I’ll bring my boys up as soon as I can.”
Lee nodded. As Longstreet was going. Lee said, “General.”
”Yes, sir?”
”Your spy was correct in his reports. Had it not been for that report, this army might have been destroyed in detail. I thank you.”
Longstreet nodded. If the compliment pleased him, he did not show it. He moved off.
Lee stood alone, troubled. He had had enough of defensive war. The King of Spades. Let us attack, and let it be done. I am extraordinarily tired. You are an old man. And if something happens to you?
He picked up the glasses, waiting for Ewell’s attack. No attack began.
Chamberlain rode slowly forward, into the western sun. It was soft green country, a land of orchards and good big barns. Here and there along the road people came out to see the troops go by and there were a few cheers, but most of the people were silent and glum, not hostile, apprehensive. The sight was depressing. Some of them were selling food to the troops. One farmer had a stand offering cold milk for sale, at outrageous prices, and after Chamberlain was past there was a scuffle and some of the men requisitioned the milk and told him to charge it to the U.S. Guvmint. Chamberlain heard but did not look back. It was beginning to be very hot, and Chamberlain closed his eyes to let the salt sweat gather in the comer of his eyelids and wiped it away and rode with his eyes closed, himself tucked away back in the dark under his hat. When he opened his eyes again the day was violently bright and very dusty, and so he rode half asleep, eyes partly closed, dreaming.
At noon they reached the Pennsylvania border. Now there were more people and they were much more friendly and the band behind struck up “Yankee Doodle.” Now the farmers began to hand out free food; Chamberlain smelled fresh bread baking. A very pretty young girl with long blond hair rushed up to him and pressed a warm cake into his hand and he was embarrassed. The regiment greeted the girl with cheers. It was good to be first in line. No dust ahead. Chamberlain swiveled in the saddle and looked back down the road, and there down in the dust like a huge blue snake came the whole Fifth Corps along the winding road, some men on horses riding high in black hats, among the tilting flags. More bands were playing. Chamberlain wiped sweat from his eyes.
It was time to dismount. A good officer rode as little as possible. He got down from the horse and began to march along in the dust, in the heat. Near him he could hear Tom Chamberlain talking to one of the new men from the Second Maine, explaining the ways of this regiment. Tom was proud but not too proud. The Second Maine had seen more action. Chamberlain thought of Tom and his mind wandered back to Maine: young Tom lost, in the dark of the winter, a long search. Mother crying, we never found him, he survived out there and came back himself, a grinning kid with a bright red nose, never once afraid…
”One of the things you get to know,” Tom Chamberlain was saying, “is that this here brigade has got its own special bugle call. You ever hear tell of Dan Butterfield?”
”General Butterfield what was with Hooker?”
”Right. Same man. Well, he used to be our brigade commander.”
”They say he was a pistol. No man like him for having a good time.” He gave a lewd wink, suggestion of coarseness.
”Well, I don’t know about that, but he liked to write bugle calls. Trouble with this army is too many bugle calls.
Call for artillery and infantry and get up and eat and retreat and all that, and it got a mite confusin’, so Ole Dan Butterfield wrote a call for this here Brigade, special. If there is an order for this Brigade, well, somebody else would be blowing his blame bugle and we’d think it was for us only it wasn’t, but we would follow the order anyway, and next thing you know we’d be in trouble.”
”That happened to us once,” the Maine man said. “Half | the Regiment charged and the other half retreated. You had your choice.” He chuckled. “Seems a good system, come to think on it.”
”Well, in this Brigade we got a special call. You hear that call and you know the next call is for you. Goes like this: “We call it ‘Dan Butterfield,’ just like this: ‘Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield.’” The Maine man said glumly, “In the middle of a fight I’m supposed to remember that?”
”It’s easy if you remember.” He sang it again: “Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield.”
”Um,” the Maine man said.
”Ole Butterfield wrote a lot of bugle calls. You know Butterfield’s Lullaby?”
”Butterfield’s what?”
Tom hummed a few bars of what was still known as Butterfield’s Lullaby but which the army would later know as “Taps” and which now had no connotation of death, which simply meant rest for the night, rest after a long day in the dust and the sun, with the bugles blaring, and Joshua Chamberlain, listening, thought of the sound of Butterfield’s Lullaby coming out of the dark, through a tent flap, with the campfires burning warm and red in the night, and Chamberlain thought: you can grow to love it.
Amazing. Chamberlain let his eyes close down to the slits, retreating within himself. He had learned that you could sleep on your feet on the long marches. You set your feet to going and after a while they went by themselves and you sort of turned your attention away and your feet went on walking painlessly, almost without feeling, and gradually you closed down your eyes so that all you could see were the heels of the man in front of you, one heel, other heel, one heel, other heel, and so you moved on dreamily in the heat and the dust, closing your eyes against the sweat, head down and gradually darkening, so you actually slept with the sight of the heels in front of you, one heel, other heel, and often when the man in front of you stopped you bumped into him. There were no heels today, but there was the horse he led by the reins. He did not know the name of this horse.
He did not bother any more; the horses were all dead too soon. Yet you learn to love it.
Isn’t that amazing? Long marches and no rest, up very early in the morning and asleep late in the rain, and there’s a marvelous excitement to it, a joy to wake in the morning and feel the army all around you and see the campfires in the morning and smell the coffee…
… awake all night in front of Fredericksburg. We attacked in the afternoon, just at dusk, and the stone wall was aflame from one end to the other, too much smoke, couldn’t see, the attack failed, couldn’t withdraw, lay there all night in the dark, in the cold among the wounded and dying. Piled-up bodies in front of you to catch the bullets, using the dead for a shield; remember the sound? Of bullets in dead bodies? Like a shot into a rotten leg, a wet thick leg.
All a man is: wet leg of blood. Remember the flap of a torn curtain in a blasted window, fragment-whispering in that awful breeze: never, forever, never, forever.
You have a professor’s mind. But that is the way it sounded.
Never. Forever.
Love that too?
Not love it. Not quite. And yet, I was never so alive.
Maine… is silent and cold.
Maine in the winter: air is darker, the sky is a deeper dark. A darkness comes with winter that these Southern people don’t know. Snow falls so much earlier and in the winter you can walk in a snowfield among bushes, and visitors don’t know that the bushes are the tops of tall pines, and you’re standing in thirty feet of snow. Visitors. Once long ago visitors in the dead of winter: a preacher preaching hell-fire. Scared the fool out of me. And I resented it and Pa said I was right.
Pa.
When he thought of the old man he could see him suddenly in a field in the spring, trying to move a gray boulder. He always knew instinctively the ones you could move, even though the greater part was buried in the earth, and he expected you to move the rock and not discuss it. A hard and silent man, an honest man, a noble man. Little humor but sometimes the door opened and you saw the warmth within a long way off, a certain sadness, a slow, remote, unfathomable quality as if the man wanted to be closer to the world but did not know how. Once Chamberlain had a speech memorized from Shakespeare and gave it proudly, the old man listening but not looking, and Chamberlain remembered it still: “What a piece of work is man… in action how like an angel!” And the old man, grinning, had scratched his head and then said stiffly, “Well, boy, if he’s an angel, he’s sure a murderin’ angel.”
