The Killer Angels

1. FREMANTLE.

Awake in the dark, the stars still brightly shining, Fremantle, a slow riser, staggered into the dawn not quite knowing where he was. These people might conduct these things at a civilized hour. Three in the morning. Incredible.

He washed in dirty water. Came vaguely awake. War!

The army awakened around him. He could sense the red battle forming today, coming like the sun. His senses shocked him awake. He expected cannon at any moment.

He saw the first light of dawn a dusky rose in the east, the sun coming up from the direction of the enemy. He felt sleepily marvelous. He bid a cheery hello to Sorrel, Longstreet’s aide.

”Major Sorrel, sir, good morning! I say, could you direct me to the battle?”

Sorrel, a neat and natty person, smiled and bowed.

”Would you care for a bite to eat before the assault? We can serve Yankees done to order, before or after breakfast.”

Fremantle could not suppress a yawn, smothered it politely with his hand. “I suppose there is time for a bun or two. How’s General Longstreet this morning? My compliments, and I trust he slept well.”

”Doubt if he slept at all. He’s gone over to speak with General Lee.”

”Does the man ever sleep? Amazing. He rarely even sits down.”

Sorrel smiled. A bird, annoyed at being awakened early, began chattering in the tree above him. Other officers began stepping out into the dark of the morning. There was Ross, the fat Austrian with the Scotch name. He was all aglow in the powder-blue uniform of the Austrian Hussars, complete with shining silver chamberpot for the head, waving a blue plume. As he came closer Fremantle observed with alarm that the man was spotlessly groomed; even his mustache was waxed, the ends slim and sharp like wiggly rapiers.

Ross boomed happily, patting himself fat-handedly across the stomach. “C’est le sanglant appel-de Mars, eh, old chap?” He popped the slender Fremantle on the arm, unsettling him.

Fremantle said with distaste, “Early in the morning for that, old friend. Could you wait until after tea?”

The others were gathering around the breakfast table.

Scheibert, the beardless Prussian, moody, prim, was dressed all in white, white coat, floppy white hat, the inevitable glittering monocle. While most of the officers of the army could speak French, few could speak German, and Scheibert’s pride was continually offended, but he went on stubbornly using German military terms in conversation, was not understood, would not explain, sat fatly, whitely to the side, a rare sight, oddly comical in that company.

Lawley, the correspondent, seemed ill again and had not made up his mind whether or not to ride today. There were the three medical people-Maury, Cullen, Barksdale-and others of Longstreet’s staff: Latrobe, Goree, and the charming little Jew, Major Moses. They sat down to a splendid breakfast, and although Fremantle continued to wake up slowly, coming alive as the day came alive, warmly, brightly, with no clouds anywhere, the wind beginning to pick up and rustle the trees, the light beginning to sift down through the cool leaves, the dark branches, still Fremantle remained vaguely asleep.

The morning at war. Marvelous. Good men around a table. What a joy to be with the winners! All these men had nothing but contempt for the Yankees, whom they had beaten so often. There was even an air of regret at the table, a sense of seize the day, as if these bright moments of good fellowship before battle were numbered, that the war would soon be over, and all this would end, and we would all go back to the duller pursuits of peace. Fremantle enjoyed himself enormously. Southerners! They were Englishmen, by George. Fremantle was at home.

He ate hot eggs, warm bread, reveled in steaming tea, although the water from which the tea was made left an aftertaste in the mouth, afterthoughts in the brain: from what nearby barn? The men all chatted, joked. Fremantle was sorry to see breakfast end. But the sun was fully up.

Now once more he could expect the big thunder of cannon.

Must not miss it today. Sorrel promised to keep him informed. They rode together toward the lines, hoping for a good view.

So Fremantle came to Gettysburg, saw the bodies unburied in the fields, beginning to become offensive in the heat of the morning, poor chaps. They turned off to the right and rode up through a grove of trees to higher ground, and through the trees Fremantle could already see the blue ridge to the east, soft in the morning haze, where the Yankees were camped. But he could see no troops, no movement.

He felt his stomach tighten, his breath grow sharp. In the presence of the enemy! In range of the guns! He passed a battery of Southern artillery, mixed Napoleons and Parrots, served by wagons stamped USA.

Sorrel said, “We got most of our wagons from the enemy. Many of the guns. Their artillery is very good. But ours will get better.”

The Austrian, Ross, had ridden up beside them. One of the gunners, a lean, barefoot man in dusty brown, stared at him unbelievingly as he passed, then bawled in a piercing voice that carried all along the line, “Hey, mister. You in blue. What you do, man, you look like you swallowed some mice.”

Sorrel put his hand over his mouth. Ross stared back, uncomprehending.

Fremantle said cheerily, “The fellow is referring to the waxed mustache, old friend.”

Ross grumbled, twitched the mustache, stroked the ends lovingly, glowered. They rode to Lee’s headquarters, then beyond, up the ridge to where the Generals were meeting.

There was a gathering of officers, too many men. Sorrel suggested that if Fremantle wanted a good view, he should find a convenient tree. Fremantle wandered forward, with Lawley, through the cool green woods, to the same commanding position he had the day before, climbed the same wide oak. There below him, not fifty feet away, he recognized Longstreet, then Lee. The officers were in consultation.

Lee was standing with his back to the group, bareheaded, the white hair flicking in the breeze. He was gazing out toward the Union lines, which were clearly visible in the east. He put his field glasses to his eyes, looked, put them down, walked two or three paces south, turned, looked again, slowly walked back and forth. Longstreet was sitting on a camp stool, whittling slowly on a stick, making a point, sharpening the point, sharpening, sharpening. A. P. Hill, looking much healthier than the day before, was chatting with another officer, unidentified. Sitting next to Longstreet, on a stump, also whittling, was a tall slim man with an extraordinary face, eyes with a cold glint in them, erect in posture even as he sat, cutting a stick. Fremantle asked, impressed, “Who is that?”

Lawley: “That’s Hood. John Bell Hood. They call him ‘Sam,’ I think. He commands one of Longstreet’s divisions. From Texas, I believe.”

”Does his behavior in battle match his appearance?”

”He does his job,” Lawley said laconically.

”An interesting army,” Fremantle said. “Most interesting.”

Lee had turned, was saying something to Longstreet.

Longstreet shook his head. Hill came closer.

Lawley said, “The Yankees have dug in. But I don’t see any trenches anywhere here. That means we’ll attack.”

The “we” was inevitable, but Fremantle noticed it. He felt a part, almost a member, of this marvelous group of outnumbered men. Englishmen. They called themselves Americans, but they were transplanted Englishmen. Look at the names: Lee, Hill, Longstreet, Jackson, Stuart. And Lee was Church of England. Most of them were. All gentlemen.

No finer gentlemen in England than Lee. Well, of course, here and there, possibly one exception. Or two.

Nevertheless, they are our people. Proud to have them.

And perhaps they will rejoin the Queen and it will be as it was, as it always should have been.

They had talked of that the evening before. Every one of the officers had insisted that the South would be happier under the Queen than under the Union. Of course, hard to say what they meant. But if England came to help now, would it not be possible? That this soil would once again be English soil?

He had borrowed glasses from Sorrel, was looking at the Union lines. He could see the cannon now, rolled out in front of the trees. He could see men moving among the caissons, men on horseback moving in the trees; here and there a pennant blew. He saw a flash of gold. Breastworks were going up, twisted sticks, small, very far away. There was an open valley below him, partly cultivated, then a long bare rise to the Union line. To the left was the high hill, Cemetery Hill, that Ewell had failed to take the day before, the hill that had worried Longstreet. To the center was a wooded ridge. To the right were two round hills, one rocky, the other wooded. The Union position was approximately three miles in length, or so it seemed from here. All this Fremantle saw with continually rising excitement.

He looked down, saw Longstreet rise, move off, shoulders bowed, wandering head down and lumbering, like a bearded stump, to stare out at the lines. Hood joined him.

Once more Longstreet shook his head. Lee came back to a small table, stared at a map, looked up, back toward the Union lines, keeping his hand on the map. Fremantle had a good look at that extraordinary face. Lee looked weary, more pale than before. The sun was climbing; it was noticeably hotter. Fremantle felt a familiar rumble in his own stomach. Oh God, not the soldier’s disease. Those damned cherries.

There seemed no point in remaining in the tree. Soldiers had observed him, hanging in the air like a plump gray fruit, were beginning to point and grin. Fremantle descended with dignity, joined the other foreigners. He heard, for the first time that day, music: a polka. He listened with surprise. He could not identify the sound but he knew the beat. It was followed by a march.

Ross said, “They play even during an attack. Not very good. But inspiring. Have you heard the Rebel yell?”

Fremantle nodded. “Godawful sound. I expect they learned it from Indians.”

Ross opened wide his eyes. “Never thought of that,” he said. His silver helmet shifted. Sweat was all over his brow.

”I say, old friend, you really aren’t going to wear that thing all day, are you? In this charming climate?”

”Well,” Ross said. He tweaked his mustache. “One must be properly dressed. Teach these fellas respect.”

Fremantle nodded. Understandable. One tried to be neat.

But that helmet. And Ross did tend to look a bit ridiculous.

Like some sort of fat plumed duck. These chaps all looked so natural, so… earthy. Not the officers. But the troops. Hardly any uniform at all. Brown and yellow Americans. Odd. So near, yet so far.

He saw Moxley Sorrel, walking briskly off on a mission, “corralled him,” as the Americans would put it.

Sorrel said, “We’ve sent out engineers to inspect the ground to our right. We’ll be attacking later in the day Don’t know where yet, so you can relax, I should say, for two hours or so at least.”

”Have you heard from General Stuart?”

”Not a word. General Lee has sent out scouts to find him.” Sorrel chuckled. “Cheer up, you may have your charge.”

”I hope to have a good position today.”

”We’ll do all we can. I suggest you stay close to Longstreet. There’ll be action where he is.”

Sorrel moved off. Through the trees Fremantle saw Longstreet mounting his horse. Fremantle led his own horse that way Longstreet had Goree with him, the aide from Texas. The greeting was friendly, even warm. Fremantle thought, startled, he likes me, and flushed with unexpected pride. He asked if he could ride with the General; Longstreet nodded. They rode down to the right, along the spine of the ridge, in under the trees. Most of Longstreet’s staff had joined them.

Longstreet said to Hood, “I’ll do what I can. His mind seems set on it.”

Hood shrugged. He seemed smaller now when you were close. He had extraordinary eyes. The eyebrows were shaggy and tilted and the eyes were dark as coal so that he seemed very sad. Fremantle had a sudden numbing thought: by evening this man could be dead. Fremantle stared at him, transfixed, trying to sense a premonition. He had never had a premonition, but he had heard of them happening, particularly on the battlefield. Men often knew when their time had come. He stared at Hood, but truthfully, except for the sadness in the eyes, which may have been only weariness, for Hood had marched all night, there was no extra sensation, nothing at all but a certain delicious air of impending combat which was with them all. Longstreet most of all, sitting round and immobile on the black horse, gazing eastward.

Hood said, “Well, if he’s right, then the war is over by sundown.”

Longstreet nodded.

”We’ll see. But going in without Pickett is like going in with one boot off. I’ll wait as long as I can.”

Hood cocked his head toward the Union lines. “Do you have any idea of the force?”

Longstreet ticked off the corps so far identified: five, counting the two involved in the first day’s action. He thought there would be more very soon, that perhaps even now the entire army was up. Lee did not think so. But yesterday he had not thought the Yankees would be there at all, and they were there in force, and now today the Yankees were on the high ground and with Stuart gone there was no way of knowing just how many corps lay in wait beyond the haze of that far ridge.

Fremantle rode along politely, silently, listening. He had developed a confidence that was almost absolute. He knew that Longstreet was tense and that there was a certain gloom in the set of his face, but Fremantle knew with the certainty of youth and faith that he could not possibly lose this day, not with these troops, not with Englishmen, the gentlemen against the rabble. He rode along with delight blossoming in him like a roseate flower, listening. Longstreet looked at him vacantly, saw him, then looked at him.

”Colonel,” he said abruptly, “how are you?”

”By George, sir, I am fine, I must say.”

”You slept well?”

Fremantle thought: everyone seems concerned that I sleep well.

”Oh, very well.” He paused. “Not long, mind you, but well.”

Longstreet smiled. There seemed to be something about Fremantle that amused him. Fremantle was oddly flattered; he did not know why.

”I would like someday to meet the Queen,” Longstreet said.

”I’m sure that could be arranged. Sir, you would be considered most welcome in my country, a most distinguished visitor.”

There was firing below, a sharp popping, a scattering of shots, a bunch, another bunch, then silence. Longstreet put on his glasses, looked down into the valley. “Pickets,” he said.

Fremantle, who did not know what to expect, started, gulped, stared. But he was delighted. He saw puffs of white smoke start up down in the valley, like vents in the earth, blow slowly lazily to his left, to the north. He looked up at the ridge, but he could see only a few black cannon, a single flag. He said abruptly, “I say, sir, you say you won’t be attacking for a bit?”

Longstreet shook his head.

”Then, ah, if I may be so bold, what’s to prevent the Yankees from attacking you?”

Longstreet looked at Hood.

”I mean, ah, I don’t see that you have bothered to entrench,” Fremantle went on.

Longstreet grinned. Hood grinned.

”An interesting thought.” Longstreet smiled. “I confess, it had not occurred to me.”

”Me neither,” Hood said.

”But I suppose it’s possible,” Longstreet said.

”You really think so?”

”Well,” Longstreet hedged. He grinned, reached up along the edge of his hat, scratched his head. “I guess not.”

More soberly, he turned to Fremantle. “It would be most unlike General Meade to attack. For one thing, he is General Meade. For another, he has just arrived on the field and it will take some time to understand the position, like perhaps a week. Also, he has not yet managed to gather the entire Army of the Potomac, all two hundred thousand men, and he will be reluctant to move without his full force. Then again, he will think of reasons.” Longstreet shook his head, and Fremantle saw that he had again lost his humor. “No, Meade will not do us the favor, the great favor. We will have to make him attack. We will have to occupy dangerous grounds between him and Washington and let the politicians push him to the assault. Which they will most certainly do. Given time. We need time.”

He paused, shook his head. They rode on in silence.

Fremantle began to realize how remarkably still it was.

Down in the valley the fields were open and still, the breeze had slowed, there was no movement of smoke. A few cows grazed in the shade, rested in dark pools of shade under the trees. Fremantle could feel the presence of that vast army; he knew it was there, thousands of men, thousands of horses, miles of cannon, miles of steel. And spread out beyond him and around him Lee’s whole army in the dark shade, moving, settling, lining up for the assault, and yet from this point on the ridge under the tree he could look out across the whole valley and see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, not even a trembling of the earth, not even one small slow rumble of all those feet and wheels moving against the earth, moving in together like two waves meeting in a great ocean, like two avalanches coming down together down facing sides of a green mountain. The day had dawned clear, but now there were clouds beginning to patch the sky with hazy blots of cottony white, and not even any motion there, just the white silence against the blue. It was beginning to be very hot, hotter even than before, and Fremantle noticed perspiration on all the faces. He had not slept well, and suddenly the silence and the heat began to get to him. He was a man from a northern clime and England did not have this sort of weather, and when you have not slept…

He was most anxious to move on with Longstreet, but he saw Lawley and Ross pull off into an open field and sit down, and so he bade Longstreet goodbye and rode off to join his fellow Europeans. He let his horse roam with the others in a fenced field and found himself a grassy place under a charming tree and lay flat on his back, gazing up serenely into the blue, watching those curious flecks that you can see if you stare upward against the vacant blue, the defects of your own eye.

They chatted, telling stories of other wars. They discussed the strategy of Napoleon, the theories of Jomini, the women of Richmond. Fremantle was not that impressed by Napoleon. But he was impressed by the women of Richmond. He lay dreamily remembering certain ladies, a ball, a rose garden…

This land was huge. England had a sense of compactness, like a garden, a lovely garden, but this country was without borders. There was this refreshing sense of space, of blowing winds, too hot, too cold, too huge, raw in a way raw meat is raw-and yet there were the neat farms, the green country, so much like Home. The people so much like Home. Southern Home. Couldn’t grow flowers, these people. No gardens. Great weakness. And yet. They are Englishmen. Should I tell Longstreet? Would it annoy him?

He thinks, after all, that he is an American.

Um. The great experiment. In democracy. The equality of rabble. In not much more than a generation they have come back to class. As the French have done. What a tragic thing, that Revolution. Bloody George was a bloody fool.

But no matter. The experiment doesn’t work. Give them fifty years, and all that equality rot is gone. Here they have the same love of the land and of tradition, of the right form, of breeding, in their horses, their women. Of course slavery is a bit embarrassing, but that, of course, will go. But the point is they do it all exactly as we do in Europe. And the North does not. That’s what the war is really about. The North has those huge bloody cities and a thousand religions, and the only aristocracy is the aristocracy of wealth. The Northerner doesn’t give a damn for tradition, or breeding, or the Old Country. He hates the Old Country. Odd. You very rarely hear a Southerner refer to “the Old Country.” In that painted way a German does. Or an Italian. Well, of course, the South is the Old Country. They haven’t left Europe. They’ve merely transplanted it. And that’s what the war is about.

Fremantle opened an eye. It occurred to him that he might have come across something rather profound, something to take back to England. The more he thought about it, the more clear it seemed. In the South there was one religion, as in England, one way of life. They evEn allowed the occasional Jew-like Longstreet’s Major Moses, or Judah Benjamin, back in Richmond -but by and large they were all the same nationality, same religion, same customs.

A little rougher, perhaps, but… my word.

Fremantle sat up. Major Clarke was resting, back against a tree. Fremantle said, “I say. Major, Longstreet is an English name, I should imagine.”

Clarke blinked.

”No, as a matter of fact, I don’t think it is.” He pondered. “Dutch, I think. Yes, come to think of it. Dutch all right. Comes from New Jersey, the old Dutch settlements up there.”

”Oh.” Fremantle’s theory had taken a jolt. Well. But Longstreet was an exception. He was not a Virginian.

Fremantle again relaxed. He even began to feel hungry.

The morning moved toward noon.

2. CHAMBERLAIN.

The regiment sat in an open field studded with boulders like half-sunken balls. Small fires burned under a steam-gray sky. Chamberlain wandered, watching, listening. He did not talk; he moved silently among them, hands clasped behind his back, wandering, nodding, soaking in the sounds of voices, tabulating the light in men’s eyes, moving like a forester through a treasured grove, noting the condition of the trees. All his life he had been a detached man, but he was not detached any more. He had grown up in the cold New England woods, the iron dark, grown in contained silence like a lone house on a mountain, and now he was no longer alone; he had joined not only the army but the race, not only the country but mankind. His mother had wanted him to join the church. Now he had his call. He wandered, sensing. Tired men. But ready. Please, God, do not withdraw them now. He saw illness in one face, told the man to report to sick call. One man complained. “Colonel, it keeps raining, these damn Enfields gonna clog on us.

Whyn’t we trade ‘ em for Springfields first chance we get?”

Chamberlain agreed. He saw Bucklin, together with a cold-eyed group from the old Second Maine, nodded good morning, did not stop to talk. A young private asked him, “Sir, is it true that General McClellan is in command again?” Chamberlain had to say no. The private swore.

Chamberlain finished the walk, went back alone to sit under a tree.

He had dreamed of her in the night, dreamed of his wife in a scarlet robe, turning witchlike to love him. Now when he closed his eyes she was suddenly there, hot candy presence. Away from her, you loved her more. The only need was her, she the only vacancy in the steamy morning.

He remembered her letter, the misspelled words: “I lie here dreamyly.” Even the misspelling is lovely.

A mass of men was coming down the road, unarmed, unspiked, no rifles visible: prisoners. They stopped near a long rock ledge, which walled the road. Some of his own troops began drifting over that way, to stare, to chat. They were usually polite to prisoners. The accents fascinated them. Although some of the Regiment were sailing men, most of them had never been out of Maine. Chamberlain thought vaguely of the South. She had loved it. She had been at home. Heat and Spanish moss. Strange hot land of courtly manners and sudden violence, elegance and anger.