And Chamberlain had gone on to school to make an oration on the subject: Man, the Killer Angel. And when the old man heard about it he was very proud, and Chamberlain felt very good remembering it. The old man was proud of his son, the Colonel Of Infantry. What would he have thought of the speech this morning? Home and Mother. Mother wanted me to be a parson. Vincent picked me, me, to lead the Regiment. Folks back home will know by now.
Commander of the Regiment. Why me? What did Vincent see?
He turned his mind away from that. Think on it when the time comes. You think too much beforehand and you get too self-conscious and tight and you don’t function well. He knew that he was an instinctive man, not a planner, and he did best when he fell back on instinct. Think of music now and singing. Pass the time with a bit of harmony Hum songs, and rest.
But it was very hot.
Could use some Maine cool now.
Home. One place is just like another, really. Maybe not.
But truth is it’s just all rock and dirt and people are roughly the same. I was born up there but I’m no stranger here.
Have always felt at home everywhere, even in Virginia, where they hate me. Everywhere you go there’s nothing but the same rock and dirt and houses and people and deer and birds. They give it all names, but I’m at home everywhere.
Odd thing: unpatriotic. I was at home in England. I would be at home in the desert. In Afghanistan or far Typee. All mine, it all belongs to me. My world.
Tom Chamberlain was saying, “You should have seen the last commander. Old Ames. He was the worst, I mean to tell you, the triple-toed half-wound, spotted mule worst.”
”Where was you boys at Chancellorsville?”
”Well now.” A painful subject. Joshua Chamberlain opened his eyes.
”The fact is,” Tom said gloomily, “we was not engaged.”
”Well now, a lot of us wa’nt engaged. That there Hooker, I hear he froze right up like a pond in the dark.”
”Well, we had us a misfortune.” Tom turned eyes sad as a trout. He was a lean, happy, excitable man who had turned out to be calm and serene in combat. Soldiering was beginning to intrigue him.
”The thing was, damn, we had these here ‘noculations.
You ever been ‘noculated?”
The man swore earnestly Tom nodded. “Well, then, you a know Only thing was, we wound up sick, half the dang regiment. And come time for the fight at Chancellorsville our Surgeon Major-that’s a stumble-fingered man named Wormy Monroe-he up and reported us unfit for combat.
So they went ahead and sent us back to mind the dang telegraph wires. We wasn’t allowed to ‘sociate with nobody.
Old Lawrence there he went on up and argued, but wouldn’t nobody come near us. It was like he was carrying the plague. Lawrence said hang it, we ought to be the first ones in, we’d probably give the Rebs a disease and be more useful than any other outfit in the whole army. Matter of fact, way things turned, we probably would’ve been more use than most of them people. Anyway we wasn’t in it.”
The Maine man was chuckling. Chamberlain thought: would have thought mountain men were tougher than city boys. But mountain men get all the diseases. City boys get immune as they grow up. We were a thousand strong when we left Maine.
Gallant six hundred… Half a league, half a league…
It was quieter now. No one was talking. Sound of troops at route step, shuffle in the dust, dull clink of mess kits, a band in the distance, tinny, forlorn, raw call of a cow in the sunlight. A voice in his ear, a hand on his arm.
”Colonel, sir-“ exasperated-“beg the Colonel’s pardon, but would the Colonel do us all a favor and get back on the damned horse?”
Colonel opened his eyes into the glare, saw: Tozier. Color Sergeant Tozier. A huge man with a huge nose, sweat bubbling all over his face. “I’ll tell you, sir, be a damn site easier handlin’ these here new recruits if the officers would act like they got sense, sir.”
Chamberlain blinked, wiped at his sweat. Some of the men were watching with that odd soft look on their faces that still surprised Chamberlain. He started to say something, shook his head. Tozier was right. He mounted the horse.
Tozier said, “How are you, sir?”
Chamberlain nodded, grinned weakly.
”We don’t need no more new commanding officers,” Tozier said. “Here you. Lieutenant, keep an eye on the Colonel.”
Tom said, “Yes, sir.” Tozier departed. Chambenain thought: good thing old Ames didn’t see him. My boys.
Ames shaped them. But they’re mine. Year ago they held meetings to decide what to do; if they disagreed with an officer, they stopped and argued. Can’t conduct an army as a town meeting.
They were coming into Hanover. Out in a field dead bodies lay in untidy rows. The arms were up above the heads, the clothes were scattered, shoes were missing. The hair of some was flickering in the wind and they looked alive. Chamberlain learned: Stuart had been through here and there’d been a brush. The sight of dead men awakened them all.
A clear day, very hot. Wind swinging to the south.
Buzzards ahead. As they rode ladies waved handkerchiefs, a band played the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Chamberlain wondered: will the people here let the buzzards have them?
Or will they bury them, Stuart’s men?
The people of Hanover were delighted to see them. Now as they got closer to the Rebels people seemed much happier everywhere. Happiness seemed to increase in direct proportion to how close you were. When we actually get there. Chamberlain thought, it will be easy to tell: the men will be kissing you.
Chamberlain rode upright through town. On the far side he slumped again. For a short while Colonel Vincent came up to ride with him. Vincent was the new brigade commander-a very handsome man with thick sideburns, from the 83rd Pennsylvania. He had a good reputation and he had the air of a man who knew what he was doing. But Chamberlain had seen that air before. Hooker had it. And if ever there was a man who did not know what he was doing…
Vincent had heard about the 114 volunteers. He was impressed. He thought that things were looking up. The army was ready for a fight. That in itself was an impressive fact, after all that had happened. He showed Chamberlain the new brigade flag: triangular, white, with a blue border, a red Maltese Cross in the center. The man looked at it without interest. It meant nothing much, as yet. Vincent rode back. The man from the Second Maine said sadly, “You ever hear about our flag? It cost twelve hundred dollars.”
But the men were tired. There was silence again.
Chamberlain saw a rider going to the rear, a blue courier.
Then there was the first wagon, then another. There was fighting at Gettysburg. Off against the horizon he could see a haze, a dark haze, as of dirt stirred into the air.
Nothing to do now but rest on the march. The troops became very still. It was darker now. The land around them was hilly and green, turning slowly gold, then hazy purple.
It was a beautiful afternoon. At dark, word came forward to go into bivouac. Vincent came up and stopped the column, and the men moved gratefully out into a field, carrying the rails of the fences with them for evening fires. They had marched more than twenty miles again; it was now a hundred miles in five days. Now for the first time the new Maine men heard the call: Dan, Dan, Dan Butterfield! Butterfield!
And then down the road came more riders, rushing to the rear on lathered horses. Chamberlain looked up to watch them go, sensing alarm. He could feel the Gray army beyond the hills. A moment later there came the bugle call: Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield, then forward.
A universal groan. No rest now. The rattle of the rails being dropped, a general cursing. Chamberlain reformed the regiment out in the road. Dispatch from Vincent: Move out.
Word of what had happened moved slowly down the column, but it was a long while before word came down to Chamberlain. By that time it was well after dark and the moon was rising, yellow in hazy air, huge in the trees, gazing like one single vacant eye, and Vincent rode up.
Two Corps had been engaged at Gettysburg and had been driven off. The First Corps had done well, but the Eleventh, those Dutchmen, had run again, as they did at Chancellorsville. Now the First was holding and screaming back for reinforcements. John Reynolds was hurt, possibly killed.
Proceed with all possible speed.
Chamberlain did not protest. In the darkness he could feel his strength rising, coming over him in the cooler air of evening. Not far to Gettysburg now. He could hear no guns.
But now along the roadway there were people rushing out, people lining the rail fences, anxious, overjoyed. From houses back off away from the road there was a waving of flags, a fluttering of white handkerchiefs; women lifted lamps at the windows. There were many healthy-looking young men lining the road and some of the men from Maine grumbled. But the rest were too tired. Chamberlain saw some staggering, then one fell out. He collapsed in a clatter of falling rifle, of mess tins rattling in the dust. He was pulled aside. Chamberlain arranged a detail to pick up fallen men.
On and on. Now it was much darker and the moon was high, and then ahead there was an officer, a staff officer, sitting on a black horse. He rode out to meet Chamberlain as he passed.
”Colonel, tell your men. General McClellan has assumed command of the army.”
Chamberlain did not have to spread the word. It went down the ranks like a wind in wheat. Some of the men cheered hoarsely. One man fired a rifle, and then Tozier talked to him. For a long moment Chamberlain believed it.
McClellan was back. God bless old Lincoln. The only general of the whole mess who knew what he was doing.
But then the troops moved on and the moon went behind a cloud and Chamberlain knew that it could not be true.
But the men marched believing they were behind McClellan. He was the only general Chamberlain had ever seen who was truly loved. The Rebs loved Lee, no doubt of that.
And we loved Mac. Chamberlain thought: two things an officer must do, to lead men. This from old Ames, who never cared about love: You must care for your men’s welfare. You must show physical courage.
Well, Chamberlain thought, there’s no McClellan.
There’s only Meade, whom none of these people know, let alone like, and he’ll be cautious. So I’ve taken care, as best I can, of their welfare. Now tomorrow we’ll see about the courage.
Now there were the wounded, the stragglers. Men limped back, sat out in the fields making fires, sulked along eastward, out in the dark. Now there were rumors: a terrible defeat, someone had blundered, two hundred thousand Rebs, the Eleventh Corps had deserted. Chamberlain ordered his men to close up and keep moving and not to talk. Damn the rumors. You never knew what was true until days or weeks or even months afterwards. He called close up, close up, first order he had given since morning, and then shortly after that the order came to stop, at last.
It was almost midnight. There were clouds again and it was very dark, but Chamberlain could see a hill in front of him and masses of troops and tents ahead. The Twentieth Maine went off the road and most went to sleep without fires, some without pitching tents, for the night was warm and without a wind. Chamberlain asked a passing courier: how far to Gettysburg? and the man pointed back over his shoulder. You’re there, Colonel, you’re there.
Chamberlain lay down to rest. It was just after midnight.
He wondered if McClellan would really be back. He prayed for a leader. For his boys.
He rode out of Gettysburg just after dark. His headquarters were back on the Cashtown Road, and so he rode back over the battlefield of the day. His staff recognized his mood and left him discreetly alone. He was riding slumped forward, head down, hat over his eyes. One by one they left him, moving ahead, cheering up when they were out of his company. He passed a hospital wagon, saw mounded limbs glowing whitely in the dark, a pile of legs, another of arms. It looked like masses of fat white spiders.
He stopped in the road and lighted a cigar, looking around him at the tents and the wagons, listening to the rumble and music of the army in the night. There were a few groans, dead sounds from dying earth, most of them soft and low.
There was a fire far off, a large fire in a grove of trees, men outlined against a great glare; a band was playing something discordant, unrecognizable. A dog passed him, trotted through the light of an open tent flap, paused, looked, inspected the ground, padded silently into the dark. Fragments of cloth, trees, chewed bits of paper littered the road.
Longstreet took it all in, began to move on. He passed a black mound which seemed strange in the dark: lumpy, misshapen. He rode over and saw: dead horses. He rode away from the field, toward higher ground.
Lee would attack in the morning. Clear enough. Time and place not yet set. But he will attack. Fixed and unturnable, a runaway horse. Longstreet felt a depression so profound it deadened him. Gazing back on that black hill above Gettysburg, that high lighted hill already speckled with fires among the gravestones, he smelled disaster like distant rain.
It was Longstreet’s curse to see the thing clearly. He was a brilliant man who was slow in speech and slow to move and silent-faced as stone. He had not the power to convince.
He sat on the horse, turning his mind away, willing it away as a gun barrel swivels, and then he thought of his children, powerless to stop that vision. It blossomed: a black picture.
She stood in the doorway: the boy is dead. She didn’t even say his name. She didn’t even cry.
Longstreet took a long deep breath. In the winter the fever had come to Richmond. In a week they were dead. All within a week, all three. He saw the sweet faces: moment of enormous pain. The thing had pushed him out of his mind, insane, but no one knew it. They looked at the plain blunt stubborn face and saw nothing but dull Dutch eyes, the great darkness, the silence. He had not thought God would do a thing like that. He went to church and asked and there was no answer. He got down on his knees and pleaded but there was no answer. She kept standing in the door: the boy is dead. And he could not even help her, could say nothing, could not move, could not even take her into his arms.
Nothing to give. One strength he did not have. Oh God: my boy is dead.
He had tears in his eyes. Turn away from that. He mastered it. What he had left was the army. The boys were here. He even had the father, in place of God: old Robert Lee. Rest with that, abide with that.
His aides were all gone, all but two. Goree hung back from him in the growing dark. He rode on alone, silently, Goree trailing like a hunting dog, and met one of his surgeons coming up from camp: J. S. D. Cullen, delighted, having heard of the great victory, and Longstreet succeeded in depressing him, and Cullen departed. Longstreet lectured himself: depression is contagious; keep it to yourself. He needed something to cheer him, turned to two men behind him, found there was only one, not an aide, the Englishman: Fremantle. Exactly what he needed. Longstreet drew up to wait.
The Englishman came pleasantly, slowly forward. He was the kind of breezy, cheery man who brings humor with his presence. He was wearing the same tall gray hat and the remarkable coat. He said cheerily, tapping the great hat, “Don’t mean to intrude upon your thoughts. General.”
”Not Tall,” Longstreet said.
”Really, sir, if you’d rather ride alone…”
”Good to see you,” Longstreet said.
The Englishman rode up grinning broadly through widely spaced teeth. He had entered the country by way of Mexico, riding in a wagon drawn by a tobacco-chewing man who had turned out to be, in his spare time, the local judge, Fremantle had seen many interesting things: a casual hanging, raw floods, great fires. He was continually amazed at the combination of raw earth and rough people, white columned houses and traces of English manner. He had not gotten used to the crude habit of shaking hands, which was common among these people, but he forced himself. He was enjoying himself hugely. He had not changed his clothes in some days and he looked delightfully disreputable, yet mannered and cool and light in the saddle.