A curious mixture: the white-columned houses high on the green hills, the shacks down in the dark valleys. Land of black and white, no grays. The South was a well-bred, well-mannered, highly educated man challenging you to a duel.

She loved it. Dreamyly. She had liked being a professor’s wife. She had been outraged when he went oif to war.

Square-headed Kilrain: “Is the Colonel awake?”

Chamberlain nodded, looking up.

”I have found me a John Henry, sir.”

”John who?”

”A John Henry, sir. A black man. A darky. He’s over thataway.” Kilrain gestured. Chamberlain started to rise.

”I heard him a-groanin’,” Kilrain said, “just before dawn. Would the Colonel care to see him?”

”Lead on.”

Kilrain walked down a grassy slope away from the road, across the soft field, marshy with heavy rain, up a rise of granite to a gathering of boulders along the edge of a grove of dark trees. Chamberlain saw two men standing on a rock ledge, men of the Regiment. Kilrain sprang lightly up the rock. The two men-one was the newcomer, Bucklin- touched their caps and wished him “morning” and grinned and pointed.

The black man lay in the shadow between two round rocks. He was very big and very black. His head was shaved and round and resting on mossy granite. He was breathing slowly and deeply, audibly; his eyes were blinking. He wore a faded red shirt, ragged, dusty, and dark pants ragged around his legs. There were no sleeves in the shirt, and his arms had muscles like black cannonballs. His right arm was cupped across his belly. Chamberlain saw a dark stain, a tear, realized mat the man had been bleeding.

Bucklin was bending over him with a tin cup of coffee in his hand. The black man took a drink. He opened his eyes and the whites of his eyes were red-stained and ugly.

Chamberlain pointed to the wound.

”How bad is that?”

”Oh, not bad,” Kilrain said. “I think he’s bled a lot, but you know, you can’t really tell.”

Bucklin chuckled. “That’s a fact.”

”Bullet wound,” Kilrain said. “Just under the ribs.”

Chamberlain knelt. The black man’s face was empty, inscrutable. The red eyes looked up out of a vast darkness.

Then the man blinked and Chamberlain realized that there was nothing inscrutable here; the man was exhausted.

Chamberlain had rarely seen black men; he was fascinated.

”We’ll get him something to eat, then we’ll get him to a surgeon. Is the bullet still in?”

”Don’t know. Don’t think so. Haven’t really looked.”

Kilrain paused. “He sure is black, and that’s a fact.”

”Did you get his name?”

”He said something I couldn’t understand. Hell, Colonel, I can’t even understand them Johnnies, and I’ve been a long time in this army “ The black man drank more of the coffee, put out both hands and took the cup, drank, nodded, said something incomprehensible.

”Guess he was a servant on the march, took a chance to run away. Guess they shot at him.”

Chamberlain looked at the bald head, the ragged dress. Impossible to tell the age. A young man, at least. No lines around the eyes. Thick-lipped, huge jaw. Look of animal strength. Chamberlain shook his head.

”He wouldn’t be a house servant. Look at his hands.

Field hands.” Chamberlain tried to communicate. The man said something weakly, softly. Chamberlain, who could speak seven languages, recognized nothing. The man said a word that sounded like Baatu, Baatu, and closed his eyes.

”God,” Kilrain said. “He can’t even speak English.”

Bucklin grunted. “Maybe he’s just bad wounded.”

Chamberlain shook his head. “No. I think you’re right. I don’t think he knows the language.”

The man opened his eyes again, looked directly at Chamberlain, nodded his head, grimaced, said again, Baatu, Baatu. Chamberlain said, “Do you suppose that could be ‘thank you’?”

The black man nodded strongly. “Tang oo, tang oo, baas.”

”That’s it.” Chamberlain reached out, patted the man happily on the arm. “Don’t worry, fella, you’ll be all right.” He gestured to Kilrain. “Here, let’s get him up.”

They carried the man down out of the rocks, lay him on open grass. A knot of soldiers gathered. The man pulled himself desperately up on one elbow, looked round in fear.

Kilrain brought some hardtack and bacon and he ate with obvious hunger, but his teeth were bad; he had trouble chewing the hardtack. The soldiers squatted around him curiously. You saw very few black men in New England.

Chamberlain knew one to speak to: a silent round-headed man with a white wife, a farmer, living far out of town, without friends. You saw black men in the cities but they kept to themselves. Chamberlain’s curiosity was natural and friendly, but there was a reserve in it, an unexpected caution. The man was really very black. Chamberlain felt an oddness, a crawly hesitation, not wanting to touch him.

He shook his head, amazed at himself. He saw: palm of the hand almost white; blood dries normally, skin seems dusty.

But he could not tell whether it was truly dust or only a natural sheen of light on hair above black skin. But he felt it again: a flutter of unmistakable revulsion. Fat lips, brute jaw, red-veined eyeballs. Chamberlain stood up. He had not expected this feeling. He had not even known this feeling was there. He remembered suddenly a conversation with a Southerner a long time ago, before the war, a Baptist minister. White complacent face, sense of bland enormous superiority: my dear man, you have to live among them, you simply don’t understand.

Kilrain said, “And this is what it’s all about.”

A soldier said softly, “Poor bastard.”

”Hey, Sarge. How much you figure he’s worth, this one, on the hoof?”

”Funny. Very funny. But they’d give a thousand dollars for him, I bet. Nine hundred for sure.”

”Really? Hell.” It was Bucklin, grinning. “Whyn’t we sell him back and buy outen this army.”

Chamberlain said to Kilrain, “He can’t have been long in this country.”

”No. A recent import, you might say.”

”I wonder how much he knows of what’s happening.”

Kilrain shrugged. A crowd was gathering. Chamberlain said, “Get a surgeon to look at that wound.”

He backed off. He stared at the palm of his own hand. A matter of thin skin. A matter of color. The reaction is instinctive. Any alien thing. And yet Chamberlain was ashamed; he had not known it was there. He thought: If I feel this way, even I, an educated man… what was in God’s mind?

He remembered the minister: and what if it is you who are wrong, after all?

Tom came bubbling up with a message from Vincent: the Corps would move soon, on further orders. Tom was chuckling.

” Lawrence, you want to hear a funny thing? We were talking to these three Reb prisoners, trying to be sociable, you know? But mainly trying to figure ‘ em out. They were farm-type fellers. We asked them why they were fighting this war, thinkin’ on slavery and all, and one fella said they was fightin’ for their ‘rats.’ Hee. That’s what he said.” Tom giggled, grinned. “We all thought they was crazy, but we hadn’t heard a-right. They kept on insistin’ they wasn’t fightin’ for no slaves, they were fighting for their ‘rats.’ It finally dawned on me that what the feller meant was their ‘rights,’ only, the way they talk, it came out ‘rats.’ Hee. Then after that I asked this fella what rights he had that we were offendin’, and he said, well, he didn’t know, but he must have some rights he didn’t know nothin’ about. Now, aint that something?”

”Button your shirt,” Chamberlain said.

”Yassuh, boss. Hey, what we got here?” He moved to see the surrounded black. The surgeon had bent over the man and the red eyes had gone wild with new fear, rolling horse-like, terrified. Chamberlain went away, went back to the coffeepot. He felt a slow deep flow of sympathy. To be alien and alone, among white lords and glittering machines, uprooted by brute force and threat of death from the familiar earth of what he did not even know was Africa, to be shipped in black stinking darkness across an ocean he had not dreamed existed, forced then to work on alien soil, strange beyond belief, by men with guns whose words he could not even comprehend. What could the black man know of what was happening? Chamberlain tried to imagine it. He had seen ignorance, but this was more than that.

What could this man know of borders and states’ rights and the Constitution and Dred Scott? What did he know of the war? And yet he was truly what it was all about. It simplified to that. Seen in the flesh, the cause of the war was brutally clear.

He thought of writing Fanny a quick letter. Dreamyly. He wanted to tell her about the black man. He wanted time to think. But the 83rd Pennsylvania was up and forming. Ellis Spear was coming along the line. It came to Chamberlain suddenly that they might move from here to battle. Under his command. He took a deep breath. Bloody lonely feeling.

He moved back to the cluster around the black man. The shirt was off and Nolan was attending him. The light was stronger; the sun was a blood red ball just over the hills. Chamberlain saw a glistening black chest, massive muscles. The black man was in pain.

Nolan said, “He’ll be all right. Colonel. Bullet glanced off a rib. Cut the skin. Looks just like anybody else inside.”

Nolan clucked in surprise. “Never treated a Negro before. This one’s a tough one. They all got muscles like this one, Colonel?”

”We’ll have to leave him,” Chamberlain said. “Let him have some rations, try to give him directions. Buster, can you talk to him?”

”A little. Found out who shot him. It was some woman in that town there, Gettysburg.”

”A woman?”

”He came into town looking for directions and a woman came out on a porch and shot at him. He don’t understand. I guess she didn’t want to take a chance on being caught with him. But shoot him? Christ. He crawled out here figurin’ on dyin’.”

Chamberlain shook his head slowly.

Kilrain said, “He’s only been in this country a few weeks. He says he’d like to go home. Since now he’s free.”

Bugles were blowing. The men were moving out into formation. Tom came up with the black mare.

”I don’t know what I can do,” Chamberlain said. “Give him some food. Bind him up. Make a good bandage. But I don’t know what else.”

”Which way is home. Colonel?”

”Let’s go. Buster.”

”Do I point him generally east?”

Chamberlain shrugged. He started to moved off, and then he turned, and to the black face looking up, to the red eyes, he looked down and bowed slightly, touching his cap.

”Goodbye, friend. Good luck. God bless you.”

He rode off feeling foolish and angry, placed himself in front of the Regiment.

The Division was forming on level ground, down the road-great square blocks of blue. The colors were unfurled, the lines were dressed. A stillness came over the corps. They were expecting a review, possibly Meade himself. But no one came. Chamberlain sat on his horse, alone in the sun before the ranks of the Twentieth Maine. He heard Tozier behind him: “Dress it up, dress it up,” a muffled complaint, whispers, the far sound of hoofs pawing the ground. His own horse stood quietly, neck down, nibbling Pennsylvania grass. Chamberlain let the mare feed. The day was very hot. He saw a buzzard floating along in the pale blue above, drifting and floating, and he thought of the smell of dead men and chicken hawks swooping down and the only eagle he’d ever seen, in captivity, back in Brewer, a vast wingspread, a murderous eve.

Colonel Vincent came down the line, trailing aides like blue clouds. Chamberlain saluted. Vincent looked very happy.

”We’ll be moving up soon. No action this morning. I expect we’ll be in reserve.”

”Yes, sir.”

”Reserve is the best duty. That means they’ll use us where we’re needed. ‘Once more into the breach.’” He grinned brightly, showing teeth almost womanly white.

”How does that go. Professor?”

Chamberlain smiled politely.

”You spell breach with an ‘a,’ am I right? Thought so.

I’m a Harvard man myself.” Vincent grinned, looked thoughtfully at the Regiment. “Glad you got those extra men. You may need ‘em. How they getting along?”

”Fine.”

Vincent nodded, reached out cheerily, patted Chamberlain on the arm. “You’ll be all right. Colonel. Glad to have you with us. I’m having some beef driven up. If there’s time, we’ll have a good feed tonight in this brigade.”

He was interrupted by bugles, and there it was: Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield. He swung his horse to listen, saw riders approaching, began to move that way.

Over his shoulder he said, “Anything you need. Colonel,” and he rode off.

The call came to advance. Chamberlain turned to face the Regiment. He ordered right shoulder arms; the rifles went up. He drew his sword, turned. Down the line the order came: advance. He gave the long order to Tozier: guide in the next regiment, the 118th Pennsylvania. He raised his sword. They began to move; the whole Corps in mass, at slow march forward through a flat farm, a peach orchard.

He ordered route step. Looking far off down the line, he saw the men moving in a long blue wave, the heart-stopping sight of thousands of men walking silently forward, rifles shouldered and gleaming in the sun, colors bobbing, the officers in front on high-stepping horses. Chamberlain sucked in his breath: marvelous, marvelous. Behind him he could hear men joking, but he could not hear the jokes.

Details of men, in front, were removing white rail fences.

He rode past a house, slowed to let the men flow round it, saw a fat woman in a bonnet, a gray dress, standing on the porch, her hands in her apron. She extracted one hand, waved slowly, silently. Chamberlain bowed. Some of the men wished her good morning. A sergeant apologized for marching through her farm. The Regiment moved on across the open place and through a cornfield and some low bushes. Then there was high ground to the right. The front of the Corps swung to face south, rolled forward down a slope through more cornfields. The corn was high and the men tried not to trample it, but that was not possible. It was becoming a long walk, up and down in the heat, but Chamberlain was not tired. They came to a brook, cold water already very dirty from many men moving upstream.

Chamberlain sent back word that no one was to fall out to fill a canteen; canteen bearers would be appointed. On the far side of the brook they came upon a broad road and the rear of the army. He saw a long line of dark wagons, a band of Provost guards, men gathered in groups around stacked rifles, small fires. To the right there was an artillery park, dozens of guns and caissons and horses. Beyond the road there was a rise of ground, and at that moment, looking upward toward a broad tree on a knoll just above, a tree with huge branches spread wide in the shape of a cup, full and green against a blue sky. Chamberlain heard the first gun, a cannon, a long soft boom of a gun firing a long way off.

A short while later the Corps was stopped. They were told to stop where they were and rest. The men sat in a flat field, an orchard to the left, trees and men everywhere, higher ground in front of them. They waited. Nothing happened. There was the sound of an occasional cannon.

But even the crows nearby were silent. Some of the men began to lie back, to rest. Chamberlain rode briefly off to find out what would happen, but no one knew. When he returned he found himself a place under a tree. It was very hot. He had just closed his eyes when a courier arrived with a message from Meade to read to the troops. Chamberlain gathered them around him in the field, in the sunlight, and read the order.

Hour of decision, enemy on soil. When he came to the part about men who failed to do their duty being punished by instant death, it embarrassed him. The men looked up at him with empty faces. Chamberlain read the order and added nothing, went off by himself to sit down. Damn fool order. Mind of West Point at work.

No time to threaten a man. Not now. Men cannot be threatened into the kind of fight they will have to put up to win. They will have to be led. By you, Joshuway, by you.

Well. Let’s get on with it.

He looked out across the field. The men were sleeping, writing letters. Some of them had staked their rifles bayonet first into the ground and rigged tent cloth across to shade them from the sun. One man had built a small fire and was popping corn. No one was singing.

Kilrain came and sat with him, took off his cap, wiped a sweating red face.

”John Henry’s still with us.” He indicated the woods to the east. Chamberlain looked, did not see the dark head.

”We ought to offer him a rifle,” Kilrain said.

There was a silence. Chamberlain said, “Don’t know what to do for him. Don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

”Don’t guess he’ll ever get home.”

”Guess not.”

”Suppose he’ll wander to a city, Pittsburgh. Maybe New York. Fella can always get lost in a city.”

A cannon thumped far off. A soldier came in from foraging, held a white chicken aloft, grinning.

Kilrain said, “God damn all gentlemen.”

Chamberlain looked: square head, white hair, a battered face, scarred around the eyes like an old fighter. In battle he moved with a crouch, a fanged white ape, grinning. Chamberlain had come to depend on him. In battle men often seemed to melt away, reappearing afterward with tight mirthless grins. But Kilrain was always there, eyes that saw through smoke, eyes that could read the ground.

Chamberlain said suddenly, “Buster, tell me something. What do you think of Negroes?”

Kilrain brooded.

”There are some who are unpopular,” he concluded.

Chamberlain waited.

”Well, if you mean the race, well, I don’t really know.”

He hunched his shoulders. “I have reservations, I will admit. As many a man does. As you well know. This is not a thing to be ashamed of. But the thing is, you cannot judge a race. Any man who judges by the group is a pea-wit. You take men one at a time, and I’ve seen a few blacks that earned my respect. A few. Not many, but a few.”

Chamberlain said, “To me there was never any difference.”

”None at all?”

”None. Of course, I didn’t know that many. But those I knew… well, you looked in the eye and there was a man. There was the divine spark, as my mother used to say. That was all there was to it… all there is to it.”

”Um.”

”We used to have visitors from the South before the war. It was always very polite. I never understood them, but we stayed off the question of slavery until near the end, out of courtesy. But toward the end there was no staying away from it, and there was one time I’ll never forget. There was this minister, a Southern Baptist, and this professor from the University of Virginia. The professor was a famous man, but more than that, he was a good man, and he had a brain.”

”Rare combination.”

”True. Well, we sat drinking tea. Ladies were present. I’ll never forget. He held the tea like this.” Chamberlain extended a delicate finger. “I kept trying to be courteous, but this minister was so damned wrong and moral and arrogant all at the same time that he began to get under my skin. And finally he said, like this: ‘Look here, my good man, you don’t understand.’ There was this tone of voice as if he was speaking to a stupid dull child and he was being patient, but running out of patience. Then he said, ‘You don’t understand. You have to live with the Negro to understand. Let me put it this way. Suppose I kept a fine stallion in one of my fields, and suddenly one of your Northern abolitionists came up and insisted I should free it. Well, sir, I would not be more astonished. I feel exactly that way about my blacks, and I resent your lack of knowledge, sir.’” Kilrain grunted. Chamberlain said, “I remember him sitting there, sipping tea. I tried to point out that a man is not a horse, and he replied, very patiently, that that was the thing I did not understand, that a Negro was not a man. Then I left the room.”

Kilrain smiled. Chamberlain said slowly, “I don’t really understand it. Never have. The more I think on it the more it horrifies me. How can they look in the eyes of a man and make a slave of him and then quote the Bible? But then right after that, after I left the room, the other one came to see me, the professor. I could see he was concerned, and I respected him, and he apologized for having offended me in my own home.”

”Oh yes.” Kilrain nodded. “He would definitely do that.”

”But then he pointed out that he could not apologize for his views, because they were honestly held. And I had to see he was right there. Then he talked to me for a while, and he was trying to get through to me, just as I had tried with the minister. The difference was that this was a brilliant man. He explained that the minister was a moral man, kind to his children, and that the minister believed every word he said, just as I did, and then he said, ‘My young friend, what if it is you who are wrong?’ I had one of those moments when you feel that if the rest of the world is right, then you yourself have gone mad. Because I was really thinking of killing him, wiping him off the earth, and it was then I realized for the first time that if it was necessary to kill them, then I would kill them, and something at the time said: you cannot be utterly right. And there is still something every now and then which says, ‘Yes, but what if you are wrong?’ “ Chamberlain stopped. A shell burst dimly a long way off, a dull and distant thumping.

They sat for a long while in silence, then Kilrain said, softly smiling, “Colonel, you’re a lovely man.” He shook his head. “I see at last a great difference between us, and yet, I admire ye, lad. You’re an idealist, praise be.”

Kilrain rubbed his nose, brooding. Then he said, “The truth is. Colonel, that there’s no divine spark, bless you. There’s many a man alive no more value than a dead dog. Believe me, when you’ve seen them hang each other… Equality? Christ in Heaven. What I’m fighting for is the right to prove I’m a better man than many. Where have you seen this divine spark in operation, Colonel? Where have you noted this magnificent equality? The Great White Joker in the Sky dooms us all to stupidity or poverty from birth. No two things on earth are equal or have an equal chance, not a leaf nor a tree. There’s many a man worse than me, and some better, but I don’t think race or country matters a damn. What matters is justice. ‘Tis why I’m here. I’ll be treated as I deserve, not as my father deserved. I’m Kilrain, and I God damn all gentlemen. I don’t know who me father was and I don’t give a damn. There’s only one aristocracy, and that’s right here-“ he tapped his white skull with a thick finger-“and you, Colonel laddie, are a member of it and don’t even know it. You are damned good at everything I’ve seen you do, a lovely soldier, an honest man, and you got a good heart on you too, which is rare in clever men.

Strange thing, I’m not a clever man meself, but I know it when I run across it. The strange and marvelous thing about you. Colonel darlin’, is that you believe in mankind, even preachers, whereas when you’ve got my great experience of the world you will have learned that good men are rare, much rarer than you think. Ah-“ he raised his hands, smiling-“don’t you worry about ministers. The more you kill, the more you do the world a service.” He chuckled, rubbing his face. His nose was fat and soft, rippling under his fingers.