Longstreet grinned again. “Did you get a chance to see anything?”
”Well as a matter of fact I did. I found rather a large tree and Lawley and I sat out in the open and there was quite a show. Lovely, oh lovely.”
”You didn’t happen to see a cavalry charge?” Stuart: not yet returned.
”Not a one,” Fremantle gloomed. “Nor a hollow square. You know, sir, we really ought to discuss that at length on some occasion. Provided this war lasts long enough, which most people seem to think it won’t. You fellows seem to do well enough without it, I must say. But still, one likes to feel a certain security in these matters, which the square gives, do you see? One likes to know, that is, where everyone is, at given moments. Ah, but then-“ he took a deep breath, tapped his chest-“there’s always tomorrow. I gather you expect a bit of an adventure tomorrow.”
Longstreet nodded.
”Well, I shall try to find a position of advantage. I will appreciate your advice, although of course if I’m ever in the way at all, you must feel free, I mean, one must not hamper operations. Don’t spare my feelings, sir. But if you’ll tell me where to stand.”
”I will.”
Fremantle whacked a mosquito. “Another victory today. When I am clear about it all I shall write it down. Expect you chaps are getting rather used to victory, what? Damn!”
He swatted another bug. “Must say, enormously impressive, this army. Yet the Federal fellas just keep on coming. Curious. I have a bit of difficulty, you know, understanding exactly why. Some time when there’s time… but the war is ending, of course. I can feel that myself. That is the message I shall transmit to my people. No doubt of it.”
He eyed Longstreet. Longstreet said nothing.
”Your General Lee is a wonder.”
”Yes,” Longstreet said.
”A thing one rarely sees.” Fremantle paused. “Remarkable,” he said. He was about to say something else but changed his mind.
”He holds this army together,” Longstreet said.
”Strordnry dignity.”
”Strordnry.”
”I mean, one does not expect it. No offense, sir? But your General Lee is an English general, sir. Strordnry. He has gained some reputation, sir, as of course you know, but there is a tendency in Europe to, ah, think of Americans as, ah, somewhat behind the times, sometimes what, ah, how do I say this? One is on tricky ground here, but, sir, of course you understand, there are these cultural differences, a new land and all that. Yet, what I mean to say is, one did not expect General Lee.”
”To be a gentleman,” Longstreet said.
Fremantle squinted. After a moment he nodded. Longstreet was not offended. Fremantle said wonderingly, “Sir, you cannot imagine the surprise. One hears all these stories of Indians and massacres and lean backwoodsmen with ten-foot rifles and rain dances and what not, and yet here, your officers…”He shook his head. “Strordnry. Why, do you know, your General Lee is even a member of the Church of England?”
”True.”
”He has great forebears.”
”Yes,” Longstreet said.
”I have noticed, sir, that you are always in camp near him. I must say, sir, that I am touched.”
”Well,” Longstreet said.
”Ah.” Fremantle sighed. “We have so many things in common, your country and mine. I earnestly hope we shall become allies. Yet I feel you do not need us. But I must say, I am increasingly indebted to you for your hospitality.”
”Our pleasure.”
”Ah. Um.” Fremantle cocked his head again. “One thing I’m very glad to see. Your General Lee is a moralist, as are all true gentlemen, of course, but he respects minor vice, harmless vice, when he finds it in others. Now that’s the mark of the true gentleman. That is what distinguishes the man so to me, aside from his military prowess, of course. The true gentleman has no vices, but he allows you your own. Ah.” He patted a saddlebag. “By which I mean, sir, to get to the heart of the matter, that I have a flagon of brandy at your disposal, should the occasion arise.”
”It undoubtedly will.” Longstreet bowed. “Thank you.”
”You may call on me, sir.”
Longstreet smiled.
”A small weakness,” Fremantle went on cheerily, “of which I am not proud, you understand. But one sees so little whisky in this army. Amazing.”
”Lee’s example. Jackson didn’t drink either. Nor does Stuart.”
Fremantle shook his head in wonder. “Oh, by the way, there’s a story going around, do you know? They say that General Lee was asleep, and the army was marching by, and fifteen thousand men went by on tiptoe so as not to wake him. Is that true?”
”Might have been.” Longstreet chuckled. “I know one that I heard myself. While ago we sat around a fire, talked on Darwin. Evolution. You read about it?”
”Ah?”
”Charles Darwin. Theory of Evolution.”
”Can’t say that I have. There are so many of these things rattling about.”
”Theory that claims that men are descended from apes.”
”Oh that. Oh yes. Well, I’ve heard-distastefully-of that.”
”Well, we were talking on that. Finally agreed that Darwin was probably right. Then one fella said, with great dignity he said, ‘Well, maybe you are come from an ape, and maybe I am come from an ape, but General Lee, he didn’t come from no ape.’”
”Well, of course.” Fremantle did not quite see the humor. Longstreet grinned into the dark.
”It is a Christian army,” Longstreet said. “You did not know Jackson.”
”No. It was my great misfortune to arrive after his death. They tell great things of him.”
”He was colorful,” Longstreet said. “He was Christian.”
”His reputation exceeds that of Lee.”
”Well, pay no attention to that. But he was a good soldier. He could move troops. He knew how to hate.”
Longstreet thought: a good Christian. He remembered suddenly the day Jackson had come upon some of his troops letting a valiant Yankee color sergeant withdraw after a great fight. The men refused to fire at him, that man had been brave, he deserved to live. Jackson said, “I don’t want them brave, I want them dead.”
”They tell many stories of the man. I regret not having known him.”
”He loved to chew lemons,” Longstreet said.
”Lemons?”
”Don’t know where he got them. He loved them. I remember him that way, sitting on a fence, chewing a lemon, his finger in the air.”
Fremantle stared.
”He had a finger shot away,” Longstreet explained.
”When he held it down the blood would get into it and hurt him, so he would hold it up in the air and ride or talk with his arm held up, not noticing it. It was a sight, until you got used to it. Dick Ewell thought he was crazy Ewell is rather odd himself. He told me Jackson told him that he never ate pepper because it weakened his left leg.”
Fremantle’s mouth was open.
”I’m serious,” Longstreet said amiably “A little eccentricity is a help to a general. It helps with the newspapers.
The women love it too. Southern women like their men religious and a little mad. That’s why they fall in love with preachers.”
Premantle was not following. Longstreet said, “He knew how to fight, Jackson did. A. P. Hill is good too. He wears a red shirt when he’s going into battle. It’s an interesting army. You’ve met George Pickett?”
”Oh yes.”
”Perfume and all.” Longstreet chuckled. “It’s a hell of an army” But thinking of Pickett, last in line, reminded him of Pickett’s two brigade commanders: Garnett and Armistead. Old Armistead, torn by the war away from his beloved friend Win Hancock, who was undoubtedly waiting ahead on that black hill beyond Gettysburg. Armistead would be thinking of that tonight. And then there was Dick Garnett.
”Pickett’s men are extraordinary men,” Fremantle said.
”The Virginians seem different, quite, from the Texans, or the soldiers from Mississippi. Is that true, do you think, sir?”