Chamberlain said, “What has been done to the black is a terrible thing.”

”True. From any point of view. But your freed black will turn out no better than many the white that’s fighting to free him. The point is that we have a country here where the past cannot keep a good man in chains, and that’s the nature of the war. It’s the aristocracy I’m after. All that lovely, plumed, stinking chivalry. The people who look at you like a piece of filth, a coachroach, ah.” His face twitched to stark bitterness. “I tell you. Colonel, we got to win this war.” He brooded. “What will happen, do you think, if we lose? Do you think the country will ever get back together again?”

”Doubt it. Wound it too deep. The differences… If they win there’ll be two countries, like France and Germany in Europe, and the border will be armed. Then there’ll be a third country in the West, and that one will be the balance of power.” Kilrain sat moodily munching on a blade of grass. More cannons thumped; the dull sound rolled among the hills.

Kilrain said, “They used to have signs on tavern doors: Dogs and Irishmen keep out. You ever see them signs, Colonel?”

”They burned a Catholic church up your way not long ago. With some nuns in it.”

”Yes.”

”There was a divine spark.”

Chamberlain grinned, shook his head. Kilrain turned away. Chamberlain sat for a while silently and then took out a copy of Harper’s Weekly he’d carried up with him and began to look through it. There was an article by a general from Argentina concerning the use of Negro troops. He said that they fought very well, with training.

Chamberlain’s nose wrinkled. The world around him grew silent; there was something in the air. The odor of dead meat came down on the wind, drifting through the trees. Soft and sour, the smell of distant death. It passed like an invisible cloud. Kilrain said, “Make you a little wager, Colonel. We’ll sit here all day and in the evening we’ll march away again.” He lay back. “So I might’s well get some rest.”

Chamberlain moved back against a tree. He was not tired. He closed his eyes, saw a sudden shocking memory of death, torn flaps of skin, the black rotted meat of muscle.

Kilrain said sleepily, “I bet nothing happens today.”

But Chamberlain knew. He was certain. He looked toward the odor of death. Still early in the day. Long time until nightfall. They’ll come. He could not relax. But what if it is you who are wrong? But I am not wrong. Thank God for that. If I were an officer for them, on the other side, what would I be feeling now?

The cannon had stilled. The old soldier was popping corn: pop pop poppity pop.

Chamberlain put down the paper, folded his arms.

Waited.

3. LONGSTREET.

They had taken a door from its hinges at the Thompson house and placed it across fence rails to serve as a map table. Lee stood above it with his arms folded behind him, staring down. Although the morning was warm and humid his coat was buttoned at the throat, his face pale. He put one hand down, drummed on the map, shook his head, then turned abruptly and walked off to the edge of the trees to look toward Cemetery Hill.

Longstreet sat gazing at the map, fixing it in his mind.

Johnston and Clarke had scouted the Union position and it was drawn now on the map in blue ink. Longstreet looked down at the map and then up at the hazy blue ridge in the east, trying to orient himself.

There were two hills beyond Gettysburg: first Cemetery Hill and beyond that Gulp’s Hill. The Union Army had dug in along the crest of both hills, in a crescent. From the two hills ran a long ridge, like the shaft of a fishhook, Cemetery Ridge, sloping gradually down to the south to two more hills, one rocky and bare, the other high and thickly wooded. Meade had put troops along the ridge so that his position was shaped like the fishhook, but there were no troops yet on the rocky hills.

Longstreet sat alone, a forbidding figure. He was thinking: Lee has made up his mind; there’s nothing you can do.

Well. Then there will be a scrap. He took a deep breath.

Ought to get something to eat.

”General?”

He looked down, saw the handsome face of Taylor, Lee’s aide.

”General Lee wishes to speak to you, sir.”

Lee was up on the rise by the Seminary, walking back and forth under the shade trees. Officers sat quietly by, joking softly, respectfully with each other, keeping an eye on the old man walking back and forth, back and forth, stopping to stare at the eastern hills, the eastern haze. Longstreet came up.

”General,” Lee said.

Longstreet grunted. There was bright heat in Lee’s eyes, like fever. Longstreet felt a shudder of alarm.

Lee said, “I like to go into battle with the agreement of my commanders, as far as possible, as you know. We are all members of his army, in a common cause.”

Longstreet waited.

”I understand your position,” Lee said. “I did not want this fight but I think it was forced upon us. As the war was.” He added, “As the war was.” He stopped and frowned, put up his fingers and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said. He gestured toward the north, toward Ewell. “General Ewell has changed his mind about attacking to the left. He insists the enemy is too firmly entrenched and has been heavily reinforced in the night.

I’ve been over there personally. I tend to agree with him.

There are elements of at least three Union corps occupying those hills.”

Longstreet waited. Lee had been over to the left, through Gettysburg, to inspect Ewell’s position, but he had not been to the right to check on Longstreet. It was a measure of his trust, and Longstreet knew it.

”I spoke to Ewell of your suggestion that he move around to the right. Both he and Early were opposed.”

”Early.” Longstreet grimaced, spat.

”Yes.” Lee nodded. “Both Generals were of the opinion that an attack on the right would draw off Union forces and that they would then be able to take the hills. They insist that withdrawing from Gettysburg, giving it back to the enemy, would be bad for morale, is unnecessary, and might be dangerous.”

Lee looked at him, the deep-set eyes still bright, still hot, still questing. Longstreet said nothing.

”You disagree,” Lee said.

Longstreet shrugged. He had disagreed last night, had argued all morning, but now he was setting his mind to it.

The attack would come.

”We must attack,” General Lee said forcefully. “We must attack. I would rather not have done it upon this ground, but every moment we delay the enemy uses to reinforce himself. We cannot support ourselves in this country. We cannot let him work around behind us and cut us off from home. We must hit him now. We pushed him yesterday; he will remember it. The men are ready. I see no alternative.”

”Yes, sir,” Longstreet said. He wants me to agree. But I cannot agree. Let’s get on with it.

Lee waited for a moment, but Longstreet said nothing, and the silence lengthened until at last Lee said, “You will attack on the right with the First Corps.”

Longstreet nodded. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was beginning to relax inside, like an unclenching fist. Now that you knew for sure it was coming a man could rest a bit.

”I want you to attack en echelon, to take Cemetery Hill in reverse. Hill will support you with Pender and Anderson.

Heth’s Division will be in reserve. It had a hard day yesterday. Ewell’s people will demonstrate, to keep them from reinforcing against you.”

”All right,” Longstreet said. “But I don’t have Pickett. I have only Hood and McLaws.”

Lee said, “You will have to go in without him.”

Longstreet said stubbornly, “Law’s Brigade is still coming up. I must have Law.”

”How long will that take?”

”At least another hour.”

”All right.” Lee nodded. His head bobbed tightly; he was blinking.

”It will take time to position the men, the artillery.”

”At your discretion. General.”

”Sir.” Longstreet bowed slightly.

”Let us go to the map.” Lee turned back toward the table. “I am suspicious of written orders since that affair at Sharpsburg.”

Back at the map table men waited for them expectantly.

Someone told a joke; there was a ripple of laughter. Lee did not seem to notice.

McLaws and Hood were at a table, along with A. P. Hill. Hill had looked well in the morning, but he did not look well now. Lee bent down over the map. He said, “You will attack up at Emmitsburg Road, up Cemetery Ridge, passing in front of the Rocky Hill. Your objective will be to get in the rear of the Union Army.”

McLaws bent over the map. He was a patient man, stubborn and slow, not brilliant, but a dependable soldier.

He had a deep streak of sloppy sentimentality to him and he loved to sit around fires singing sad songs of home. He tended to be a bit pompous at times, but he was reliable.

Lee said to McLaws, “Well, General, do you think you can carry this line?”

McLaws shrugged, glanced briefly at Longstreet. He was well aware of Longstreet’s theory of defensive tactics. He said pontifically, “Well, sir, I know of nothing to prevent my taking that line, but then, of course, I haven’t seen it myself. I wouldn’t mind taking out a line of skirmishers to reconnoiter the position.”

”Unnecessary,” Longstreet said. “Waste of time. We’ve had scouts out all morning. Let’s get on with it, General. I don’t want you to leave your Division.”

McLaws looked to Lee. Lee nodded.

”Yes. Well, we will step off in echelon, from right to left.

Ewell will wait until he hears your artillery. The left of your advance will be on the Emmitsburg Road. Your right will sweep under those rocky heights.”

”We’ll have enfilade fire coming down on us.”

”Not for long,” Lee said. “You’ll be up over the ridge and take them in the rear. When you are heavily engaged, Ewell will take them in front.”

Longstreet nodded. It might work. Heavy loss, but it might work.

Hood, who had been silent, said suddenly, softly, “General Lee?”

They turned to face him. Lee considered him a fine tactician, and more than that. Hood was a man you listened to. He said, in that soft voice, “General, I’d like to send one brigade around those rocky heights. I think I can get into their wagon trains back there.”

Lee shook his head quickly, raised a hand as if warding him off.

”Let’s concentrate. General, concentrate. I can’t risk losing a brigade.”

Hood said nothing, glanced at Longstreet. McLaws was not quite sure where to post his Division. They discussed that for a while, and then explained it to Hill. Longstreet turned suddenly to Sorrel, who was standing by.

”Major, I need something to eat.”

”To eat, sir? Of course, sir. What would you like, sir?”

”Marching food,” Longstreet said, “I don’t give a damn what.”

Sorrel moved off. Longstreet looked up and saw Harry Heth, a white bandage on his head, standing weakly by a tree, looking down vacantly to the map table, trying to comprehend.

”How are you. Harry?” Longstreet said.

Heth turned, squinted, blinked. “I’m fine,” he said.

”What’s happening? Are you going to attack? Where’s my Division?”

Lee said, “Your Division will not fight today. General. I want you to rest.” There was that tone in his voice, that marvelous warmth, that made them all look not at Heth but at Lee, the gray beard, the dark-eyed, the old man, the fighter.

”Sir, I’m fine,” Heth said. But he could not even stand without the hand on the tree.

Lee smiled. “Of course, sir. But I would rather you rested. We will soon be needing you.” He turned back to the table. “Gentlemen?” he said.

They moved out. Alexander was off to place the artillery.

McLaws moved out to join his Division. Hood walked for a moment at Longstreet’s side.

”We marched all night,” Hood said. “Took a two hour break, from two A.M. to four, then marched again to get here.”

”I know,” Longstreet said.

”Law’s people will come even farther, with no rest. It’s twenty-four miles to Guilford. He left at three A.M. When he gets here he’ll be pretty tired.” Hood squinted at the sun.

”Not that it makes much difference, I guess. But one thing, General. Everybody here’s had first crack at the water. I want to round some up for Law’s boys when they arrive. They’ll be thirsty, wells may be dry.”

”See to it,” Longstreet said. “Any way you can.” He paused, watched the men around him moving into motion, men mounting on horses, cannon moving past and swinging into position, the artillery people beginning to dig trenches alongside the guns. He said, “Your idea of moving to the right was sound, but his mind was set. Well, we’ll do what we can.” He turned. At moments like this it was difficult to look a man in the eye. He put out his hand.

”Well, Sam, let’s go to it. Take care of yourself.”

Hood took the hand, held it for a moment. Sometimes you touched a man like this and it was the last time, and the next time you saw him he was cold and white and bloodless and the warmth was gone forever.

Hood said, “And you, Pete.” He walked away, thin, awkward, long bony strides. Longstreet thought: Best soldier in the army. If it can be done, he will do it. He and Pickett. My two. Oh God, there’s not enough of them. We have to spend them like gold, in single pieces. Once they’re gone, there will be no more.

Sorrel appeared with a tin plate, a steaming slab of meat.

”What’s that?” Longstreet sniffed.

”Bit of steak, sir. Compliments of Major Moses.”

Longstreet picked it up in his fingers, too hot, sucked the ends of his fingers: delicious.

”Major Moses thought you wanted fighting food, sir.”

Longstreet ate with slow delight. Hot food for a hot day.

Will be much hotter later on.

Longstreet moved toward his command. The corps was to be led into position by Lee’s engineer. Captain Johnston, who had scouted the area this morning. Lee had gone off to see Ewell, to explain the attack to him. Longstreet told Johnston, “Time doesn’t matter here. What matters is surprise. We must go on unobserved. We’re hitting them on the flank. If they see us coming they’ll have time to swing round their artillery and it’ll be a damn slaughter. So you take your time. Captain, but I don’t want us observed.”

Johnston saluted, his face strained. “Sir,” he said, “may I make a point?”

”Make away.”

”General Lee has ordered me to conduct you to the field. But, sir, I scouted the Union position this morning, not the roads leading to it. I don’t know much more about how to get there than you do.”

Longstreet sighed. Stuart’s fault. If there were cavalry here, the roads and routes would be known. Longstreet said, “All right. Captain. But anything you know is more than I know.”

”But, sir. General Lee is giving me responsibility for an entire corps.” Johnston sweated.

”I know, Captain. It’s a weight, isn’t it? Well. You lead on as best you can. If you get nervous, call. But I don’t want us observed.”

”Yes, sir, very good, sir.” He rode off.

Longstreet took out a treasured cigar, lighted it, chomped it. Stuart. He ought to be court-martialed.

Would you do it? Court-martial Stuart?

Yes, I would.

Seriously? Or are you just talking?

Longstreet thought a moment. Lee wouldn’t. Lee won’t.

But I would.

The long march began at around noon, the sun high in a cloudless sea of burning haze. A messenger came in from Law: he had joined Hood’s column back at Willoughby Run. A superb march. Longstreet sent his compliments, hoped Hood got him the water. On little things like that-a cup of water-battles were decided. Generalship? How much of a factor is it, really?

He rode in the dust of a blazing road, brooding in his saddle. The hot meat had fired him. He rode alone, and then there was cheering behind him, raw, hoarse cheering from dusty throats, and there was Lee-the old man with the slight smile, the eyes bright with new vigor, revived, the fight coming up to warm him like sunrise.

”General.” Longstreet touched his cap.

”You don’t mind if I accompany you?” Lee said in the gravely formal gentleman’s way.

Longstreet bowed. “Glad to have you with us.” There was a peculiar hilarity in Longstreet’s breast, the mulish foolish hungry feeling you get just before an assault. There was a certain wild independence in the air, blowing like a hot wind inside his head. He felt an absurd impulse to josh old Lee, to pat him on the back and ruffle the white hair and tell immoral stories. He felt foolish, fond and hungry. Lee looked at him and abruptly smiled, almost a grin, a sudden light blazing in black round eyes.

”Heat reminds me of Mexico,” Longstreet said. Visions of those days rolled and boiled: white smoke blowing through broken white buildings, wild-haired Pickett going over the wall, man’s face with pools of dirt in the eyes, sky wheeling in black blotches, silver blotches, after the wound. Lieutenant Longstreet: for distinguished service on the field of battle…

”Yes, but there it was very dry.” Lee squinted upward.

”And I believe it was warmer. Yes, it was undoubtedly warmer.”

”That was a good outfit. There were some very good men in that outfit.”

”Yes,” Lee said.

”Some of them are up ahead now, waiting for us.”

And the past flared again in Longstreet’s mind, and the world tilted, and for a moment they were all one army again, riding with old friends through the white dust toward Chapultepec. And then it was past. He blinked, grimaced, looked at Lee. The old man was gazing silently ahead into the rising dust.

”It troubles me sometimes,” Longstreet said. His mind rang a warning, but he went on grimly, as you ride over rocks. “They’re never quite the enemy, those boys in blue.”

”I know,” Lee said.

”I used to command those boys,” Longstreet said.

”Difficult thing to fight men you used to command.”

Lee said nothing.

”Swore an oath too,” Longstreet said. He shook his head violently. Strange thought to have, at the moment. “I must say, there are times when I’m troubled. But… couldn’t fight against home. Not against your own family. And yet… we broke the vow.” Lee said, “Let’s not think on this today.”

”Yes,” Longstreet said. There was a moment of dusty silence. He grumbled to himself: why did you start that? Why talk about that now? Damn fool.

Then Lee said, “There was a higher duty to Virginia. That was the first duty. There was never any doubt about that.”

”Guess not,” Longstreet said. But we broke the vow.

Lee said, “The issue is in God’s hands. We will live with His decision, whichever way it goes.”

Longstreet glanced at the dusty face, saw a shadow cross the eyes like a passing wing. Lee said, “I pray it will be over soon.”

”Amen,” Longstreet said.

They rode for a while in silence, a tiny island in the smoky stream of marching men. Then Lee said slowly, in a strange, soft, slow tone of voice, “Soldiering has one great trap.”

Longstreet turned to see his face. Lee was riding slowly ahead, without expression. He spoke in that same slow voice.

”To be a good soldier you must love the army. But to be a good officer you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love. This is… a very hard thing to do. No other profession requires it. That if one reason why there are so very few good officers. Although there are many good men.”

Lee rarely lectured. Longstreet sensed a message beyond it. He waited. Lee said, “We don’t fear our own deaths, you and I.” He smiled slightly, then glanced away. “We protect ourselves out of military necessity, not fear. You, sir, do not protect yourself enough and must give thought to it. I need you. But the point is, we are afraid to die. We are prepared for our own deaths and for the deaths of comrades. We learn that at the Point. But I have seen this happen: We are not prepared for as many deaths as we have to face, inevitably as the war goes on. There comes a time…”

He paused. He had been gazing straight ahead, away from Longstreet. Now, black-eyed, he turned back, glanced once quickly into Longstreet’s eyes, then looked away.

”We are never prepared for so many to die. So you understand? No one is. We expect some chosen few. We expect an occasional empty chair, a toast to dear departed comrades. Victory celebrations for most of us, a hallowed death for a few. But the war goes on. And the men die. The price gets ever higher. Some officers… can pay no longer. We are prepared to lose some of us.” He paused again. “But never all of us. Surely not all of us. But… that is the trap. You can hold nothing back when you attack. You must commit yourself totally. And yet, if they all die, a man must ask himself, will it have been worth it?”

Longstreet felt a coldness down his spine. He had never heard Lee speak this way. He had not known Lee thought of this kind of thing. He said, “You think I feel too much for the men.”

”Oh no,” Lee shook his head quickly. “Not too much. I did not say ‘too much’.” But I… was just speaking.”

Longstreet thought: Possibly? But his mind said: No. It is not that. That’s the trap all right, but it’s not my trap. Not yet. But he thinks I love the men too much. He thinks that’s where all the talk of defense comes from. My God… But there’s no time.

Lee said, “General, you know, I’ve not been well lately.”

That was so unlike him that Longstreet turned to stare. But the face was calm, composed, watchful. Longstreet felt a rumble of unexpected affection. Lee said, “I hope my illness has not affected my judgment. I rely on you always to tell me the truth as you see it.”

”Of course.”

”No matter how much I disagree.”

Longstreet shrugged.

”I want this to be the last battle,” Lee said. He took a deep breath. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, as if to confide something terribly important. “You know, General, under this beard I’m not a young man.”

Longstreet chuckled, grumbled, rubbed his nose.

A courier came toiling down the dusty lane, pushing his horse through the crowded troops. The man rode to Lee. In this army Lee was always easy to find. The courier, whom Longstreet did not recognize, saluted, then for some unaccountable reason took off his hat, stood bareheaded in the sun, yellow hair plastered wetly all over his scalp.

”Message from General Hood, sir.”

”Yes.” Politely, Lee waited.

”The General says to tell you that the Yankees are moving troops up on the high Rocky Hill, the one to the right. And there’s a signal team up there.” Lee nodded, gave his compliments.

”That was to be expected. Tell General Hood that General Meade might have saved himself the trouble. We’ll have that hill before night.”

The courier put his hat back on and rode off. They rode on for a while in silence. Then Lee halted abruptly in the center of the road. He said, “I suppose I should be getting back. I’ll only be in your way.”

”Not at all,” Longstreet said. But it was Lee’s practice to back off, once the fight had begun, and let the commanders handle it. He could see that Lee was reluctant to go. Gradually it dawned on him that Lee was worried for him.

”You know,” Lee said slowly, looking eastward again, toward the heights, “when I awoke this morning I half thought he’d be gone, General Meade, that he would not want to fight here. When I woke up I thought, yes, Meade will be gone, and Longstreet will be happy, and then I can please Old Pete, my war-horse.”

”We’ll make him sorry he stayed.” Longstreet grinned.

”They fought well yesterday. Meredith’s brigade put up a fine fight. They will fight well again today.”

Longstreet smiled. “We’ll see,” he said.

Lee put out a hand. Longstreet took it. The grip no longer quite so firm, the hand no longer quite so large.

”God go with you,” Lee said. It was like a blessing from a minister. Longstreet nodded. Lee rode off.

Now Longstreet was alone. And now he felt a cold depression. He did not know why. He chewed another cigar.

The army ahead halted. He rode past waiting men, gradually began to become annoyed. He looked up and saw Captain Johnston riding back, his face flushed and worried.

”General,” Johnston said, “I’m sorry, but if we go on down this road the enemy will view us.”

Longstreet swore. He began to ride ahead, saw Joe Kershaw ahead, on horseback, waiting with his South Carolina Brigade. Longstreet said, “Come on, Joe, let’s see what’s up.”

They rode together, Johnston following, across a road crossing from east to west. On the north comer there was a tavern, deserted, the door open into a black interior. Beyond the tavern was a rise-Herr Ridge, Johnston said, a continuation of the ridge leading out from town, facing Seminary Ridge about a mile away, not two miles from the Rocky Hill. Longstreet rode up from under a clump of trees into the open. In front of him was a broad green field at least half a mile wide, spreading eastward. To the south loomed the Rocky Hill, gray boulders clearly visible along the top, and beyond it the higher eminence of the Round Hill. Any march along here would be clearly visible to troops on that hill. Longstreet swore again.

”Damn!” he roared, then abruptly shut his mouth.

Johnston said worriedly, “General, I’m sorry.”

Longstreet said, “But you’re dead right. We’ll have to find another road.” He turned to Kershaw. “Joe, we’re turning around. I’m taking over as guide. Send somebody for my staff.”

Sorrel and Goree were coming up, then Osmun Latrobe.

Longstreet outlined the change: both Divisions would have to stop where they were and turn around. Longstreet rode gloomily back along the line. God, how long a delay would there be? It was after one now. Lee’s attack was en echelon.

That took a long time. Well, we’ll get this right in a hurry.

He sent Sorrel to Lee with word of the change of direction.

Then he scouted for a new path. He rode all the way back to the Cashtown Road, getting madder and madder as he rode.

If Stuart had appeared at that moment Longstreet would have arrested him.

To save time, he ordered the brigades to double the line of march. But time was passing. There was a flurry over near the center. Longstreet sent Goree to find out what was happening and it turned out to be nothing much-skirmish of pickets in Anderson’s front.

They marched, seventeen thousand men, their wagons, their artillery. Captain Johnston was shattered; it was all his fault. Longstreet propped him up. If it was anybody’s fault, it was Stuart’s. But it was maddening. He found a new route along Willoughby Run, followed it down through the dark woods. At least it was out of the sun. Most of these men had marched all the day before and all the night and they were fading visibly, lean men, hollow-eyed, falling out to stare whitely at nothing as you passed, and they were expected to march now again and fight at the end of it. He moved finally out through the woods across country in the general direction he knew had to be right and so came at last within sight of that gray tower, that damned rocky hill, but they were under cover of the trees along Seminary Ridge and so there ought to be at least some semblance of surprise. Sorrel rode back and forth with reports to Lee, who was becoming steadily more unnerved, and Sorrel had a very bad habit of being a bit too presumptuous on occasion, and finally Longstreet turned in his saddle and roared, “Sorrel, God damn it! Everybody has his pace. This is mine.”

Sorrel retreated to a distance. Longstreet would not be hurried. He placed Hood to the right, then McLaws before him. Anderson’s Division of Hill’s Corps should be next in line. The soldiers were still moving into line when McLaws was back. He was mildly confused.

”General, I understood General Lee to say that the enemy would be up on the ridge back there and we would attack across the road and up the ridge.”

Longstreet said, “That’s correct.”

McLaws hummed, scratched his face.

”Well?” Longstreet said ominously.

”Well, the enemy’s right in front of me. He’s dug in just across that road. He’s all over that peach orchard.”

Longstreet took out his glasses, rode that way, out into the open, looked. But this was a poor point, low ground; there was brush country ahead and he could not see clearly.

He began to ride forward. He heard the popping of rifle fire to the north. Nothing much, not yet. But then there was the whine of a bullet in the air, here and past, gone away, death sliding through the air a few feet above him, disappearing behind him. Longstreet grunted. Sniper? From where? He scanned the brush. God knows. Can’t worry now. He rode to a rail fence, stared down a slope, saw a battery a long way off, down in flat ground beyond the peach orchard.

Blue troops, speckled a long fence. He could see them moving rails.

Behind him, McLaws said, “Lot of them.”

Longstreet looked up toward the ridge. But he could make out nothing at all. You don’t suppose… they moved down here? Forward, off the ridge? How many? You don’t suppose a whole Corps?

He looked around, spied Fairfax, sent him off with word to Lee.

McLaws said, “What now?”

”Same plan. You hit them. Hood goes first. You key on his last Brigade. That will be G. T. Anderson.”

”Right.”

Longstreet was running low on aides. He found Goree, sent him off to Hood, telling him to send vedettes ahead to scout the ground. There was not a cavalryman near, not one horse. Longstreet swore. But he was feeling better. Any minute now it would all begin. All hell would break loose and then no more worrying and fretting and fuming; he’d hit straight up that road with everything he had. Never been afraid of that. Never been afraid to lose it all if necessary.

Longstreet knew himself. There was no fear there. The only fear was not of death, was not of the war, was of blind stupid human frailty, of blind proud foolishness that could lose it all. He was thinking very clearly now. Mind seemed to uncloud like washed glass. Everything cool and crystal.

He glanced at his watch. Getting on toward four o’clock.

Good God. Lee’s echelon plan would never work. Send messenger to Lee. Let’s all go in together. The hell with a plan.

But no messenger was available. A moment later one of Hood’s boys found him, riding slowly forward, watching McLaws moving into position.

”Sir, message from General Hood. He says his scouts have moved to the right, says there’s nothing there. Nothing between us and the Federal train. He suggests most urgently we move around the big hill there and take them from the rear.”

Longstreet sighed. “Sonny boy,” he said patiently, disgustedly, “you go back and tell Sam that I been telling General Lee that same damn thing for two days, move to the right, and there aint no point in bringing it up again. Tell him to attack as ordered.”

The young scout saluted and was gone. Longstreet sat alone. And there was happy-eyed Fremantle, dirty and cheery on a ragged horse. He seemed never to change his clothes.

”General, are things about to commence?”

”They are indeed.” Longstreet grinned. “I suggest you find a convenient tree.”

”I will, oh, I will indeed.” He turned, pulling the horse away, then turned back. “Oh, sir, I say, best of luck.”

”Charming,” Longstreet said.

Barksdale’s Brigade, Mississippians, was passing him, moving into line. He watched them place all extra baggage, all blankets, all kitbags, and post one lone guard-a frail young man who looked genuinely ill, who sagged against the fence. Longstreet approached and saw that the corn-silk hair was not young, not young at all. The frail young man was a gaunt man with white hair. And he was ill. He opened red eyes, stared vaguely upward.

”Howdy, General,” he said. He smiled feebly.

Longstreet said, “Can I get you anything?”

The old man shook his head. He gasped. “Aint nothin’ serious. Damn green apples. Damn Yankee apples.” He clutched his stomach. Longstreet grinned, moved on.

He saw Barksdale from a long way off. The famous politician had his hat off and was waving it wildly and his white hair was flowing and bobbing, conspicuous, distinguished. Longstreet was fond of this Brigade. Privately he thought it the best in McLaws’ whole Division, but of course he couldn’t say so. But everybody knew Mississippi was tough. What was it that old man said back in Chambersburg? “You men of Virginia are gentlemen. But those people from Mississippi.” Longstreet grinned. Another fella had said the same thing about Hood’s Texans.

The joke about breastworks. Oh God, let’s go.

The same officer, back from Hood. The face was wary, the voice was firm, “General Hood begs to report, sir, that the enemy has his left flank in the air. He requests your presence, sir, or that of General Lee. He begs to inform you that in his opinion it would be most unwise to attack up the Emmitsburg Road. The ground is very bad and heavily defended. Whereas if we move to the rear, sir, there is no defense all. The enemy has uncovered the Rocky Hill.”

Longstreet said, “Tell General Hood…” Then he thought: they uncovered the Rocky Hill. McLaws has troops in front of him. Good God. They aren’t back on the ridge at all; they’ve moved forward. He took out the map he had drawn of the position, tried to visualize it.

The Union Army was supposed to be up on the ridge. But it wasn’t. It was down in the peach orchard.

He stared at the map again.

So Hood had found an opening to the right. Of course.

Longstreet stared again at his watch. Almost four. Lee was miles away. If I go to him now… He saw again the grave gray face, the dark reproachful eyes. Too late.

Well, Longstreet thought. Lee wants a frontal assault. I guess he’ll have one. He turned to the messenger.

”Tell General Hood to attack as ordered.”

McLaws and Barksdale came up together. Barksdale was breathing deeply, face pale, ready for the fight. He said, “When do we go in?”

”In a while, in a while.”

There was a cannon to the right. The beginning? No. Hood was probing with his batteries. Longstreet extracted another cigar. The supply was low. Calmly he told Goree to go get some more. He looked up to see Harry Sellars. Hood’s AG. Longstreet thought: Sellars is a good man, the best he has. Hood’s trying to impress me. The cannon boomed. Sellars started talking. Longstreet said gently, “Harry, I’m sorry.”

Sellars said, his voice touched with desperation, “General, will you look at the ground? We can’t even mount artillery.”

”All right.” Longstreet decided to ride with him. Time was running out. Even now, if Lee attacked en echelon, some of the brigades could not attack before dark, unless everything went very smoothly, and it would not go smoothly, not today. Longstreet rode, listening to Sellars, thinking: when you study war it’s all so clear. Everybody knows all the movements. General So and So should have done such and such. God knows we all try. We none of us lose battles on purpose. But now on this field what can we do that’s undone?

He came on Hood, preparing to move out. There was something rare in his face; a light was shining from his eyes. Longstreet had heard men talk of Hood’s face in a fight, but he had not seen it; the fight had not yet begun. But Hood’s eyes, normally so soft and sad, were wide and black as round coals, shining with a black heat.

Hood said, “General, the ground is strewn with boulders.

They are dug in all over the ground and there are guns in the rocks above. Every move I make is observed. If I attack as ordered I will lose half my Division, and they will still be looking down our throats from that hill. We must move to the right.”

Longstreet said nothing. He looked down; through thick woods he could begin to see the boulders, great boulders tall as houses, piled one upon another like the wreckage of a vast explosion.

Hood said, “How can you mount cannon in that?”

Longstreet: “Sam…” He shook his head. He thought of it again. No. Too late. I cannot go against Lee. Not again. He said, “Sam, the Commanding General will not approve a move to the right. I argued it yesterday. I argued it all morning. Hell, I’ve been arguing against any attack at all. How can I call this one off? We have our orders. Go on in. We’re waiting on you.”

Hood stared at him with the black round eyes. Longstreet felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. They’re all going in to die. But he could say nothing. Hood stared at him.

Hood: “Let me move to the right, up the Round Hill. If I could get a battery up there…”

Longstreet shook his head. “Not enough time. You’d have to cut trees; it would be dark before you were in action.”

But he was staring upward at the top of the Rocky Hill.

Everywhere you went, that damned hill looked down on you. The key to the position. Once they got a battery up there. Longstreet said, “You’re going to have to take that hill.”

He pointed.

Hood said, “They don’t even need rifles to defend that. All they need to do is roll rocks down on you.”

Longstreet said, “But you’re going to have to take it.”

”General, I do this under protest.”

Longstreet nodded. Hood turned. His staff was waiting.

He began issuing orders in a low voice. Longstreet backed away. Hood saluted and rode off. Longstreet rode back toward McLaws.

Goodbye, Sam. You’re right. You’re the best I’ve got. If I lose you, I don’t know what I’ll do. God bless you, Sam.

Longstreet was rattled. Never been this rattled in a fight.

But the guns began and the sound livened him. We’ll brood later. We’ll count the dead and brood later. With any luck at all… but did you see those rocks?

He rode out into the open. That damned rocky hill stood off to his right, overlooking the field. That they should leave it uncovered was incredible. He saw motion: signal flags?

Something was up there. Not a battery, not yet. The fire of Hood was spreading. The first brigade had hit. There was no wind now, the air all dead around him. Hood’s smoke stayed where it was, then slowly, very slowly, like a huge ghost, the white cloud came drifting gracefully up the ridge, clinging to the trees, drifting and tearing. The second brigade was following. The fire grew. Longstreet moved to where McLaws and Barksdale were standing together.

Wofford had come up.

They all stood together, waiting. The old man who was guarding the clothing of that one Mississippi regiment was asleep against the rail fence, his mouth open. Longstreet rode forward with Barksdale. The man was eager to go in.

McLaws moved back and forth, checking the line.

There were woods in front of them, to the left a gray farmhouse. The men were scattered all through the trees, red pennants dipped down, rifles bristling like black sticks.

Longstreet saw a shell burst in the woods ahead, another, another. The Yanks knew they were there, knew they were coming. God, did Meade have the whole Union Army here?

Against my two divisions?

McLaws came up. Even McLaws was getting nervous “Well, sir? When do I go in?”

”Calmly,” Longstreet said, “calmly” He stared through his glasses. He could see through the trees a Union battery firing from an orchard on the far side of the road. He said, “We’ll all go in directly.” Something in Longstreet was savage now; he enjoyed holding them back, the savage power. He could feel the fire building in McLaws, in Barksdale, as water builds behind a damn.

But it was the point of an echelon attack. You begin on one side. The enemy is pressed and begins to move troops there. At the right moment your attack opens in another place. The enemy does not know where to move troops now, or to move any at all. He delays. He is upset where he is, not quite so definite. With luck, you catch him on the move. He does not realize the attack is en echelon for a while; he thinks perhaps it is a diversion, and he will be hit on another flank. So he waits, and then gradually he is enveloped where he is, and if his line was thin to begin with, you have not allowed him to concentrate, and if he gambled and concentrated, then he is very weak somewhere, and somewhere you break through. So restraint was necessary now, and Longstreet got down off the horse and sat astride the fence for a while, chatting, the fire growing all around him, shells coming down in the woods ahead, beginning to fall in the field around him, and McLaws stood there blinking and Barksdale running fingers through his hair.

”Not yet, not yet,” Longstreet said cheerily, but he got back on his horse and began riding slowly forward into the trees. In the dark of the trees he could smell splintered wood and see white upturned faces with wide white dirty flowers and he looked out to see a battery working steadily, firing into the woods. He heard the first moans but saw no dead.

Almost time now. At his elbow, Barksdale was saying something, pleading. The Mississippi boys were staring not at Barksdale but at Longstreet. Longstreet looked down.

”Well,” he said, “I guess it’s time. If you’re ready, sir, why don’t you go take that battery, that battery right there?”

He pointed. Barksdale screamed, waved his hat. The men rose. Barksdale formed them in line, the shells zipping the leaves above them. They stepped out of the woods, Barksdale in front, on foot, forbidden to ride, and Longstreet saw them go off across the field and saw the enemy fire open up, a whole fence suddenly puff into white smoke, and the bullets whirred by and clipped among the leaves and thunked the trees, and Longstreet rode out into the open and took off his hat. Barksdale was going straight for the guns, running, screaming, far out in front, alone, as if in a race with all the world, hair streaming like a white torch.

Longstreet rode behind him, his hat off, waving, screaming, Go! Go you Mississippi! Go!

4. CHAMBERLAIN.

… heard the cannon begin. sat up. Kilrain sat up.

Tom Chamberlain went on sleeping, mouth open, saintly young, at peace..

Chamberlain said, “That’s mostly in the west.”

Kilrain cocked his head, listening. “I thought the Rebs were all up at Gettysburg.” He looked at Chamberlain, eyes dark. “You don’t suppose they’re flanking us again.”

The cannons were blossoming, filling the air with thunder, far enough away to soften and roll, not angry yet, but growing.

”At Chancellorsville they came in on the right. This time they could be on the left.”

”Do you think they’ll ever learn, our goddamn generals?”

Chamberlain shook his head. “Wait.”

The men in the field were stirring. Some of the newer men were pulling the tent halves down, but the others, professionals, had rolled over and were staring m the direction of the firing. The corn popper remained asleep.

Chamberlain thought: Alert the men? Some of them were looking to him. One stood up, yawned, stretched, glanced unconcernedly in his direction. Not yet. Chamberlain put the novel away.

Kilrain said, “That’s a whole division.

Chamberlain nodded.

”Good thing their artillery aint very good.

A rider had come over the crest of the hill, was loping down through the tall grass among the boulders. Chamberlain stood up. The courier saluted.

”Colonel Vincent’s compliments, sir. You are instructed to form your regiment.”

Chamberlain did not ask what was going on. He felt a coolness spreading all the way through him. He began buttoning his shirt as the courier rode off-no hurry, why hurry?-and began slipping on the belt and saber. When he was done with that he began smoothing his hair, yawned, grinned, turned to Tozier.

”Sergeant, have the Regiment fall in.”

He looked down on Tom, sleeping Tom. Mom’s favorite.

He’ll be all right. Did not want to wake him. Delayed a moment, buttoned his collar. Hot day for that. Shadows growing longer. Cool soon. He nudged Tom with his foot.

Tom groaned, licked his lips, groaned again, opened his eyes.

”Hey, Lawrence.” He blinked and sat up, heard the thunder. “What’s happening?”

”Let’s go,” Chamberlain said.

”Right.” He jumped to his feet. Chamberlain walked out into the sun. Some of the men were in line, forming by companies. The Regiment was bigger now; Chamberlain was glad of the new men. Ellis Spear had come sleepily up, disarranged, eyes wide. Chamberlain told him to bring everybody, cooks and prisoners, sick-call people. Chamberlain took a deep breath, smelled wet grass, hay, felt his heart beating, looked up into God’s broad sky, shivered as a thrill passed through him. He looked down through the woods.

The whole Brigade was forming.

And nothing happened. The guns thundered beyond the hill. They were in line, waiting. Chamberlain looked at his watch. Not quite four. The men were remarkably quiet, most of them still sleepy. Sergeant Ruel Thomas, an orderly, reported from sick call. Chamberlain nodded formally.

Meade had ordered every soldier to action, even the Provost Guards. This was it, the last great effort. Don’t think now: rest.

Here, at last, was Vincent, riding at a gallop down the long slope. He reined up, the horse rising and kicking the air. All the faces watched him.

”Colonel, column of fours. Follow me.”

Chamberlain gave the order, mounted, feeling weak. No strength in his arms. Vincent gave orders to aides: they galloped away. Vincent said, “They’re attacking the left flank. Sickles has got us in one hell of a jam.”

They began moving up the slope. The Twentieth Maine came after them, four abreast. Vincent was shaking his handsome head.

”Damn fool. Unbelievable. But I must say, remarkably beautiful thing to see.”

They moved up between rocks. The artillery fire was growing, becoming massive. They found a narrow road leading upward: high ground ahead. Vincent spurred his horse, waved to Chamberlain to come on. They galloped across a wooden bridge, a dark creek, then up a narrow farm road. The firing was louder. A shell tore through the trees ahead, smashed a limb, blasted rock. Fragments spattered the air.

Chamberlain turned, saw Tom’s white grinning face, saw him flick rock dust from his uniform, blinking it out of his eyes, grinning bleakly. Chamberlain grimaced, gestured.

Tom said, “Whee.”

Chamberlain said, “Listen, another one a bit closer and it will be a hard day for Mother. You get back to the rear and watch for stragglers. Keep your distance from me.”