”Yes. Have you met Dick Garnett?”
”Ah, yes. Tall fella, rather dark. Wounded leg Odd that…”
”Jackson tried to court-martial him. For cowardice in the face of the enemy I’ve known Garnett for twenty years. No coward. But his honor is gone. You will hear bad things from people who know nothing. I want you to know the truth. Jackson was… a hard man.”
Fremantle nodded silently.
”He also court-martialed A. P. Hill once. And Lee simply overlooked it. Well, come to think of it, I had some trouble with old Powell myself once; he wanted to fight me a duel. Matter of honor. I ignored him. It’s an interesting army. Only Lee could hold it together. But the thing about Garnett troubles me. He thinks his honor is gone.”
”A tragic thing,” Fremantle said. There was tact there, a tone of caution.
”The papers, of course, all side with Jackson.” Longstreet blew out a breath. “And Jackson is dead. So now Garnett will have to die bravely to erase the stain.”
And he saw that Fremantle agreed. Only thing for a gentleman to do. Longstreet shook his head. A weary bitterness fogged his brain. He knew Garnett would die, no help for it now, unturnable, ridiculous, doomed with a festering, unseen wound.
Fremantle said, “You are not, ah, Virginia born, sir?”
”South Carolina,” Longstreet said.
”Ah. That’s in the far south isn’t it, sir?”
”True,” Longstreet said. He was weary of talk. “Honor,” he said. “Honor without intelligence is a disaster. Honor could lose the war.”
Fremantle was vaguely shocked.
”Sir?”
”Listen. Let me tell you something. I appreciate honor and bravery and courage. Before God… but the point of the war is not to show how brave you are and how you can die in a manly fashion, face to the enemy. God knows it’s easy to die. Anybody can die.”
In the darkness he could not see Fremantle’s face. He talked to darkness.
”Let me explain this. Try to see this. When we were all young, they fought in a simple way. They faced each other out in the open, usually across a field. One side came running. The other got one shot in, from a close distance, because the rifle wasn’t very good at distance, because it wasn’t a rifle. Then after that one shot they hit together hand to hand, or sword to sword, and the cavalry would ride in from one angle or another. That’s the truth, isn’t it? In the old days they fought from a distance with bows and arrows and ran at each other, man to man, with swords. But now, listen, now it’s quite a bit different, and quite a few people don’t seem to know that yet. But we’re learning. Look.
Right now, take a man with a good rifle, a good man with a good rifle, which has a good range and may even be a repeater. He can kill at, oh, conservatively, two, three hundred yards shooting into the crowd attacking him.
Forget the cannon. Just put one man behind a tree. You can hardly see him from two hundred yards away, but he can see you. And shoot. And shoot again. How many men do you think it will take to get to that man behind a tree, in a ditch, defended by cannon, if you have to cross an open field to get him? How many men? Well, I’ve figured it. At least three. And he’ll kill at least two. The way you do it is this: one man fires while one man is moving, and the other is loading and getting ready to move. That’s how the three men attack. There’s always one moving and one firing. That way you can do it. If you forget the cannon. But you’ll lose one man most probably on the way across the field, at least one, probably two, against a cannon you’ll lose all three, no matter what you do, and that’s across the field. Now. If you are attacking uphill…”
He broke it off. No point in talking this way to a foreigner. Might have to fight him sometime. But the man would not see. Longstreet had spoken to his own officers.
They found what he said vaguely shameful. Defense? When Lee dug trenches around Richmond they called him, derisively, the King of Spades. Longstreet took a deep breath and let it go, remembering again that damned black hill, fires like eyes.
Fremantle said, bewildered, “But, sir, there is the example of Solferino. And of course the Charge of the Light Brigade.”
”Yes,” Longstreet said. Like all Englishmen, and most Southerners, Fremantle would rather lose the war than his dignity. Dick Garnett would die and die smiling. “Had he his hurts before?” Aye, then he died like a man. Longstreet, who had invented a transverse trench, which no one would use, filed the matter forcefully in the dark cavern of his swelling brain and rode into camp.
That night, at supper, someone remarked casually that since the army needed ammunition, wouldn’t it be proper for the ammunition factories to stay open on Sunday? Most of the officers agreed that it had not yet come to that.
Longstreet stayed up talking, as long as there was company, as long as there was a fire. Because when the fire was gone and the dark had truly come there was no way he could avoid the dead faces of his children.
Lee rode north through the town and out the Heidlersburg Road. There was a joy in the night all around him.
The men yelled and whooped as he passed by. Many stopped and just smiled and some took off their hats. They had won again. The joy on their faces, the look of incredible pride, the way so many of them looked at him going by as if waiting for some sign of his approval of a job well done, another fight so nobly fought, lights in all the starry young eyes, and beyond that the way some of them had tears in their eyes as he went by, tears for him, for the cause, for the dead of the day; the sight of it was something very nearly unbearable, and he set his face and rode through saying nothing, nodding, touching his hat. Then he was out the other side of town, and there were piles of stacked Union muskets, blankets and canteens and wagons, the abandoned implements of war.
Ewell had made his headquarters in a farmhouse. He was there, along with Early and Rodes. They were all standing at a white gate as Lee rode up at the beginning of the night, enough light still in the sky so that the black mass of the hill to the east, the untaken hill, could still be seen against the evening sky. Lee thought: why did you not attack? Why?
But he said nothing.
Ewell had the look of a great-beaked, hopping bird. He was bald and scrawny; his voice piped and squeaked like cracking eggshells. He had lost a leg at Manassas and had just recently returned to the army, and he was standing awkwardly balancing himself against the unfamiliar leg and scratching his head and swaying nervously, clutching a fencepost. Early stood beside him, dark, formal, composed.
Rodes off to the side bowed formally at Lee’s approach.
”Good evening, sir. God bless you, did you see them run? Did you see them? We whipped them again, by God, yes, sir, we did, sir.” Ewell chattered. Lee sensed a strange thin quality in his voice, a wavery exuberance. He escorted Lee through the house, hobbling awkwardly on the wooden leg, talking about the bullet that had hit him there that afternoon while he was mounted on his horse. They went out into an arbor and sat in the warm evening under the grapevines and the soft sky and Ewell sat on the ground and hiked up his pants to show Lee where the bullet had hit, a Minnie ball just below the jointed knee, a vast gash of splintered white wood. Ewell was giggling, grinning, cocking his head off to the side like a huge parrot, chortling.
Lee asked the condition of the corps, the number of wounded. Early spoke up. Ewell deferred. Early stood with his legs wide apart, his hands clasped behind his back, heavy in the jaw, his face bleak and grim, black beard dirty and untrimmed. He had been a West Pointer, had left the army to become a lawyer, a prosecutor. He was utterly sure of himself. Lee watched and listened. Early explained the situation coolly and logically. Behind him, Ewell nodded in punctuation, his head twitching, his fingers fluttering. Lee felt a strangeness in the air, a coolness. Ewell should speak for himself. Rodes sat silently leaning forward, his hands on his knees, looking at the ground. There was a pause.