”Right, fine.” Tom touched his cap, a thing he rarely did, and moved off thoughtfully Chamberlain felt an easing in his chest, a small weight lifted. Vincent trotted coolly into the open, reined his horse. Chamberlain saw through a break in the trees, blue hills very far away, hazy ridges miles to the west, not ridges, mountains; he was on high ground. Vincent paused, looked back, saw the Regiment coming up the road, shook his head, violently “That damn fool Sickles, you know him?”

”Know of him.”

Another shell passed close, fifty yards to the left, clipped a limb, ricocheted up through the leaves. Vincent glanced that way, then back, went on.

”The Bully Boy You know the one. The politician from New York. Fella shot his wife’s lover. The Barton Key affair. You’ve heard of it?”

Chamberlain nodded.

”Well, the damn fool was supposed to fall in on the left of Hancock, right there.” Vincent pointed up the ridge to the right. “He should be right here, as a matter of fact, where we’re standing. But he didn’t like the ground.”

Vincent shook his head, amazed. “He didn’t like the ground. So he just up and moved his whole Corps forward, hour or so ago. I saw them go. Amazing. Beautiful. Full marching line forward, as if they were going to pass in review. Moved right on out to the road down there. Leaving his hill uncovered. Isn’t that amazing?” Vincent grimaced.

”Politicians. Well, let’s go.”

The road turned upward, into dark woods. Shells were falling up there. Chamberlain heard the wicked hum of shrapnel in leaves.

Vincent said, “Don’t mean to rush you people, but perhaps we better double-time.”

The men began to move, running upward into the dark.

Chamberlain followed Vincent up the rise. The artillery was firing at nothing; there was no one ahead at all. They passed massive boulders, the stumps of newly sawed trees, splinters of shattered ones. Chamberlain could begin to see out across the valley: mass of milky smoke below, yellow flashes. Vincent said, raising his voice to be heard, “Whole damn Rebel army hitting Sickles down there, coming up around his flank. Be here any minute. Got to hold this place. This way.”

He pointed. They crossed the crown of the hill, had a brief glimpse all the way out across Pennsylvania, woods far away, a line of batteries massed and firing, men moving in the smoke and rocks below. Chamberlain thought: Bet you could see Gettysburg from here. Look at those rocks, marvelous position.

But they moved down the hill, down into dark woods.

Shells were passing over them, exploding in the dark far away. Vincent led them down to the left, stopped in the middle of nowhere, rocks and small trees, said to Chamberlain, “All right, I place you here.” Chamberlain looked, saw a dark slope before him, rock behind him, ridges of rock to both sides. Vincent said, “You’ll hold here. The rest of the Brigade will form on your right. Looks like you’re the flank. Colonel.”

”Right,” Chamberlain said. He looked left and right, taking it all in. A quiet place in the woods. Strange place to fight. Can’t see very far. The Regiment was moving up.

Chamberlain called in the company commanders, gave them the position. Right by file into line. Vincent walked down into the woods, came back up. An aide found him with a message. He sent to the rest of the Brigade to form around the hill to the right, below the crown. Too much artillery on the crown. Rebs liked to shoot high. Chamberlain strode back and forth, watching the Regiment form along the ridge in the dark. The sun was behind the hill, on the other side of the mountain. Here it was dark, but he had no sense of temperature; he felt neither hot nor cold. He heard Vincent say, “Colonel?”

”Yes.” Chamberlain was busy.

Vincent said, “You are the extreme left of the Union line. Do you understand that?”

”Yes,” Chamberlain said.

”The line runs from here all the way back to Gettysburg. But it stops here. You know what that means.”

”Of course.”

”You cannot withdraw. Under any conditions. If you go, the line is flanked. If you go, they’ll go right up the hilltop and take us in the rear. You must defend this place to the last.”

”Yes,” Chamberlain said absently.

Vincent was staring at him.

”I’ve got to go now.”

”Right,” Chamberlain said, wishing him gone.

”Now we’ll see how professors fight,” Vincent said.

”I’m a Harvard man myself.”

Chamberlain nodded patiently, noting that the artillery fire had slackened. Could mean troops coming this way. Vincent’s hand was out. Chamberlain took it, did not notice Vincent’s departure. He turned, saw Ruel Thomas standing there with his horse. Chamberlain said, “Take that animal back and tie it some place. Sergeant, then come back.”

”You mean leave it, sir?”

”I mean leave it.”

Chamberlain turned back. The men were digging in, piling rocks to make a stone wall. The position was more than a hundred yards long. Chamberlain could see the end of it, saw the 83rd Pennsylvania forming on his right. On his left there was nothing, nothing at all. Chamberlain called Kilrain, told him to check the flank, to see that the joint between Regiments was secure. Chamberlain took a short walk. Hold to the last. To the last what? Exercise in rhetoric. Last man? Last shell? Last foot of ground? Last Reb?

The hill was shaped like a comma, large and round with a spur leading out and down: The Twentieth Maine was positioned along the spur, the other regiments curved around to the right. At the end of the spur was a massive boulder. Chamberlain placed the colors there, backed off. To the left of his line there was nothing.

Empty ground. Bare rocks. He peered off into the darkness.

He was used to fighting with men on each side of him. He felt the emptiness to his left like a pressure, a coolness, the coming of winter. He did not like it.

He moved out in front of his line. Through the trees to his right he could see the dark bulk of a larger hill. If the Rebs get a battery there. What a mess. This could be messy indeed. He kept turning to look to the vacant left, the dark emptiness. No good at all. Morrill’s B Company was moving up. Chamberlain signaled. Morrill came up. He was a stocky man with an angular mustache, like a messy inverted U. Sleepy-eyed, he saluted.

”Captain, I want you to take your company out there.”

Chamberlain pointed to the left. “Go out a ways, but stay within supporting distance. Build up a wall, dig in. I want you there in case somebody tries to flank us. If I hear you fire I’ll know the Rebs are trying to get round. Go out a good distance. I have no idea what’s out there. Keep me informed.”

Company B was fifty men. Alone out in the woods.

Chamberlain was sorry. They’d all rather be with the Regiment. Messy detail. Well, he thought philosophically, so it goes. He moved on back up the hill, saw Morrill’s men melt into the trees. Have I done all I can? Not yet, not yet.

Artillery was coming in again behind him. All down the line, in front of him, the men were digging, piling rocks. He thought of the stone wall at Fredericksburg. Never, forever.

This could be a good place to fight. Spirits rose. Left flank of the whole line. Something to tell the grandchildren. Nothing happening here. He hopped up the rocks, drawn toward the summit for a better look, saw an officer: Colonel Rice of the 44th New York, with the same idea.

Rice grinned happily. “What a view!”

He gestured. Chamberlain moved forward. Now he could see: masses of gray rock wreathed in smoke, gray men moving. If Sickles had a line down there it had already been flanked. He saw a Union battery firing to the south, saw sprays of men rush out of the woods, the smoke, and envelop it, dying, and then the smoke drifted over it. But now more masses were coming, in clots, broken lines, red battle flags plowing through the smoke, moving this way, drifting to the left, toward the base of the hill.

Rice said, glasses to his eyes, “My God, I can see all of it. Sickles is being overrun.” He put the glasses down and smiled a foolish smile. “You know, there are an awful lot of people headin’ this way.”

Chamberlain saw gleams in the woods to the south.

Bayonets? Must get back to the Regiment. Rice moved off, calling a thoughtful “good luck.” Chamberlain walked down back into the dark. Awful lot of people coming this way. Sixty rounds per man. Ought to be enough.

”Colonel?”

At his elbow: Glazier Estabrook. Incapable of standing up straight, he listed, like a sinking ship. He was chewing a huge plug of tobacco. Chamberlain grinned, happy to see him.

”Colonel, what about these here prisoners?”

Chamberlain looked: six dark forms squatting in the rocks. The hard cases from the Second Maine. He had completely forgotten them.

Glazier said slowly, around the wet plug, “Now I wouldn’t complain normal, Colonel, only if there’s goin’ to be a fight I got to keep an eye on my cousin. You understand, Colonel.”

What he meant was that he would under no circumstances tend these prisoners during the coming engagement, and he was saying it as politely as possible. Chamberlain nodded.

He strode to the prisoners.

”Any of you fellas care to join us?”

”The Rebs really coming?” The man said it wistfully, cautiously, not quite convinced.

”They’re really comin’.”

One man, bearded, stretched and yawned. “Well, be kind of dull sittin’ up here just a-watchin’.”

He stood. The others watched. At that moment a solid shot passed through the trees above them, tore through the leaves, ripped away a branch, caromed out into the dark over the line. A shower of granite dust drifted down. The ball must have grazed a ledge above. Granite dust had salt in it. Or perhaps the salt was from your own lips.

Chamberlain said, “Any man that joins us now, there’ll be no charges.”

”Well,” another one said. He was the youngest; his beard was only a fuzz. “No man will call me a coward,” he said. He rose. Then a third, a man with fat on him. The other three sat mute. Two looked away from his eyes; the last looked back in hate. Chamberlain turned away. He did not understand a man who would pass by this chance. He did not want to be with him. He turned back.

”I’ll waste no man to guard you. I’ll expect to find you here when this is over.”

He walked down the hill with the three men, forgetting the incomprehensible three who would not come. He gave the three volunteers to Ruel Thomas, to post along the line.

There were no rifles available. Chamberlain said, “You men wait just a bit. Rifles will be available after a while.”

And now the softer roar of musketry began opening up behind him; the popping wave of an infantry volley came down from above, from the other side of the hill. The Rebs were pressing the front, against Rice’s New York boys, the rest of the brigade. Now there was sharper fire, closer to home; the 83rd was opening up. The battle moved this way, like a wall of rain moving through the trees. Chamberlain strode down along the line. Tom came up behind him, Kilrain above. Private Foss was on his knees, praying.

Chamberlain asked that he put in a kind word. Amos Long was sweating.

” Tis a hell of a spot to be in. Colonel. I cannot see fifty yards.”

Chamberlain laid a hand on his shoulder. “Amos, they’ll be a lot closer than that.”

Jim and Bill Merrill, two brothers, were standing next to a sapling. Chamberlain frowned.

”Boys, why aren’t you dug in?”

Jim, the older, grinned widely, tightly, scared but proud.

”Sir, I can’t shoot worth a damn lying down. Never could. Nor Bill either. Like to fight standin’, with the Colonel’s permission.”

”Then I suggest you find a thicker tree.”

He moved on. Private George Washington Buck, former sergeant, had a place to himself, wedged between two rocks. His face was cold and gray. Chamberlain asked him how it was going. Buck said, “Keep an eye on me, sir. I’m about to get them stripes back.”

A weird sound, a wail, a ghost, high and thin. For a vague second he thought it was the sound of a man in awful pain, many men. Then he knew: the Rebel yell. Here they come.

He drifted back to the center. To Tom he said, “You stay by me. But get down, keep down.” Kilrain was sitting calmly, chewing away. He was carrying a cavalry carbine.

A great roar of musketry from behind the hill. Full battle now. They must be swarming Sickles under. Kilrain was right. Rank attack. Whole Reb army coming right this way.

Wonder who? Longstreet? He it was behind the stone wall at Fredericksburg. Now we have our own stone wall.

Chamberlain hopped down along the line, telling men to keep good cover, pile rocks higher, fire slowly and carefully, take their time. Have to keep your eye on some of them; they loaded and loaded and never fired, just went on loading, and some of them came out of a fight with seven or eight bullets rammed home in a barrel, unfired. He looked again to the left, saw the bleak silence, felt a crawling uneasiness. Into his mind came the delayed knowledge: You are the left of the Union. The Army of the Potomac ends here.

He stopped, sat down on a rock. A flank attack. Never to withdraw.

He took a deep breath, smelled more granite dust. Never to withdraw. Had never heard the order, nor thought. Never really thought it possible. He looked around at the dark trees, the boulders, the men hunched before him in blue mounds, waiting. Don’t like to wait. Let’s get on, get on.

But his mind said cheerily, coldly: Be patient, friend, be patient. You are not leaving here. Possibly not forever, except, as they say, trailing clouds of glory, if that theory really is true after all and they do send some sort of chariot, possibly presently you will be on it. My, how the mind does chatter at times like this. Stop thinking. Depart in a chariot of fire. I suppose it’s possible. That He is waiting. Well. May well find out.

The 83rd engaged. Chamberlain moved to the right. He had been hoping to face a solid charge, unleash a full volley, but the Rebs seemed to be coming on like a lapping wave, rolling up the beach. He told the right to fire at will. He remained on the right while the firing began. A man down in E Company began it, but there was nothing there; he had fired at a falling branch, and Chamberlain heard a sergeant swearing, then a flurry of fire broke out to the right and spread down the line and the white smoke bloomed in his eyes. Bullets zipped in the leaves, cracked the rocks.

Chamberlain moved down closer to the line. Far to the left he could see Tozier standing by the great boulder, with the colors.

Then he saw the Rebs.

Gray-green-yellow uniforms, rolling up in a mass. His heart seized him. Several companies. More and more. At least a hundred men. More. Coming up out of the green, out of the dark. They seemed to be rising out of the ground.

Suddenly the terrible scream, the ripply crawly sound in your skull. A whole regiment. Dissolving in smoke and thunder. They came on. Chamberlain could see nothing but smoke, the blue mounds bobbing in front of him, clang of ramrods, grunts, a high gaunt wail. A bullet thunked into a tree near him. Chamberlain turned, saw white splintered wood. He ducked suddenly, then stood up, moved forward, crouched behind a boulder, looking.

A new wave of firing. A hole in the smoke. Chamberlain saw a man on his knees before him, facing the enemy, arms clutching his stomach. A man was yelling an obscene word.

Chamberlain looked, could not see who it was. But the fire from his boys was steady and heavy and they were behind trees and under rocks and pouring it in, and Chamberlain saw gray-yellow forms go down, saw a man come bounding up a rock waving his arms wide like a crazy Indian and take a bullet that doubled him right over so that he fell forward over the rocks and out of sight, and then a whole flood to the right, ten or twelve in a pack, suddenly stopping to kneel and fire, one man in fringed clothes, like buckskin, stopping to prop his rifle against a tree, and then to go down, punched backward, coming all loose and to rubbery pieces and flipping back so one bare foot stood up above a bloody rock. A blast of fire at Chamberlain’s ear. He turned: Kilrain reloading the carbine. Said something. Noise too great to hear. Screams and yells of joy and pain and rage. He saw bloodstains spatter against a tree. Turned. Fire slowing.

They were moving back. Thought: we’ve stopped ‘em. By God and by Mary, we’ve stopped ‘em.

The firing went on, much slower. Smoke was drifting away. But the din from the right was unceasing, the noise from the other side of the hill was one long huge roar, like the ground opening. Kilrain looked that way.

”Half expect ‘em to come in from behind.”

Chamberlain said, “Did you hear Morrill’s Company?”

”No, sir. Couldn’t hear nothing in that mess.”

”Tom?”

Tom shook his head. He had the look of a man who has just heard a very loud noise and has not yet regained his hearing. Chamberlain felt a sudden moment of wonderful delight. He put out a hand and touched his brother’s cheek.

”You stay down, boy.”

Tom nodded, wide-eyed. “Damn right,” he said.

Chamberlain looked out into the smoke. Morrill might have run into them already, might already be wiped out. He saw: a red flag, down in the smoke and dark. Battle flag. A new burst of firing. He moved down the line, Kilrain following, crouched. Men were down. He saw the first dead: Willard Buxton of K. Neat hole in the forehead.

Instantaneous. Merciful. First Sergeant Noyes was with him. Chamberlain touched the dead hand, moved on. He was thinking: with Morrill gone, I have perhaps three hundred men. Few more, few less. What do I do if they flank me?

The emptiness to the left was a vacuum, drawing him back that way. Men were drinking water. He warned them to save it. The new attack broke before he could get to the left.

The attack came all down the line, a full, wild, leaping charge. Three men came inside the low stone wall the boys had built. Two died; the other lay badly wounded, unable to speak. Chamberlain called for a surgeon to treat him. A few feet away he saw a man lying dead, half his face shot away Vaguely familiar. He turned away, turned back. Half the right jawbone visible, above the bloody leer: face of one of the Second Maine prisoners who had volunteered just a few moments past-the fat one. Never had time to know his name. He turned to Kilrain. “That was one of the Maine prisoners. Don’t let me forget.”

Kilrain nodded. Odd look on his face. Chamberlain felt a cool wind. He put a hand out.

”Buster? You all right?”

Bleak gray look. Holding his side.

”Fine, Colonel. Hardly touched me.”

He turned, showed his side. Tear just under the right shoulder, blood filling the armpit. Kilrain stuffed white cloth into the hole. “Be fine in a moment. But plays hell with me target practice. Would you care for the carbine?”

He sat down abruptly Weak from loss of blood. But not a bad wound, surely not a bad wound.

”You stay there,” Chamberlain said. Another attack was coming. New firing blossomed around them. Chamberlain knelt.

Kilrain grinned widely. “Hell, Colonel, I feel saintly.”

”Tom’ll get a surgeon.”

”Just a bit of bandage is all I’ll be needin’. And a few minutes off me feet. Me brogans are killin’ me.” Lapse into brogue.

Tom moved off into the smoke. Chamberlain lost him. He stood. Whine of bullets, whisking murder. Leaves were falling around him. Face in the smoke. Chamberlain stepped forward.

Jim Nichols, K Company: “Colonel, something goin’ on in our front. Better come see.”

Nichols a good man. Chamberlain hopped forward, slipped on a rock, nearly fell, hopped to another boulder, felt an explosion under his right foot, blow knocked his leg away, twirled, fell, caught by Nicholas. Damned undignified. Hurt? Damn!

How are you, sir?

Looked at his foot. Hole in the boot? Blood? No. Numb.

Oh my, begins to hurt now. But no hole, thank God. He stood up.

Nichols pointed. Chamberlain clambered up on a high boulder. Going to get killed, give ‘em a good high target.

Saw: they were coming in groups, from rock to rock, tree to tree, not charging wildly as before, firing as they came, going down, killing us. But there, back there: masses of men, flags, two flags, flanking, moving down the line.

They’re going to turn us. They’re going to that hole in the left…

He was knocked clean off the rock. Blow in the side like lightning bolt. Must be what it feels like. Dirt and leaves in his mouth. Rolling over. This is ridiculous. Hands pulled him up. He looked down. His scabbard rippled like a spider’s leg, stuck out at a ridiculous angle. Blood? No. But the hip, oh my. Damn, damn. He stood up. Becoming quite a target. What was that now? He steadied his mind.

Remembered: they’re flanking us.

He moved back behind the boulder from which he had just been knocked. His hands were skinned; he was licking blood out of his mouth. His mind, temporarily sidetracked, oiled itself and ticked and turned and woke up, functioning.

To Nichols: “Find my brother. Send all company commanders. Hold your positions.”

Extend the line? No.

He brooded. Stood up. Stared to the left, then mounted the rock again, aware of pain but concentrating. To the left the Regiment ended, a high boulder there. Chamberlain thought: What was the phrase in the manual? Muddled brain. Oh yes: refuse the line.

The commanders were arriving. Chamberlain, for the first time, raised his voice. “You men! MOVE!”

The other commanders came in a hurry. Chamberlain said, “We’re about to be flanked. Now here’s what we do. Keep up a good hot masking fire, you understand? Now let’s just make sure the Rebs keep their heads down. And let’s keep a tight hold on the Eighty-third, on old Pennsylvania over there. I want no breaks in the line. That’s you. Captain Clark, understand? No breaks.”

Clark nodded. Bullets chipped the tree above him.

”Now here’s the move. Keeping up the fire, and keeping a tight hold on the Eighty-third, we refuse the line. Men will sidestep to the left, thinning out to twice the present distance. See that boulder? When we reach that point we’ll refuse the line, form a new line at right angles. That boulder will be the salient. Let’s place the colors there, right? Five.

Now you go on back and move your men in sidestep and form a new line to the boulder, and then back from the boulder like a swinging door. I assume that, ah, F Company will take the point. Clear? Any questions?”

They moved. It was very well done. Chamberlain limped to the boulder, to stand at the colors with Tozier. He grinned at Tozier.

”How are you, Andrew?”

”Fine, sir. And you?”

”Worn.” Chamberlain grinned. “A bit worn.”

”I tell you this. Colonel. The boys are making a hell of a fight.”

”They are indeed.”

The fire increased. The Rebs moved up close and began aimed fire, trying to mask their own movement. In a few moments several men died near where Chamberlain was standing. One boy was hit in the head and the wound seemed so bloody it had to be fatal, but the boy sat up and shook hi amp; head and bound up the wound himself with a handkerchief and went back to firing. Chamberlain noted: most of our wounds are in the head or hands, bodies protected. Bless the stone wall. Pleasure to be behind it.

Pity the men out there. Very good men. Here they come. Whose?

The next charge struck the angle at the boulder, at the colors, lapped around it, ran into the new line, was enfiladed, collapsed. Chamberlain saw Tom come up, whirling through smoke, saw a rip in his coat, thought: no good to have a brother here. Weakens a man. He sent to the 83rd to tell them of his move to the left, asking if perhaps they couldn’t come a little this way and help him out. He sent Ruel Thomas back up the hill to find out how things were going there, to find Vincent to tell him that life was getting difficult and we need a little help.

He looked for Kilrain. The old Buster was sitting among some rocks, aiming the carbine, looking chipper. Hat was off. An old man, really. No business here. Kilrain said, “I’m not much good to you. Colonel.”

There was a momentary calm. Chamberlain sat.

”Buster, how are you?”

Grin. Stained crooked teeth. All the pores remarkably clear, red bulbous nose. Eyes of an old man. How old? I’ve never asked.

”How’s the ammunition?” Kilrain asked.

”I’ve sent back.”

”They’re in a mess on the other side.” He frowned, grinned, wiped his mouth with the good hand, the right arm folded across his chest, a bloody rag tucked in his armpit. “Half expect Rebs comin’ right over the top of the hill. Nothing much to do then. Be Jesus. Fight makes a thirst. And I’ve brought nothin’ a-tall, would you believe that? Not even my emergency ration against snakebite and bad dreams. Not even a spoonful of Save the Baby.”

Aimed fire now. He heard a man crying with pain. He looked down the hill. Darker down there. He saw a boy behind a thick tree, tears running down his face, ramming home a ball, crying, whimpering, aiming fire, Jolted shoulders, ball of smoke, then turning back, crying aloud, sobbing, biting the paper cartridge, tears all over his face, wiping his nose with a wet sleeve, ramming home another ball.

Kilrain said, “I can stand now, I think.”

Darker down the hill. Sunset soon. How long had this been going on? Longer pause then usual. But… the Rebel yell. A rush on the left. He stood up. Pain in the right foot; unmistakable squish of blood in the boot. Didn’t know it was bleeding. See them come, bounding up the rocks, hitting the left flank. Kilrain moved by him on the right, knelt, fired. Chamberlain pulled out the pistol. No damn good expect at very close range. You couldn’t hit anything.

He moved to the left flank. Much smoke. Smoke changing now, blowing this way, blinding. He was caught m it, a smothering shroud, hot, white, the bitter smell of burned powder. It broke. He saw a man swinging a black rifle, grunts and yells and weird thick sounds unlike anything he had ever heard before. A Reb came over a rock, bayonet fixed, black thin point forward and poised, face seemed blinded, head twitched. Chamberlain aimed the pistol, fired, hit the man dead center, down he went, folding; smoke swallowed him. Chamberlain moved forward He expected them to be everywhere, flood of brown bodies, gray bodies. But the smoke cleared and the line was firm.

Only a few Rebs had come up, a few come over the stones all were down. He ran forward to a boulder, ducked, looked out: dead men, ten, fifteen, lumps of gray blood spattering everywhere, dirty white skin, a claw-like hand, black sightless eyes. Burst of white smoke, again, again. Tom at his shoulder: “Lawrence?”

Chamberlain turned. All right? Boyish face. He smiled.

”They can’t send us no help from the Eighty-third. Woodward said they have got their troubles, but they can extend the line a little and help us out.”

”Good. Go tell Clarke to shift a bit, strengthen the center.”

Kilrain, on hands and knees, squinting: “They keep coming in on the flank.”

Chamberlain, grateful for the presence: “What do you think?”

”We’ve been shooting a lot of rounds.”

Chamberlain looked toward the crest of the hill. No Thomas anywhere. Looked down again toward the dark. Motion. They’re forming again. Must have made five or six tries already To Kilrain: “Don’t know what else to do.”

Looked down the line. Every few feet, a man down. Men sitting facing numbly to the rear. He thought: let’s pull back a ways. He gave the order to Spear. The Regiment bent back from the colors, from the boulder, swung back to a new line, tighter, almost a U. The next assault came against both flanks and the center all at once, worst of all.

Chamberlain dizzy in the smoke began to lose track of events, saw only blurred images of smoke and death, Tozier with the flag, great black gaps in the line, the left flank giving again, falling back, tightening. Now there was only a few yards between the line on the right and the line on the left, and Chamberlain walked the narrow corridor between, Kilrain at his side, always at a crouch.

Ruel Thomas came back. “Sir? Colonel Vincent is dead.”

Chamberlain swung to look him in the face. Thomas nodded jerkily.

”Yes, sir. Got hit a few moments after fight started. We’ve already been reinforced by Weed’s Brigade, up front, but now Weed is dead, and they moved Hazlett’s battery up top and Hazlett’s dead.”

Chamberlain listened, nodded, took a moment to let it come to focus.

”Can’t get no ammunition, sir. Everything’s a mess up there. But they’re holdin’ pretty good. Rebs having trouble coming up the hill. Pretty steep.”

”Got to have bullets,” Chamberlain said.

Spear came up from the left. “Colonel, half the men are down. If they come again…” He shrugged, annoyed, baffled as if by a problem he could not quite solve, yet ought to, certainly, easily. “Don’t know if we can stop ‘em.”

”Send out word,” Chamberlain said. “Take ammunition from the wounded. Make every round count.” Tom went off, along with Ruel Thomas. Reports began coming in.

Spear was right. But the right flank was better, not so many casualties there. Chamberlain moved, shifting men. And heard the assault coming, up the rocks, clawing up through the bushes, through the shattered trees, the peeked stone, the ripped and bloody earth. It struck the left flank.

Chamberlain shot another man, an officer. He fell inside me new rock wall, face a bloody rag. On the left two Maine men went down, side by side, at the same moment, and along that spot there was no one left, no one at all, and yet no Rebs coming, just one moment of emptiness in all the battle, as if in that spot the end had come and there were not enough men left now to fill the earth, that final death was beginning there and spreading like a stain. Chamberlain saw movements below, troops drawn toward the gap as toward a cool place in all the heat, and looking down, saw Tom’s face and yelled, but not being heard, pointed and pushed, but his hand stopped in mid-air, not my own brother, but Tom understood, hopped across to the vacant place and plugged it with his body so that there was no longer a hole but one terribly mortal exposed boy, and smoke cut him off, so that Chamberlain could no longer see, moving forward himself, had to shoot another man, shot him twice, the first ball taking him in the shoulder, and the man was trying to fire a musket with one hand when Chamberlain got him again, taking careful aim this time. Fought off this assault, thinking all the while coldly, calmly, perhaps now we are approaching the end. They can’t keep coming. We can’t keep stopping them.

Firing faded. Darker now. Old Tom. Where?

Familiar form in familiar position, aiming downhill, firing again. All right. God be praised.

Chamberlain thought: not right, not right at all. If he was hit, I sent him there. What would I tell Mother? What do I feel myself? His duty to go. No, no. Chamberlain blinked.

He was becoming tired. Think on all that later, the theology of it.

He limped along the line. Signs of exhaustion. Men down, everywhere. He thought: we cannot hold.

Looked up toward the crest. Fire still hot there, still hot everywhere. Down into the dark. They are damned good men, those Rebs. Rebs, I salute you. I don’t think we can hold you.

He gathered with Spear and Kilrain back behind the line.

He saw another long gap, sent Ruel Thomas to this one.

Spear made a count.

”We’ve lost a third of the men. Colonel. Over a hundred down. The left is too thin.”

”How’s the ammunition?”

”I’m checking.”

A new face, dirt-stained, bloody: Homan Melcher, Lieutenant, Company F, a gaunt boy with buck teeth.

”Colonel? Request permission to go pick up some of our wounded. We left a few boys out there.”

”Wait,” Chamberlain said.

Spear came back, shaking his head. “We’re out.” Alarm stained his face, a grayness in his cheeks.

”Some of the boys have nothing at all.”

”Nothing,” Chamberlain said.

Officers were coming from the right. Down to a round or two per man. And now there was a silence around him. No man spoke. They stood and looked at him, and then looked down into the dark and then looked back at Chamberlain.

One man said, “Sir, I guess we ought to pull out.”

Chamberlain said, “Can’t do that.”

Spear: “We won’t hold ‘ em again. Colonel, you know we can’t hold ‘em again.”

Chamberlain: “If we don’t hold, they go right on by and over the hill and the whole flank caves in.”

He looked from face to face. The enormity of it, the weight of the line, was a mass too great to express. But he could see it as clearly as in a broad wide vision, a Biblical dream: If the line broke here, then the hill was gone, all these boys from Pennsylvania, New York, hit from behind above. Once the hill went, the flank of the army went. Good God! He could see troops running; he could see the blue flood, the bloody tide.

Kilrain: “Colonel, they’re coming.”

Chamberlain marveled. But we’re not so bad ourselves.

One recourse: Can’t go back. Can’t stay where we are.

Results: inevitable.

The idea formed.

”Let’s fix bayonets,” Chamberlain said.

For a moment no one moved.

”We’ll have the advantage of moving downhill,” he said.

Spear understood. His eyes saw; he nodded automatically. The men coming up the hill stopped to volley; weak fire came in return. Chamberlain said, “They’ve got to be tired, those Rebs. They’ve got to be close to the end. Fix bayonets. Wait. Ellis, you take the left wing. I want a right wheel forward of the whole Regiment.”

Lieutenant Melcher said, perplexed, “Sir, excuse me but what’s a ‘right wheel forward’?”

Ellis Spear said, “He means ‘charge,’ Lieutenant, ‘charge.’ “

Chamberlain nodded. “Not quite. We charge swinging down to the right. We straighten out our line. Clarke hangs onto the Eight-third, and we swing like a door, sweeping them down the hill. Understand? Everybody understand? Ellis, you take the wing, and when I yell you go to it, the whole Regiment goes forward, swinging to the right.”

”Well,” Ellis Spear said. He shook his head. “Well.”

”Let’s go.” Chamberlain raised his saber, bawled at the top of his voice, “Fix bayonets!”

He was thinking: We don’t have two hundred men left.

Not two hundred. More than that coming at us. He saw Melcher bounding away toward his company, yelling, waving. Bayonets were coming out, clinking, clattering. He heard men beginning to shout. Marine men, strange shouts, hoarse, wordless, animal. He limped to the front, toward the great boulder where Tozier stood with the colors, Kilrain at his side. The Rebs were in plain view, moving, firing.

Chamberlain saw clearly a tall man aiming a rifle at him. At me. Saw the smoke, the flash, but did not hear the bullet go by. Missed. Ha! He stepped out into the open, balanced on the gray rock. Tozier had lifted the colors into the clear. The Rebs were thirty yards off. Chamberlain raised his saber, let loose the shout that was the greatest sound he could make, boiling the yell up from his chest: Fix bayonets! Charge!

Fix bayonets! Charge! Fix bayonets! Charge! He leaped down from the boulder, still screaming, his voice beginning to crack and give, and all around him his men were roaring animal screams, and he saw the whole Regiment rising and pouring over the wall and beginning to bound down through the dark bushes, over the dead and dying and wounded, hats coming off, hair flying, mouths making sounds, one man firing as he ran, the last bullet, last round. Chamberlain saw gray men below stop, freeze, crouch, then quickly turn. The move was so quick he could not believe it. Men were turning and running. Some were stopping to fire. There was the yellow flash and then they turned. Chamberlain saw a man drop a rifle and run. Another. A bullet plucked at Chamberlain’s coat, a hard pluck so that he thought he had caught a mom but looked down and saw the huge gash. But he was not hit. He saw an officer: handsome full-bearded man in gray, sword and revolver. Chamberlain ran toward him, stumbled, cursed the bad foot, looked up and aimed and fired and missed, then held aloft the saber. The officer turned, saw him coming, raised a pistol, and Chamberlain ran toward it downhill, unable to stop, stumbling downhill seeing the black hole of the pistol turning toward him, not anything but the small hole yards away, feet away, the officer’s face a blur behind it and no thought, a moment of gray suspension rushing silently, soundlessly toward the black hole… and the gun did not fire; the hammer clicked down on an empty shell, and Chamberlain was at the man’s throat with the saber and the man was handing him his sword, all in one motion, and Chamberlain stopped.

”The pistol too,” he said.

The officer handed him the gun: a cavalry revolver, Colt.

”Your prisoner, sir.” The face of the officer was very white, like old paper. Chamberlain nodded.

He looked up to see an open space. The Rebs had begun to fall back; now they were running. He had never seen them run; he stared, began limping forward to see. Great cries, incredible sounds, firing and yelling. The Regiment was driving a line, swinging to the fight, into the dark valley. Men were surrendering. He saw masses of gray coats, a hundred or more, moving back up the slope to his front, in good order, the only ones not running, and thought If they form again we’re in trouble, desperate trouble, and he began moving that way, ignoring the officer he had just captured. At that moment a new wave of firing broke out on the other side of the gray mass. He saw a line of white smoke erupt, the gray troops waver and move back this way, stop, rifles begin to fall, men begin to run to the right, trying to get away. Another line of fire-Morrill. B Company. Chamberlain moved that way. A soldier grabbed his Reb officer, grinning, by the arm. Chamberlain passed a man sitting on a rock, holding his stomach. He had been bayoneted. Blood coming from his mouth. Stepped on a dead body, wedged between rocks. Came upon Ellis Spear, grinning crazily, foolishly, face stretched and glowing with a wondrous light.

”By God, Colonel, by God, by God,” Spear said. He pointed. Men were running off down the valley. The Regiment was moving across the front of the 83rd Pennsylvania. He looked up the hill and saw them waving and a cheering. Chamberlain said, aloud, “I’ll be damned.”

The Regiment had not stopped, was chasing the Rebs down the long valley between the hills. Rebs had stopped everywhere, surrendering. Chamberlain said to Spear, “Go on up and stop the boys. They’ve gone far enough.”

”Yes, sir. But they’re on their way to Richmond.”

”Not today,” Chamberlain said. “They’ve done enough today.”

He stopped, took a deep breath, stood still, then turned a to look for Tom. Saw Morrill, of Company B, wandering toward him through thick brush.

”Hey, Colonel, glad to see you. I was beginning to wonder.”

Chamberlain stared. “You were beginning to wonder?”

”I tell you. Colonel, I keep thinking I better come back and help you, but you said stay out there and guard that flank, so I did, and I guess it come out all right, thank the Lord. Nobody came nowhere near me until just a few minutes ago. Then they come backin’ my way, which I didn’t expect. So we opened up, and they all turned around and quit, just like that. Damnedest thing you ever saw.” He shook his head, amazed. “Easiest fight I was ever in.”

Chamberlain sighed. “Captain,” he said, “next time I tell you to go out a ways, please don’t go quite so far.”

”Well, Colonel, we looked around, and there was this here stone wall, and it was comfortin’, you know?”

Tom was here, well, untouched. Chamberlain opened up into a smile. Tom had a Reb officer in tow, a weary gentleman with a face of grime and sadness, of exhausted despair.

”Hey, Lawrence, want you to meet this fella from Alabama. Cap’n Hawkins, want you to meet my brother. This here’s Colonel Chamberlain.”

Chamberlain put out a hand. “Sir,” he said. The Alabama man nodded slightly. His voice was so low Chamberlain could hardly hear it. “Do you have some water?”

”Certainly.” Chamberlain offered his own canteen. Off to the right a huge mass of prisoners: two hundred, maybe more. Most of them sitting, exhausted, heads down. Only a few men of the Regiment here, mostly Morrill’s Company.

Ironic. Chamberlain thought: well, he’s the only one with ammunition.

Firing was slacking beyond the hill. The charge of the 20th Maine had cleared the ground in front of the 83rd Pennsylvania; they were beginning to move down the hill, rounding up prisoners. As the Reb flank on this side fell apart and running men began to appear on the other side of the hill the attack there would break up. Yes, firing was less.

He heard whoops and hollers, felt a grin break out as if stepping into lovely sunshine. We did it, by God.

The Alabama man was sitting down. Chamberlain let him alone. Kilrain. Looked. Where? He moved painfully back up the rocks toward the position from which they had charged. Hip stiffening badly. Old Kilrain. Unhurtable.

He saw Kilrain from a distance. He was sitting on a rock, head back against a tree, arm black with streaked blood. But all right, all right, head bobbing bareheaded like a lively mossy white rock. Ruel Thomas was with him, and Tozier, working on the arm. Chamberlain bounded and slipped on wet rocks, forgetting his hurts, his throat stuffed. He knelt.

They had peeled back the shirt and the arm was whitely soft where they had cleaned it and there was a mess around the shoulder. Great round muscle: strong old man. Chamberlain grinned, giggled, wiped his face.

”Buster? How you doin’? You old mick.”

Kilrain peered at him vaguely cheerily. His face had a linen softness.

”They couldn’t seem hardly to miss,” he said regretfully, apologizing. “Twice, would you believe. For the love of Mary. Twicet.”

He snorted, gloomed, looked up into Chamberlain’s eyes and blinked.

”And how are you. Colonel darlin’? This fine day?”

Chamberlain nodded, grinning foolishly. There was a tight long silent moment. Chamberlain felt a thickness all through his chest. It was like coming back to your father, having done something fine, and your father knows it, and you can see the knowledge in his eyes, and you are both too proud to speak of it. But he knows. Kilrain looked away. He tried to move bloody fingers.

”In the armpit,” he gloomed forlornly. “For the love of God. He died of his wounds. In the bloody bleedin’ armpit. Ak.”

To Tozier, Chamberlain said, “How is that?”

Tozier shrugged. “It’s an arm.”

”By God,” Chamberlain said. “I think you’ll live.”

Kilrain blinked hazily. “Only an arm. Got to lose something, might’s well be an arm. Can part with that easier than the other mechanics of nature, an thass the truth.” He was blurring; he stretched his eyes. “Used to worry about that, you know? Only thing ever worried, really. Losing wrong part.” His eyes closed; his voice was plaintive. “I could do with a nip right now.”

”I’ll see what I can do.”

”You do pretty good.” Kilrain blinked, peered, looking for him.

”Colonel?”

”Right here.”

”The army was blessed…” But he ran out of breath, closed his eyes.

”You take it easy.”

”Want you to know. Just in case. That I have never served…”He paused to breathe, put out the bloody hand, looked into Chamberlain’s eyes. “Never served under a better man. Want you to know. Want to thank you, sir.”

Chamberlain nodded. Kilrain closed his eyes. His face began to relax; his skin was very pale. Chamberlain held the great cold hand. Chamberlain said, “Let me go round up something medicinal.”

”I’d be eternal grateful.”

”You rest.” Chamberlain was feeling alarm.

Tozier said, “I’ve sent off.”

”Well I’ve seen them run,” Kilrain said dreamily.

”Glory be. Thanks to you. Colonel darlin’. Lived long enough to see the Rebs run. Come the Millennium. Did you see them run. Colonel darlin’?”

”I did.”

”I got one fella. Raggedy fella. Beautiful offhand shot, if I say so mesel’.”

”I’ve got to go. Buster.”

”He was drawin’ a bead on you. Colonel. I got him with one quick shot offhand. Oh lovely.” Kilrain sighed.

”Loveliest shot I ever made.”

”You stay with him. Sergeant,” Chamberlain said.

Thomas nodded.

”Be back in a while, Buster.”

Kilrain opened his eyes, but he was drifting off toward sleep, and he nodded but did not see. Chamberlain backed away. There were some men around him from the old Second Maine and he talked to them automatically, not knowing what he was saying, thanking them for the fight, looking on strange young bloody faces. He moved back down the slope.