Lee said, “I had hoped you would move on through the town and take that hill.”
Ewell blinked, rubbed his nose, looked at Early, looked at Rodes, patted his thigh. Lee, watching, felt a sudden acute depression.
Ewell said, “I didn’t think it was, ah, practical. We were waiting, ah, for many reasons. We had marched all day, and fought, and your orders were a caution against bringing on a general engagement.” He jabbered, rambling, moving about in his chair. Early walked over and sat on the railing of the arbor. Ewell turned to him for confirmation.
Early said calmly, silently, bored, “There were reports of Federal troops in the north. We couldn’t bring artillery to bear, and no word came from Hill, as you know. We decided it would be best to wait for Johnson.” Yes, yes, Ewell nodded vigorously, thumping the wooden leg. “But he did not arrive until dark, just a while ago. He’s out now, looking over the terrain.”
Ewell went on nodding. Lee looked at Rodes, who said nothing. After a moment Early said, “You may remember, sir, that I passed over this ground a few days ago and am familiar with it. The hill is named Cemetery Hill. It has another hill beyond it, also occupied. It will be a very strong position.”
Lee closed his eyes for a moment, was very tired. Think of all of it later. An aide brought a cup of hot boiled coffee, thick with sugar. Lee drank, revived, abruptly saw the face of Jackson in his mind, a flare of cold blue eyes. He looked up, blinked. Could almost see him. Jackson was here.
Jackson was looking on.
Ewell was drinking coffee. Early had folded his arms.
Rodes still gazed at the ground, plucking at one of his fingers. Lee said, “Can you attack on this flank, in the morning?”
Ewell sat up. Early did not move. Lee felt the depression, cold and slow and steady like a wind in his brain, shook his head to blow it away.
Early said, “That hill will be a very strong position. Once it is fortified. Which they are doing right now.”
”Very strong.” Ewell nodded violently.
”Have you looked over the ground, sir?” Early asked.
”From a distance.”
Early leaned back into the dark. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “I do not think we should attack this point.
This will be the strong point. Our troops have marched hard today and fought hard today. I suggest we hold here while the rest of the army makes an attack on the other flank.”
”You think an attack here would succeed?”
”I think it would be very costly.”
Ewell nodded. Lee turned.
”General Rodes?”
Rodes looked up, glanced away, shrugged.
”We’ll attack, of course. But the men have had a good fight. And it will be a strong position.” He looked up at Ewell, then quickly away. “I’m sorry we did not take it today.”
”Well,” Lee said. “Today is done.”
”General Longstreet has not been engaged,” Eariy said.
”His Corps has not been fought for some time.” He was referring to Chancellorsville, where Longstreet’s men had been detached. “If he were to attack on the right he would draw the enemy from this position and we could then attempt the assault. Supported, of course, by General Hill.”
Lee thought: Longstreet cannot stand the man. I wonder why? Something too cold here, something disagreeable in the silence of the eyes, the tilt of the head. Jubal. Strange name. Old Jubilee. Nothing happy about the man. And yet, unmistakable competence. Lee said, “Longstreet proposes that we move our army to the right around the enemy flank and interpose between Meade and Washington.”
”And vacate this position?” Ewell popped his eyes, slapped the splintered wood again. “Leave this town, which we have just captured?”
Lee said, with some irritation, “The town is of no importance.”
Ewell looked to Eariy. Eariy said slowly, “To move this entire Corps, in the face of a fortified enemy?” He smiled slightly, with a touch of the disdain for which he was rapidly becoming notorious.
”Hardly fitting,” Ewell piped. “Hardly. Troops fought so hard for this town, do we move them out and march them off into the woods, in sight of the enemy? Morale will suffer. General. The boys are ready. Our boys are ready.”
”Longstreet is on me defensive again.” Early grinned. “ Suppose that’s to be expected. But really, sir, it seems we are here and the enemy is mere, and Hill and General Ewell have engaged and Longstreet has not. If Longstreet can be induced to attack on the right, we can give you this hill tomorrow by sundown.”
Ewell was nodding again, pointing at Early, wagging a bony finger. They talked. Lee made no decision. Must not judge Ewell now. The man had been a good soldier for too long. First day in command of the Corps. Jackson ’s old Corps.
Hill is sick. Ewell indecisive. The hill untaken. Longstreet broods on defensive war. Lee said, “Would you gentlemen retreat?”
”Retreat? Retreat?” Ewell sat with his mouth open.
Rodes looked up.
”Would you suggest that we fall back behind South Mountain?”
”Retreat?” Ewell was amazed. “But why?”
Lee said, “If we do not withdraw, and if we do not maneuver in the face of the enemy, then we must attack.
There is no other alternative.” He rose, not waiting for an answer. They accompanied him to the door. He saw a vase filled with flowers on a small wooden table. A picture of an old man frowned down out of an old round frame. Lee was thinking: very dangerous to withdraw. To pull this army with all its trains back through that pass. Without cavalry, it cannot be done. Stuart, I have waited long enough.
He thanked the men for their day’s work, told them to get a good night’s rest. Once again he saw Jackson ’s blue eyes, probing, reproachful. He thought: General, we miss you.
He rode off into the dark. Taylor was there with messages. Lee answered them, one to Imboden, one to Chilton, sent Taylor off to find the raider. Harry Gilmore, who was with Johnson. He rode off with Venable and then, moving in out of the night to greet him, saw old Isaac Trimble, astride a pale horse, fiery old Isaac. Lee smiled a greeting. General Trimble was almost sixty. Not much older than you, old man. But he looks ancient. Do I look that old?
I was tired before, but I am not tired now. No pain now. God’s blessing. What will I do about Ewell?
Trimble said, “Sir, I beg your pardon, but I will not serve the man.” He was furious. He raised one huge hand like a vast claw and made a gesture as if pushing a disgusting thing away from him, into the black air. “I will not serve the man. I am a volunteer aide with the man, sir, as you know. I most respectfully request another assignment.” He shook his head violently, almost displacing his hat. “The man is a disgrace. Have you heard it all, sir? What they have been telling you? Ask the aides, sir, or General Gordon, or Johnson.”
He went on. He was a marvelous old man who had sworn to be a Major General or a corpse. Lee gathered that he was talking about Ewell. Lee calmed him, but he wanted to hear.
Trimble said, “We should have taken that hill. God in His wisdom knows we could have taken that hill. Beyond Cemetery Hill there is another hill and it was totally unoccupied. There was no one there at all, and it commanded the town. Gordon saw it, sir, he was with us, me and Gordon and Ewell, all standing there in the flaming dark like great fat idiots with that bloody damned hill empty, begging your pardon. General, but that bloody damned hill was as bare as his bloody damned great head and it commands the town. We all saw it. General, as God is my witness, ask anyone here. McKim was there. Smith was there, they were all there. I said, ‘General Ewell, we have got to take that hill. General Jackson would not have stopped like this with the bluebellies on the run and plenty of light left and a hill like that empty as, oh God help us, I don’t know what.’ But nobody there at all. And the Federals running, no guns set up, nothing but one battery and one regiment in line.”
He was running out of breath. Lee had stopped to listen.