He went back along the low stone wall. The dead were mostly covered now with blankets and shelter halves, but some of them were still dying and there were groups of men clustered here and there. There were dead bodies and wounded bodies all down the wall and all down through the trees and blood was streaked on the trees and rocks and rich wet wood splinters were everywhere. He patted shoulders, noted faces. It was very quiet and dark down among the trees. Night was coming. He began to feel tired. He went on talking. A boy was dying. He had made a good fight and he wanted to be promoted before he died and Chamberlain promoted him. He spoke to a man who had been clubbed over the head with a musket and who could not seem to say what he wanted to say, and another man who was crying because both of the Men-ill boys were dead, both brothers, and he would be the one who would have to tell their mother. Chamberlain reached the foot of the hill and came out into the last light.

Ellis Spear came up. There were tears in the comers of his eyes. He nodded jerkily, a habit of Maine men, a greeting.

”Well,” he said. He did not know what to say. After a moment he pulled out an impressively ornamented silver flask, dented, lustrous.

”Colonel? Ah, I have a beverage here which I have been saving for an, ah, appropriate moment. I think this is- well, would the Colonel honor me by joining me in a, ah, swallow?”

Chamberlain thought: Kilrain. But he could not hurt Spear’s feelings. And his mouth was gritty and dry. Spear handed it over solemnly, gravely, with the air of a man taking part in a ceremony. Chamberlain drank. Oh, good.

Very, very good. He saw one small flicker of sadness pass over Spear’s face, took the bottle from his lips.

”Sorry, Ellis. ‘Swallow’ is a flighty word. An indiscriminate word. But thank you. Very much. And now.”

Spear bowed formally. “Colonel, it has been my pleasure.”

Here through the rocks was a grinning Tom. Young Tom.

Only a boy. Chamberlain felt a shattering rush of emotion, restrained it. Behind Tom were troops of the 83rd Pennsylvania: Captain Woodward, Colonel Rice of the 44th New York. Chamberlain thought: Rice must be the new commander of the whole brigade.

Tom said with vast delight, ticking them off, “Lawrence, we got prisoners from the Fifteenth Alabama, the Forty-seventh Alabama, the Fourth and Fifth Texas. Man, we fought four Reb regiments!”

Four regiments would be perhaps two thousand men.

Chamberlain was impressed.

”We got five hundred prisoners,” Tom insisted.

The figure seemed high. Chamberlain: “What are our casualties?”

Tom’s face lost its light. “Well, I’ll go check.”

Colonel Rice came up. Much darker now. He put out a hand.

”Colonel Chamberlain, may I shake your hand?”

”Sir.”

”Colonel, I watched that from above. Colonel, that was the damnedest thing I ever saw.”

”Well,” Chamberlain said. A private popped up, saluted, whispered in Chamberlain’s ear: “Colonel, sir, I’m guardin’ these here Rebs with a empty rifle.”

Chamberlain grinned. “Not so loud. Colonel Rice, we sure could use some ammunition.”

Rice was clucking like a chicken. “Amazing. They ran like sheep.”

Woodward said, “It was getting a bit tight there, Colonel, I’ll say.”

Rice wandered about, stared at the prisoners, wandered back, hands behind him, peered at Chamberlain, shook his head.

”You’re not Regular Army?”

”No, sir.”

”Oh yes. You’re the professor. Um. What did you teach?”

”Rhetoric, sir.”

”Really?” Rice grimaced. “Amazing.” After a moment: “ Where’d you get the idea to charge?”

Chamberlain said, “We were out of ammunition.”

Rice nodded. “So. You fixed bayonets.”

Chamberlain nodded. It seemed logical enough. It was beginning to dawn on him that what he had done might be considered unusual. He said, “There didn’t seem to be any alternative.”

Rice shook his head, chuckled, grunted.

Chamberlain said, “I heard about Colonel Vincent.”

”Yes. Damn shame. They think he won’t make it.”

”He’s still alive?”

”Not by much.”

”Well. But there’s always hope.”

Rice looked at him. “Of course,” Rice said.

Chamberlain wandered among his men. Ought to put them in some kind of order. He was beginning to feel an elation in him, like a bubble blowing up in his chest. A few moments later. Rice was back.

”Colonel, I have to ask your help. You see the big hill there, the wooded hill? There’s nobody there. I think.

General Warren wants that hill occupied. Could you do that?”

”Well,” Chamberlain said. “If we had some ammunition.”

”I’ll move a train up. That hill’s been unoccupied all day.

If the Rebs get a battery there… it’s the extreme flank of the Union line. Highest ground. Warren sends you his compliments and says to tell you he would prefer to have your regiment there.”

Chamberlain said, “Well of course, sir. But the boys are tired. May take a while. And I sure need that ammunition.”

”Right. I’ll tell the General you’ll be up soon as possible.”

Chamberlain squinted. A wall of trees, thick brush. He sighed.

Tom was back. “I count about one hundred and thirty men, Lawrence. Forty to fifty already dead, about ninety wounded. Lot of boys walking around with minor stuff, one hundred thirty for the hospital.”

Chamberlain thought: one hundred thirty down. We had three hundred in line. Almost half the Regiment. Kilrain is gone.

He told Spear of the move. He was becoming very tired.

But along with the weariness he felt spasms of pure joy.

Spear formed the Company, Rice took over the prisoners.

Rice came by to watch them go.

”Colonel,” Chamberlain said. “One thing. What’s the name of this place? This hill. Has it got a name?”

”Little Round Top,” Rice said. “Name of the hill you defended. The one you’re going to is Big Round Top.”

Little Round Top. Battle of Little Round Top. Well. I guess we’ll remember it.

”Move’em out, Ellis.”

He went back to say goodbye to Kilrain. The white head was visible from a long way off, sitting stump-like, motionless in the dark of the trees. He had leaned back and was staring at the sky, his eyes closed. He had welcomed Chamberlain to the Regiment and there had never been a day without him. He would be going to the hospital now, and Chamberlain did not know what to say, did not know how to express it. Blue eyes opened in a weary face. Kilrain smiled.

”I’ll be going, Buster,” Chamberlain said.

Kilrain grumbled, looked sourly, accusingly at his bloody wound.

”Damn.”

”Well, you take care. I’ll send Tom back with word.”

”Sure.”

”We’ll miss you. Probably get into all kinds of trouble without you.”

”No.” Kilrain said. “You’ll do all right.”

”Well, I have to go.”

”Right. Goodbye, Colonel.”

He put out a hand, formally. Chamberlain took it.

”It was a hell of a day, wasn’t it. Buster?”

Kilrain grinned, his eyes glistened.

”I’ll come down and see you tomorrow.” Chamberlain backed off.

”Sure.” Kilrain was blinking, trying to keep his eyes open. Chamberlain walked away, stopped, looked back, saw the eyes already closed, turned his back for the last time, moved off into the gathering dark.

He moved forward and began to climb the big hill in the dark. As he walked he forgot his pain; his heart began to beat quickly, and he felt an incredible joy. He looked at himself, wonderingly, at the beloved men around him, and he said to himself: Lawrence, old son, treasure this moment. Because you feel as good as a man can feel.

5. LONGSTREET.

The hospital was an open field just back of the line.

There were small white tents all over the field and bigger tents where the surgeons did the cutting. Hood was there, in a big tent, on a litter. Longstreet came in out of the dark, bowing under a canopy, saw the face like cold marble in yellow candlelight, eyes black and soft like old polished stones. Cullen and Maury were working together on the arm. Longstreet saw; not much left of the hand. Exposed bone. He thought of Jackson hit in the arm at Chancellorsville: died a slow death. Let us cross over the river. Hood’s black eyes stared unseeing. Longstreet said softly, “Sam?”

Cullen looked up; Maury was tying a knot, went on working. Troops had gathered outside the canopy. A sergeant bawled: move on, move on. Hood stared at Longstreet, not seeing. There was dirt streaked in tear stains on his cheeks, but he was not crying now. His head twitched, cheek jerked. He said suddenly, in a light, strange, feathery voice, “Should have let me move to ri- “ He breathed. “To the right.”

Longstreet nodded. To Cullen, he said, “Can I talk to him?”

”Rather not. We’ve drugged him. Sir. Better let him sleep.”

Hood raised the other arm, twitched fingers, let the hand fall. “Din see much. Boys went in an’ hit the rocks. I got hit.”

Longstreet, no good at talking, nodded.

”Should have moved right, Pete.” Hood was staring at him, bright, drugged, eerie eyes. “How did it go, Pete?”

”Fine, Sam,”

”We took those rocks?”

”Most of ‘em.”

”Took the rocks. Really did.”

”Yes,” Longstreet lied.

Hood’s eyes blinked slowly, blearily. He put the good hand up to shade his eyes. “Devil’s Den. Good name for it.”

”Yep.”

”Worst ground I ever saw, you know that?” Hood laid the back of his hand across his eyes. His voice trembled. “Got to give my boys credit.”

Longstreet said to Cullen, “Can you save the arm?”

”We’re trying. But if we do, it won’t be much use to him.”

Hood said, “Casualties? Was casualties?”

”Don’t know yet,” Longstreet said. And then: “Not bad.” Another lie.

Cullen said gloomily, plaintively, “He ought to go to sleep. Now don’t fight it, General. Let it work. You just drift right on off.”

Longstreet said softly, “You go to sleep now, Sam. Tell you all about it tomorrow.”

”Shame not to see it.” Hood took the hand away. His eyes were dreaming, closing like small doors over a dim light. “Should have gone to the right.” He looked hazily at the hand. “You fellas try to save that now, you hear?”

”Yes, sir. General. Now why don’t you…?”

”Sure will miss it.” Hood’s eyes closed again; his face began smoothing toward sleep. Longstreet thought: he won’t die. Not like Jackson. There was a blackness around Jackson’s eyes. Longstreet reached down, touched Hood on the shoulder, then turned and went out into the moonlight.

Sorrel was there, with the silent staff. Longstreet mounted, rising up into the moonlight, looking out across the pale tents at the small fires, the black silence. He heard a boy crying, pitiful childish sobs, a deeper voice beyond soothing. Longstreet shook his head to clear the sound, closed his eyes, saw Barksdale go streaming to his death against a flaming fence in the brilliant afternoon, hair blazing out behind him like white fire. Longstreet rode up the ridge toward the darker ground under the trees.

Barksdale lies under a sheet. They have not covered his face; there is a flag over him. Semmes is dead. How many others? Longstreet cleared the brain, blew away bloody images, the brilliant fence in the bright gleaming air of the afternoon, tried to catalogue the dead. Must have figures.

But he was not thinking clearly. There was a rage in his brain, a bloody cloudy area like mud stirred in a pool. He was like a fighter who has been down once and is up again, hurt and in rage, looking to return the blow, looking for the opening. But it was a silent rage, a crafty rage; he was learning war. He rode purposefully, slowly off into the dark feeling the swelling inside his chest like an unexploded bomb and in the back of his mind a vision of that gray rocky hill(all spiked with guns, massed with blue troops at the top, and he knew as certainly as he had ever known anything as a soldier that the hill could not be taken, not any more, and a cold, metal, emotionless voice told him that coldly, calmly, speaking into his ear as if he had a companion with him utterly untouched by the rage, the war, a machine inside wholly unhurt, a metal mind that did not feel at all.

”Sir?”

Longstreet swiveled in the saddle: Sorrel. The man said warily, “Captain Goree is here, sir. Ah, you sent for him.”

Longstreet looked, saw the skinny Texan, gestured.

Sorrel backed off. Longstreet said, “T. J. Want you to get out to the right and scout the position. No more damn fool counter-marches in the morning. Take most of the night but get it clear, get it clear. I’ve got Hood’s Division posted on our right flank. Or what’s left of it. I’ve put Law in command. You need any help, you get it from Law, all right?”

The Texan, a silent man, nodded but did not move.

Longstreet said, “What’s the matter?”

”They’re blaming us,” Goree said. His voice was squeaky, like a dry wagon wheel. He radiated anger.

Longstreet stared.

”What?”

”I been talking to Hood’s officers. Do you know they blame us? They blame you. For today.”

Longstreet could not see the bony face clearly, in the dark, but the voice was tight and very high, and Longstreet thought: he could be a dangerous man, out of control.

Goree said, “You may hear of it. General. I had to hit this fella. They all said the attack was your fault and if General Lee knowed he wouldn’t have ordered it and I just couldn’t just stand there and I couldn’t say right out what I felt, so I had to hit this one fella. Pretty hard. Had to do it. Ain’ goin’ to apologize neither. No time. But. Thought you ought to know.”

”Is he dead?”

”I don’t think so.”

”Well, that’s good.” Longstreet meditated. “Well, don’t worry on it. Probably won’t hear another thing if you didn’t kill him. Probably forgotten in the morning. One thing: I want no duels. No silly damn duels.”

”Yes, sir. Thing is, if anything bad happens now, they all blame it on you. I seen it comin’. They can’t blame General Lee. Not no more. So they all take it out on you. You got to watch yourself, General.”

”Well,” Longstreet said. “Let it go.”

”Yes, sir. But it aint easy. After I saw you take all morning trying to get General Lee to move to the right.”

”Let it go. T. J. We’ll talk on it after the fight.”

Goree moved out. There goes a damn good man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”How bad?”

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

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

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

”Have you got the casualty figures yet?”

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

Longstreet jerked his head, acknowledging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”General Pickett’s compliments, sir. He wishes to announce his presence upon the field.”

Longstreet stared, grunted, gave an involuntary chuckle.

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

Fairfax had a wide mouth: teeth gleamed in moonlight.

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

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

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

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

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

With fine accuracy, sir.”

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

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

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

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

There was a sutler’s store, a white wagon, a man selling a strange elixir with the high blessed chant of a preacher. He began to see civilians: important people in very good clothes, some sleek carriages, many slaves. People come up from home to see how the army was doing, to deliver a package to a son, a brother. He rode out into the light and heads began to turn and fix on him and he felt the awkward flush come over his face as eyes looked at him and knew him and fingers began to point. He rode looking straight ahead, a crowd beginning to trail out after him like the tail of a comet. A reporter yelled a question. One of the foreigners, the one with the silver helmet like an ornate chamber pot, waved an intoxicated greeting. Longstreet rode on toward the little house across the road. Music and laughter and motion everywhere: a celebration. All the faces were happy. Teeth glittered through black beards. He saw pearl stickpins, silky, satiny clothing. And there against a fence: Jeb Stuart.

Longstreet pulled up.

The cavalier, a beautiful man, was lounging against a fence, a white rail fence, in a circle of light, a circle of admirers. Reporters were taking notes. Stuart was dressed in soft gray with butternut braid along the arms and around the collar and lace at his throat, and the feathered hat was swept back to hang happily, boyishly from the back of the head, and curls peeked out across the wide handsome forehead. Full-bearded, to hide a weak chin, but a lovely boy, carefree, mud-spattered, obviously tired, languid, cheery, confident. He looked up at Longstreet, waved a languid hello. He gave the impression of having been up for days, in the saddle for days, and not minding it. Longstreet jerked a nod, unsmiling. He thought: we have small use for you now. But you are Lee’s problem. Longstreet slowed, not wanting to speak to Stuart. The crowd was beginning to press in around his horse, shouting congratulations. Longstreet looked from face to breathless face, amazed. Congratulations? For what? The crowd had moved in between him and Stuart. He pressed stubbornly forward toward Lee’s cottage. It was impossible to answer questions: too much noise. He wished he had not come. Ride back later, when it’s quiet. But too late to go now. One of Lee’s people, Venable, had taken the reins of his horse. Someone was yelling in an eerie wail, “Way for General Longstreet, way for the General!” And there across the crowd he saw an open space by the door of the little house, and there in the light was Lee.

Quiet spread out from Lee. The old man stepped out into the light, came forward. Stuart swung to look. Longstreet saw men beginning to take off their hats in the old man’s presence. Lee came up to Longstreet’s horse, put out his hand, said something very soft. Longstreet took the hand.

There was no strength in it. Lee was saying that he was glad to see him well, and there was that extraordinary flame in the dark eyes, concern of a loving father, that flicked all Longstreet’s defenses aside and penetrated to the lonely man within like a bright hot spear, and Longstreet nodded, grumbled, and got down from the horse. Lee said accusingly that he had heard that Longstreet had been in the front line again and that he had promised not to do that, and Longstreet, flustered by too many people staring at him, too many strangers, said, well, he’d just come by for orders.

Lee said watchfully, smiling, “General Stuart is back.”

The crowd opened for Jeb. He came forward with extended hand. Longstreet took it, mumbled, could not meet the younger eyes. Jeb was grinning a brilliant grin; hands were patting him on the back. Longstreet felt mulish.

Damn fool. But he said nothing. Lee said that General Stuart ought to know how worried they had all been about him, and Stuart grinned like a proud child, but there was something wary in his eyes, looking at Lee, some small bit of question, and Longstreet wondered what the old man had said. Stuart said something about having seen a lot of Yankee countryside lately, and it was getting kind of dull, and slowly the noise began to grow up around them again.

They moved toward the house, Lee taking Longstreet by the arm. They moved in a lane through hundreds of people, like Moses at the parting of the Sea. Somebody began a cheer, a formal cheer, a university cheer. A band struck up, oh Lord, “Bonny Blue Flag,” again. Hands were touching Longstreet. He went up into the small house and into a small room, the roof closing in over him like the lid on a jar, but even here it was jammed with people, a tiny room no bigger than your kitchen, and all Lee’s officers and aides, working, rushing in and out, and even here some people from Richmond. A place cleared for Lee and he sat down in a rocking chair and Longstreet saw him in the light and saw that he was tired. Lee rested a moment, closing his eyes.

There was no place for Longstreet to sit except on the edge of the table, and so he sat there. Taylor pushed by, begging Longstreet’s pardon, needing a signature on a letter to someone.

Lee raised a hand. “We’ll rest for a moment.”

Longstreet saw the old man sag, breathe deeply, his mouth open. Lines of pain around the eyes. He put the gray head down for a moment, then looked up quickly at Longstreet, shook his head slightly.

”A bit tired.”

He never said anything like that. Lee never complained.

Longstreet said, “Can I get you something?”

Lee shook his head. Aides were talking loudly about artillery, a message to Richmond. Longstreet thought: no rest here. Lee said, reading his mind, “I’ll clear them out in a minute or two.” He took another deep breath, almost a gasp, put a hand to his chest, shook his head with regret.

His face was gray and still. He looked up with a vagueness in his eyes.

”It was very close this afternoon.”

”Sir?”

”They almost broke. I could feel them breaking. I thought for a moment… I saw our flags go up the hill… I almost thought…”

Longstreet said, “It wasn’t that close.” But Lee’s eyes were gazing by him at a vision of victory. Longstreet said nothing. He rubbed his mouth. Lee eyes strange: so dark and soft. Longstreet could say nothing. In the presence of the Commander the right words would not come.

Lee said, “The attacks were not coordinated. I don’t know why. We shall see. But we almost did it, this day. I could see… an open road to Washington.” He closed his eyes, rubbed them. Longstreet felt an extraordinary confusion. He had a moment without confidence, windblown and blasted, vacant as an exploded shell. There was a grandness in Lee that shadowed him, silenced him. You could not preach caution here, not to that face. And then the moment passed and a small rage bloomed, not at Lee but at Longstreet himself. He started to try to speak, but Lee said, “It was reported that General Barksdale was killed.”

”Yes, sir.”

”And General Semmes.”

”Sir.”

”And how is it with General Hood?”

”I think he’ll live. I’ve just come from him.”

”Praise God. We could not spare General Hood.” He was gazing again into nowhere. After a moment he said, almost plaintively, “I’ve lost Dorsey Pender.”

”Yes,” Longstreet said. One by one: down the dark road. Don’t think on that now.

Lee said, “He would have made a Corps commander, I think.” The old man sat looking half asleep.

Longstreet said stiffly, “Sir, there are three Union corps dug in on the high ground in front of me.”

Lee nodded. After a moment he said, “So very close. I believe one more push…”

A burst of shouting outside. The band had come closer.

Longstreet said, “Today I lost almost half my strength.”

And felt like a traitor for saying it, the truth, the granite truth, felt a smallness, a rage. Lee nodded but did not seem to hear. Longstreet pushed on.