He sensed, among the anger, the bitter breath of truth.
Trimble took off his hat and wiped it across his brow, and his white hair gleamed in the moonlight like wadded cotton.
Lee said, “Go on.”
”Yes, sir. Sir, I told him. General Ewell, I said to him, ‘Sir, give me one division and I will take that hill.’ And he said nothing at all. He stood there! He stared at me! I said, ‘General Ewell, give me one brigade, and I will take that hill.’ I was becoming disturbed, sir. And General Ewell put his arms behind him and blinked. So I said, ‘General, give me one regiment and I will take that hill.’ And he said nothing; he just shook his head, and I threw my sword down.” Trimble gestured helplessly, actually close to tears, “Down on the ground in front of him.” He raised both |t arms. “We could have done it, sir. A blind man should have seen it. Now they are working, up there, you can hear the axes. Now in the morning many a good boy will die.”
He wiped his face. It was all out of him. The fire died. He slumped forward in the saddle.
”General, sir, I request another assignment.”
Lee said softly, “Thank you. General. You will be of great service, thank you.”
Now that Trimble was quieter Lee could question him.
Dick Ewell had frozen; he had deferred to Early. Lee thought: I must look into this. He told Trimble to rest and he rode back to his headquarters in the dark. He was becoming increasingly tired, but there was much to do. Food. Get some fuel. The ancient body had no reserve. His chest was stuffed, a feeling of cool bleakness there, no strength in him. He thought of that and of Stuart off somewhere, possibly dead, and of Ewell’s weakness and Hill’s illness and the Union Army growing now in the night on that hill, blossoming darkly across the filed like a fungus, a bristly fungus.
The headquarters was in a small stone house on Seminary Ridge. An elderly woman, the resident, was cooking for him. Lee chatted with her politely, his mind on other things, while aides came and went. Generals pushed in and out, reporters and artists and the Prussian and the Austrian passed in and out. There was a rocking chair for Lee; it received him like an enfolding arm. Taylor appeared with a squad of men, led by a man named Walters, a Marylander. Now late at night it was becoming difficult to recognize people, to remember their names. Lee prepared sealed orders to be given to each of Walters’ men; they were to scatter out over the countryside and find Stuart and get him back to Gettysburg with all possible speed. When that was done Lee looked for Longstreet, but the stubborn face was not there. Lee closed his eyes. The uproar of jokes and joy went on around him. Must see Ewell now, without Early. He motioned to Marshall, sent for Ewell. The room gradually cleared. Lee signed orders. I do too much myself. He was thinking: retreat is not even an option; we must assault or maneuver. If we assault, Longstreet must bear the load.
Lee took a quick nap. He was awakened by the arrival of Ewell. He rose and went out into the night. The strange beaked figure waited with deference. Lee said, “How are you, sir?”
”I am fine, sir. The leg troubles me a bit.”
Lee suggested a doctor. Ewell shook his head. “Drugs injure a man’s thinking. The leg is minor. Sir?”
”Johnson’s men are in position now. He is very optimistic, much more than Early. I believe we ought to attack there, sir.”
”Attack the hill?”
”Yes, sir. Gulp’s Hill or Cemetery Hill, or both, sir.”
There was a new certainty in his voice. Lee was very glad to hear it. A small relief blossomed like a flower. Lee said only, “I have made no decision yet. But in your opinion, we should attack on your flank.”
”Yes, sir.”
Lee nodded. “I will consider it. I am glad to hear you are well.”
”General,” Ewell said. His face was not clear in the evening light, the lamplight from inside, the moon from the heavens, but there was a sadness in his voice, regret apparent in the motion of his head, the beak above the wild mustache bobbing. “I think I was too slow today, sir. I regret that very much. I was trying to be… careful. I may have been too careful.”
Lee was moved. My good old soldier. He was embarrassed. He said quickly, “You won a victory, General.”
Ewell looked up. His eyes were strained. “It was not a large victory, it might have been larger, we might have pushed harder. But it was a victory. I am satisfied. The men fought well. This was your first day. It is not as easy as it sometimes appears.”
”No, sir,” Ewell said.
”Now get some rest.” Lee sent him off. He went back into the house feeling much better. The old man had been a good soldier for too long; you cannot worry about Ewell.
And then Lee thought: but sometimes I have seen it happen.
A man loses part of himself, an arm, a leg, and though he has been a fine soldier he is never quite the same again; he has lost nothing else visible, but there is a certain softness in the man thereafter, a slowness, a caution. I did not expect it with Ewell. I do not understand it. Very little of a man is in a hand or a leg. A man is in his spirit and he has that in full no matter what part of his body dies, or all of it. But, Lee thought, you may not understand. It has not happened to you, so you don’t understand. So don’t judge. He was a good soldier. He is not Jackson. Jackson is gone-not entirely gone; Jackson was there today watching, and Ewell sees his eyes-but you cannot blame him for not being Jackson. You must make do with the tools God has given for the job. Richard Ewell, old Baldy… and his ridiculous horse.
Lee went back to the rocker. Midnight came, and he had not yet slept. Headquarters grew steadily more still. Lee thought again of Rooney Lee, wounded, and prayed for him. There was no time for a letter to his wife, that troubled woman. He closed his eyes and thought of Meade, out there, gathering the army. John Reynolds was dead. He prayed for the soul of Reynolds. And in the morning?
This is the great battle. Tomorrow or the next day. This will determine the war. Virginia is here, all the South is here. What will you do tomorrow?
No orders were out. Now he was alone. It was cooler.
Taylor came and tucked a blanket around his knees and Lee did not argue. He was drifting off. Longstreet would be up in the morning. Pickett would be up by late afternoon. In the afternoon all the army will be here. And we will hit them. We will hit them with everything and drive them right off that hill and send them running back down the road to Washington. If Stuart’s cavalry…
He woke briefly. Without cavalry in the rear no victory would be complete. Should we attack before Stuart comes?
And if he comes with tired horses and weary men? If he comes at all…
Don’t think on that. Lee closed his eyes. And let himself fall into the bright dark. For Thine be the Kingdom, and the Power…
He came back at last to the cemetery on the hill. All down the ridge they were digging in, all around the crest of the hill. He sat on the horse and watched the picks swinging in the moonlight, listened to the sound of shovels in the earth. The army was still coming in, marching by moonlight. It was almost two o’clock in the morning.
He rode slowly along the ridge, looking for headquarters.
He had been hit once in the left arm and the bleeding had stopped but the genuine pain was just beginning. They had wrapped the arm and put his coat back on and he did not show the injury. He rode stiffly, dizzily, looking for someone to give him orders for what was left of his cavalry.
He found a small farmhouse, center of many lights, many horses tethered outside. The musk of cigar smoke was heavy in the warm air. He remembered an old Indian joke: follow cigar smoke; fat men there. Bright moonlight, a warm and cloudless night. They were posting cannon along the ridge by moonlight: pleasant looming shapes, rolling caissons. Buford thought: I need a drink. Whisky stiffens.
He rode to the farmhouse and stopped in a crowd of horses and sat there. Rather not get down. Men were passing in and out, much conversation. A cloud of officers had clustered by the small lighted door, looking in. One glanced up, saw him, noted the star, turned, saluted quickly Buford wiggled a finger; the man came forward: a major. Other men were turning. Buford rode the horse almost to the door.
Buford said, “Who’s in command, and where do I find him?”
”Good evening, sir,” the major said. A very high voice.
A lisp? “The officer in command is General Howard, sir.
He may be found-“ “Don’t be a damn fool, Edgar,” another man said. He saluted Buford. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the truth is that General Hancock is in command, and if you’ll-“ Another major, skinny, grinning. The first major said angrily, “I must remind you, sir, that General Howard is the senior officer on the field.”
”But General Hancock has orders from General Meade himself.”
They argued, ignoring Buford. He looked down in wonder. Other officers voiced opinions. Oliver Howard was the commander of the Eleventh Corps. He had arrived this morning with Reynolds. He had fought on the right and been broken, just as he had been broken at Chancellorsville.
He was a one-armed man for whom Buford had no admiration. The majors confronted like wispy chickens; it was very strange. Behind them Buford saw suddenly a familiar face: John Gibbon, of Hancock’s corps. Infantry. A cold, silent man. His brothers fought for the other side.
Buford nodded. Gibbon nodded. A major was giving a lecture on military precedence: Howard could not be relieved except by written order or by Meade in person.
Gibbon came up and took the reins.
”Evenin’, John.”
Buford bowed.
”A hard day?”
”Long,” Buford admitted.
”Hancock’s inside, if you want to see him.” Gibbon led the horse out of the crowd. The argument went on behind them. Buford watched it with awe. Never get used to it, the mind of headquarters, not if I live a thousand years.
Gibbon said, “That’s been going on all night.”
”I gather Meade’s not here yet. Who’s in command?”
”Take your choice.” Gibbon grinned. But he was one of Hancock’s fanatics. Good soldier.
”I have to refit my outfit,” Buford said. “I need orders.”
”Hancock got here late this afternoon, just as Howard’s Corps was falling apart. They ran, them Dutchmen, just like they did at Chancellorsville. Hancock took command and reformed them on this hill, along with the First, and ever since then everybody’s been coining to him for orders, and not Howard, and he’s hopping mad. Kind of funny. He claims he’s senior officer.” Gibbon chuckled. “But Hancock has a verbal order from Meade. It’s all very funny.
Thing is, when Hancock’s on the field the men naturally turn that way. Old Howard’s really steamed.”
”I just want orders,” Buford said. “I’m kind of weary.”
He was thinking: need the long quiet again, want to get away from here. He dismounted, held briefly to the horse.
Gibbon called a man to take the reins. He said, “I’ll get your orders. Why don’t you wait out here?”
Buford sat on a rail. The arm was alive with pain. He said, “Is the army here?”
”Just about. All but Sedgewick. We’ve got Sykes and Geary and Sickles, along with Hancock. And Howard. Sedgewick will be here tomorrow, but he has a long march.”
”Good,” Buford said. He nodded, closed his eyes. Can relax now. He felt the beginning of sleep, even among the pain, the quiet dark coming, the soft rolling dreamless rest.
Gibbon said, “They’re all inside.”
Buford stirred, began to head toward the door. Gibbon said casually, “Why don’t you stay out here?”
Buford moved sleepily toward the door. Need one last order, then a good long sleep. The aides near the door were parting, but something in Gibbon’s voice caught him. He stopped, turned. Gibbon was there.
”Howard has made a complaint against you, John. He says you should have supported him on the right.”
Buford nodded dumbly, then blinked. He raised the pained arm. Gibbon said, “He lost half his strength. Most of them got taken prisoner. He’s mad as a hornet, lookin’ for somebody to blame it on. I think he’s picked you.”
Buford felt nothing for a moment, a sort of sodden silence all through his brain, then the anger began to rise like a metal wave, like a hot tide in the dark. Buford could say nothing. No words came. Gibbon said softly, “Stay out here, John. I’ll tell Hancock you’re here.”
He moved past Buford into the room. Buford blinked and blinked again and then began moving, pushing his way into the light, the smoke of the room. It was jammed with officers, all the brass. The anger made Buford dizzy. He tried to push his way through and the pain went all the way up his arm and into his chest and shocked him stiff. He could see faces: Sickles, the bully boy, the bright politician, a fat cigar clamped in a fat mouth, the man who was famous for having shot his wife’s lover. Geary and Sykes were sitting, brooding; that damned Howard was making a speech. And there was Hancock against a wall, writing a note, talking to aides, issuing orders. Buford’s vision blurred. The room was very hot and there was too much smoke. He had to push his way back out of the room into the open air. He kept saying aloud. God damn him. God damn him. He sat on a rail. In a moment he looked up and there was Hancock.
”How are you, John?”
Handsome face, watching. Buford focused. Hancock looked down with bright dark eyes. Buford said, “I’m all right.”
”Heard you were with John Reynolds when he died.”
”I was.”
”Tell me.”
Buford told him. Hancock would write the letter. Good, very good. Hancock was older since last time Buford saw him. Calm and cocky, damned good-looking man. Buford felt suddenly better. Cool, clean air.
Hancock said, “I’m sending the body back to his folks in Lancaster. They might appreciate a note from you.”
”I’ll send it.”
”How’s your division?”
Buford told him. Hancock was surprised. He hadn’t known Buford was that involved. Buford said, “We were involved.”
”Well, get yourself refitted. May need you in the morning.”
There was commotion behind him. A mass of aides were riding up. Somebody blew a discordant bugle. Hancock stood up, grinned. Buford noted: why, Hancock’s wearing a clean white shirt. Isn’t that amazing. Clean as a whistle.
Hancock said, “Here’s Meade.”
They all came out to meet him, the angry man with the squeaky voice. They gathered around him as he dismounted. Buford was pushed to the side. He heard Meade greet Hancock.
”Damn dark. I can’t see a damn thing.”
Hancock said he was very glad to see the General. Meade said, with great disgust, “Well, I hope to God this is good ground. General. Is it good ground?”
”Very good ground. General.”
”Well, by God it better be, because we’re going to have to fight here sure enough in the morning.”
Buford was pushed too far away. Meade went on into the house. Rocks of officers gathered at the windows. Buford had enough; he had his orders. He got back on his horse and rode slowly back toward the cemetery. He had not much strength left. He called for one of his aides, but the bucktoothed boy was dead, and the yellow-haired boy was dead, and the Sergeant was down and would never recover.
Buford stopped in the cemetery. He could not find the white angel. But he looked out across the town and he could see a great ocean of Rebel campfires, flooding the town, with fire burning all over those ridges to the west, flooding fire right up to the base of the hill. Buford took off his hat, looked up to the stars. He said to John Reynolds, “Well, John, we held the ground.” He wiped his eyes. He thought: have to get some more lieutenants. Then he rode off down the hill into the black beneath the trees.
<a l:href="#_ftnref1">[1]</a> The Confederates did not know that the local name for that hill was “Little Round Top.” During the battle their most common name for it was simply “The Rocky Hill.”(Little Round Top)