”The way to the right is still open, sir.”

Lee looked up slowly, focused, slowly smiled, put out a hand, touched Longstreet’s arm.

”Let me think. General.”

”We have enough artillery for one more good fight. One more.”

”I know.” Lee took a breath, sat up. “Let me think on it. But, General, I am very glad to see you well.”

Taylor pushed in again. Longstreet reached out, gripped the young man in a metal clasp.

”General Lee needs his rest. I want you to keep some of these people away.”

Taylor drew back in frosty reproach, as if Longstreet’s hand smelted badly of fish. Longstreet felt the coming of a serious rage. But Lee smiled, reached out for the papers in Taylor’s hand.

”A few more moments. General. Then I’ll send them off. Now, what have we here?”

Longstreet backed off. The white head bent down over the papers. Longstreet stood there. All his life he had taken orders and he knew the necessity for command and the old man in front of him was the finest commander he had ever known. Longstreet looked around at the faces. The gentlemen were chatting, telling lively funny stories. Out in the smoky night a band was mounting another song. Too many people, too much noise. He backed out the door. Come back later. In the night, later, when the old man is alone, we will have to talk.

He moved out into the crowd, head down, mounted his horse. Someone pulled his arm. He glared: Marshall, red-faced, waving papers, cheeks hot with rage.

”General Longstreet! Sir. Will you talk to him?”

”Who? What about?”

”I’ve prepared court-martial papers for General Stuart. General Lee will not sign them.”

Longstreet grimaced. Of course not. But not my problem. Marshall held the reins. He was standing close by and the men nearby were backed off in deference and had not heard him. Longstreet said, “When did he finally get back?”

”This evening.” Marshall, with effort, was keeping his voice down. “He was joyriding. For the fun of it. He captured about a hundred enemy wagons. And left us blind in enemy country. Criminal, absolutely criminal. Several of us have agreed to ask for court-martial, but General Lee says he will not discuss it at this time.”

Longstreet shrugged.

”General. If there is not some discipline in this army… there are good men dead, sir.” Marshall struggled.

Longstreet saw a man closing in. Fat man with a full beard. Familiar face: a Richmond reporter. Yes, a theorist on war.

A man with a silvery vest and many opinions. He came, notebook in hand. Longstreet itched to move, but Marshall held.

”I’d like your opinion, sir. You are the second-ranking officer in this army. Do you believe that these court-martial papers should be signed?”

Longstreet paused. Men were closing in, yelling more congratulations. Longstreet nodded once, deliberately.

”I do,” he said.

”Will you talk to General Lee?”

”I will.” Longstreet gathered the reins. Men were close enough now to hear, were staring up at him. “But you know, Marshall, it won’t do any good.”

”We can try, sir.”

”Right.” Longstreet touched his cap. “We can at least do that.”

He spurred toward the cool dark. They opened to let him pass. Hats were off; they were cheering. He rode head down toward the silent road. He was amazed at the air of victory.

He thought: got so that whenever they fight they assume there’s victory that night. Face of Goree. They can’t blame General Lee, not no more. But there was no victory today.

So very close, the old man said. And yet it was not a loss. And Longstreet knew that Lee would attack in the morning.

He would never quit the field. Not with the Union Army holding the field. Three Union corps on the hills above. Lee will attack.

Longstreet stopped, in darkness, looked back toward the light. A voice was calling. Longstreet turned to ride on, and then the voice registered and he looked back: a grinning Fremantle, hat held high like the cloth on the arm of a scarecrow, bony, ridiculous. He looked like an illustration Longstreet had once seen of Ichabod Crane.

”Good evening, sir! My compliments, sir! Marvelous evening, what? Extraordinary! May I say, sir, that I observed your charge this afternoon, and I was inspired, sir, inspired. Strordnry, sir, a general officer at the front of the line. One’s heart leaps. One’s hat is off to you, sir.” He executed a vast swirling bow, nearly falling from the horse, arose grinning, mouth a half moon of cheery teeth.

Longstreet smiled.

”Will you take my hand, sir, in honor of your great victory?”

Longstreet took the limp palm, knowing the effort it cost the Englishman, who thought handshaking unnatural. “Victory?” Longstreet said.

”General Lee is the soldier of the age, the soldier of the age.” Fremantle radiated approval like a tattered star, but he did it with such cool and delicate grace that there was nothing unnatural about it, nothing fawning or nattering. He babbled a charming hero-worship, one gentleman to another. Longstreet, who had never learned the art of compliment, admired it.

”May I ride along with you, sir?”

”Course.”

”I do not wish to intrude upon your thoughts and schemes.”

”No problem.”

”I observed you with General Lee. I would imagine that there are weighty technical matters that occupy your mind.”

Longstreet shrugged. Fremantle rode along beamily chatting. He remarked that he had watched General Lee during much of the engagement that day and that the General rarely sent messages. Longstreet explained that Lee usually gave the orders and then let his boys alone to do the job. Fremantle returned to awe. “The soldier of the age,” he said again, and Longstreet thought: should have spoken to Lee. Must go back tonight. But… let the old man sleep. Never saw his face that weary. Soul of the army. He’s in command. You are only the hand. Silence. Like a soldier.

He will attack.

Well. They love him. They do not blame him. They do impossible things for him. They may even take that hill.

”… have no doubt,” Fremantle was saying, “that General Lee shall become the world’s foremost authority on military matters when this war is over, which would appear now to be only a matter of days, or at most a few weeks. I suspect all Europe will be turning to him for lessons.”

Lessons?

”I have been thinking, I must confess, of setting some brief thoughts to paper,” Fremantle announced gravely.

”Some brief remarks of my own, appended to an account of this battle, and perhaps others this army has fought. Some notes as to the tactics.”

Tactics?

”General Lee’s various stratagems will be most instructive, most illuminating. I wonder, sir, if I might enlist your aid in this, ah, endeavor. As one most closely concerned? That is, to be brief, may I come to you when in need?”

”Sure,” Longstreet said. Tactics? He chuckled. The tactics are simple: find the enemy, fight him. He shook his head, snorting. Fremantle spoke softly, in tones of awe.

”One would not think of General Lee, now that one has met him, now that one has looked him, so to speak, in the eye, as it were, one would not think him, you known to be such a devious man.”

”Devious?” Longstreet swung to stare at him, aghast.

”Oh my word,” Fremantle went on devoutly, “but he’s a tricky one. The Old Gray Fox, as they say. Charming phrase. American to the hilt.”

”Devious?” Longstreet stopped dead in the road. “Devious.” He laughed aloud. Fremantle stared an owlish stare.

”Why, Colonel, bless your soul, there aint a devious bone in Robert Lee’s body, don’t you know that?”

”My dear sir.”

”By damn, man, if there is one human being in the world less devious than Robert Lee, I aint yet met him. By God and fire. Colonel, but you amuse me.” And yet Longstreet was not amused. He leaned forward blackly across the pommel of the saddle. “Colonel, let me explain something. The secret of General Lee is that men love him and follow him with faith in him. That’s one secret. The next secret is that General Lee makes a decision and he moves, with guts, and he’s been up against a lot of sickly generals who don’t know how to make decisions, although some of them have guts but whose men don’t love them. That’s why we win, mostly. Because we move with speed, and faith, and because we usually have the good ground. Tactics? God, man, we don’t win because of tricks. What were the tactics at Malvern Hill? What were the tactics at Fredericksburg, where we got down behind a bloody stone wall and shot the bloody hell out of them as they came up, wave after wave, bravest thing you ever saw, because, listen, there are some damn good boys across the way, make no mistake on that. I’ve fought with those boys, and they know how to fight when they’ve got the ground, but tactics? Tactics?” He was stumbling for words, but it was pouring out of him in hot clumps out of the back of the brain, the words like falling coals, and Fremantle stared open-mouthed.

”God in Heaven,” Longstreet said, and repeated it, “there’s no strategy to this bloody war. What it is, is old Napoleon and a hell of a lot of chivalry. That’s all it is. What were the tactics at Chancellorsville, where we divided the army, divided it, so help me God, in the face of the enemy, and got away with it because Joe Hooker froze cold in his stomach? What were the tactics yesterday? What were they today? And what will be the blessed tactics tomorrow? I’ll tell you the tactics tomorrow. Devious? Christ in Heaven. Tomorrow we will attack an enemy that outnumbers us, an enemy that outguns us, an enemy dug in on the high ground, and let me tell you, if we win that one it will not be because of the tactics or because we are great strategists or because there is anything even remotely intelligent about the war at all. It will be a bloody miracle, a bloody miracle.”

And then he saw what he was saying.

He cut it off. Fremantle’s mouth was still open. Longstreet thought: very bad things to say. Disloyal. Fool. Bloody damned fool. And then he began truly to understand what he had said.

It surfaced, like something long sunken rising up out of black water. It opened up there in the dark of his mind and he turned from Fremantle.

The Englishman said something. Longstreet nodded. The truth kept coming. Longstreet waited. He had known all this for a long time but he had never said it, except in fragments.

He had banked it and gone on with the job, a soldier all his life. In his mind he could see Lee’s beautiful face and suddenly it was not the same face. Longstreet felt stuffed and thick and very strange. He did not want to think about it. He spurred the horse. Hero reared. Longstreet thought: you always know the truth; wait long enough and the mind will tell you. He rode beneath a low tree; leaves brushed his hat. He stopped. A voice at his elbow: Fremantle.

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

”If I have disturbed you, sir…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Evening, Pete.”

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

”How goes it, Pete?”

”Passing well, passing well.”

”Come on and join us, why don’t you? We liberated some Pennsylvania whisky; aint much left.”

Longstreet shook his head.

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

”May lose an arm.”

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

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

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

”Sure.”

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

Longstreet said nothing.

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

Longstreet shook his head.

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

Longstreet looked out into the firelight. He recognized Fremantle, popeyed and grinning, rising awkwardly to his feet, tin cup raised for a toast. Longstreet could not hear.

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

Longstreet smiled. He thought: devious Lee.

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

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

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

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

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

Armistead was saying, “That Fremantle is kind of funny. He said that we Southerners were the most polite people he’d ever met, but then he noticed we all of us carry guns all the time, wherever we went, and he figured that maybe that was why. Hee.” Armistead chuckled. “But we don’t really need the limeys, do we, Pete, you think? Not so long as we have old Bobby Lee to lead the way.”

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

An Irish song. He listened.

… oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?

Oh has thou forgotten how soon we must part?

It may be for years, it may be forever…

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

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

Armistead looked up. He looked at Longstreet and then quickly away. Out in the glade they were sitting motionless, and then Pickett got up suddenly and stalked, face wet with tears, rubbing his cheeks, grumbling, then he said stiffly, “Good cheer, boys, good cheer tonight.” The faces looked up at him. Pickett moved to the rail fence and sat there and said, “Let me tell you the story of old Tangent, which is Dick Ewell’s horse, which as God is my final judge is not only the slowest and orneriest piece of horseflesh in all this here army, but possibly also the slowest horse in this hemisphere, or even in the history of all slow horses.”

The faces began to lighten. A bottle began to move.

Pickett sat on the rail fence like old Baldy Ewell riding the horse. The laughter began again, and in the background they played something fast and light and the tenor did not sing. In a few moments Pickett was doing a hornpipe with Fremantle, and the momentary sadness had passed like a small mist. Longstreet wanted to move over there and sit down. But he did not belong there.

Armistead said, “You hear anything of Win Hancock?”

”Ran in to him today.” Longstreet gestured. “He’s over that way, mile or so.”

”That a fact?” Armistead grinned. “Bet he was tough.”

”He was.”

”Ha,” Armistead chuckled. “He’s the best they’ve got, and that’s a fact.”

”Yep.”

”Like to go on over and see him, soon’s I can, if it’s all right.”

”Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

”Well, that’ll be fine.” Armistead looked up at the moon. “That song there, ‘Kathleen Mavoumeen’?” He shrugged. Longstreet looked at him. He was rubbing his face. Armistead said slowly, “Last time I saw old Win, we played that, ‘round the piano.” He glanced at Longstreet, grinned vaguely, glanced away. “We went over there for the last dinner together, night before we all broke up. Spring of sixty-one.” He paused, looked into the past, nodded to himself.

”Mira Hancock had us over. One more evening together. You remember Mira. Beautiful woman. Sweet woman. They were a beautiful couple, you know that? Most beautiful couple I ever saw. He sure looks like a soldier, now, and that’s a fact.”

Longstreet waited. Something was coming.

”Garnett was there, that last night. And Sydney Johnston. Lot of fellas from the old outfit. We were leaving the next day, some goin’ North, some comin’ South. Splitting up. God! You remember.”

Longstreet remembered: a bright cold day. A cold, cold day. A soldier’s farewell: goodbye, good luck, and see you in Hell. Armistead said, “We sat around the piano, toward the end of the evening. You know how it was. Mary was playing. We sang all the good songs. That was one of them, ‘Kathleen Mavoumeen,’ and there was ‘Mary of Argyle,’ and… ah. It may be for years, and it may be forever.

Never forget that.”

He stopped, paused, looked down into the whisky glass, looked up at Longstreet. “You know how it was, Pete.”

Longstreet nodded.

”Well, the man was a brother to me. You remember.

Toward the end of the evening… it got rough. We all began, well, you know, there were a lot of tears.”

Armistead’s voice wavered; he took a deep breath. “Well, I was crying, and I went up to Win and I took him by the shoulder and I said, ‘Win, so help me, if I ever lift a hand against you, may God strike me dead.’”

Longstreet felt a cold shudder. He looked down at the ground. There was nothing to say. Armistead said, shaken, “I’ve not seen him since. I haven’t been on the same field with him, thank God. It… troubles me to think on it.”

Longstreet wanted to reach out and touch him. But he went on looking at the dark ground.

”Can’t leave the fight, of course,” Armistead said. “But I think about it. I meant it as a vow, you see. You understand, Pete?”

”Sure.”

”I thought about sitting this one out. But… I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think that would be right either.”

”Guess not.”

Armistead sighed. He drank the last of the whisky in a swift single motion. He took off the soft black hat and held it in his hand and the gray hair glistened wetly, and the band of white skin at the forehead shone in the light. With the hat off he was older, much older, old courtly Lo. Had been a fiery young man. Lothario grown old.

”Thank you, Pete.” Armistead’s voice was steady, “Had to talk about that.”

”Course.”

”I sent Mira Hancock a package to be opened in the event of my death. I… you’ll drop by and see her, after this is done?”

Longstreet nodded. He said, “I was just thinking. Of the time you hit Early with the plate.”

Armistead grinned. “Didn’t hit him hard enough.”

Longstreet smiled. Then was able to reach out and touch him. He just tapped him once lightly, one touch, on the shoulder, and pulled back his hand.

Out in the camp in the light of the fire Pickett was winding down. He was telling the story about the time during a cannonade when there was only one tree to hide behind and how the men kept forming behind the tree, a long thin line which grew like a pigtail, and swayed to one side or the other every time a ball came close, and as Pickett acted it out daintily, gracefully, it was very funny.

Armistead said, “Wonder if these cherry trees will grow at home. You think they’ll grow at home?”

In a moment Armistead said, “Let’s go join the party. Pete? Why not? Before they drink up all the whisky.”

”No thanks. You go on.”

”Pete, tomorrow could be a long day.”

”Work to do.” But Longstreet felt himself yielding, softening, bending like a young tree in the wind.

”Come on, Pete. One time. Do you good.”

Longstreet looked out at all the bright apple faces. He saw again in his mind the steady face of Lee. He thought: I don’t belong. But he wanted to join them. Not even to say anything. Just to sit there and listen to the jokes up close, sit inside the warm ring, because off here at this distance with the deafness you never heard what they said; you were out of it. But… if he joined there would be a stiffness. He did not want to spoil their night. And yet suddenly, terribly, he wanted it again, the way it used to be, arms linked together, all drunk and singing beautifully into the night, with visions of death from the afternoon, and dreams of death in the coming dawn, the night filled with a monstrous and temporary glittering joy, fat moments, thick seconds dropping like warm rain, jewel after jewel.

”Pete?”

Longstreet stood up. He let go the reins of command. He thought of the three Union corps, one of them Hancock, dug in on the hill, and he let them all go. He did not want to lead any more. He wanted to sit and drink and listen to stories.

He said, “I guess one drink, if it’s all right.”

Armistead took him by the arm with a broad grin, and it was genuine; he took Longstreet by the arm and pulled him toward the circle.

”Hey, fellas,” Armistead bawled, “look what I got. Make way for the Old Man.”

They all stood to greet him. He sat down and took a drink and he did not think any more about the war.

6. LEE.

He worked all that night. The noise went on around him until long after midnight. His staff was too small: must do something about that. But he could handle the work and there were many decisions that could be made only by the commanding officer, and the commanding officer should know as much as possible about the logistics of the situation, the condition of the army down to the last detail.

He found that he could work right through the pain, that there came a second wind. If you sat quietly in a rocking chair you could work all night long. The trouble came when you tried to move. So he worked from the chair, not rising, and every now and then he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes and blanked the brain, and so rested. The noise did not bother him. But he did not like people crowding too close. After a while he knew it was time to be alone. He told Taylor to ask the people outside to disperse.

In a few moments it was very quiet. He rose up out of the chair and stepped out into the night. Time to make a plan now, time to make a decision.

The night air was soft and warm. Across the road there were still many fires in the field but no more bands, no more singing. Men sat in quiet groups, talking the long slow talk of night in camp at war; many had gone to sleep. There were stars in the sky and a gorgeous white moon. The moon shone on the white cupola of the seminary across the road- lovely view, good place to see the fight. He had tried to climb the ladder but it turned out not to be possible. Yet there was little pain now. Move slowly, slowly. He said to Taylor, “What day is it now?” Taylor extracted a large round watch.

”Sir, it’s long after midnight. It’s already Friday.”

”Friday, July third.”

”Yes, sir, I believe that is correct.”

”And tomorrow will be the Fourth of July.”

”Sir?”

”Independence Day.”

Taylor grunted, surprised. “I’d quite forgotten.” Curious coincidence. Lee thought. Perhaps an omen?

Taylor said, “The good Lord has a sense of humor.”

”Wouldn’t it be ironic-“ Lee could not resist the thought-“if we should gain our independence from them, on their own Independence Day?” He shook his head, wondering. He believed in a Purpose as surely as he believed that the stars above him were really there. He thought himself too dull to read God’s plan, thought he was not meant to know God’s plan, a servant only. And yet sometimes there were glimpses. To Taylor he said, “I’ll go sit with Traveler awhile and think. You will keep these people away.”

”Yes, sir.”

”I am sorry to keep you so late.”

”My pleasure, sir.”

”We should have a larger staff.”

”Sir, I shall be offended.”

”Well, I want to think for a while, alone.”

”Sir” Lee moved off into the dark pasture. Now in motion he was aware of stiffness, of weakness, of a suspended fear.

He moved as if his body was Jailed with cold cement that was slowly hardening, and yet there was something inside bright and hot and fearful, as if something somewhere could break at any moment, as if a rock in his chest was teetering and could come crashing down. He found the dark horse in the night and stood caressing the warm skin, thick bristly mane, feeding sugar, talking.

Two alternatives. We move away to better ground, as Longstreet suggests. Or we stay To the end.

He sat on a rail fence. And so we broke the vow is Longstreet’s bitter phrase. It stuck in the mind like one of those spiny sticker burrs they had in the South, in Florida, small hooked seeds that lurk in the grass. Honest and stubborn man, Longstreet. We broke the vow. No point in thinking.

He remembered the night in Arlington when the news came: secession. He remembered a paneled wall and firelight. When we heard the news we went into mourning.

But outside there was cheering in the streets, bonfires of joy.

They had their war at last. But where was there ever any choice? The sight of fire against wood paneling, a bonfire seen far off at night through a window, soft and sparky glows always to remind him of that embedded night when he found that he had no choice. The war had come. He was a member of the army that would march against his home, his sons. He was not only to serve in it but actually to lead it, to make the plans and issue the orders to kill and bum and ruin. He could not do that. Each man would make his own decision, but Lee could not raise his hand against his own. And so what then? To stand by and watch, observer at the death? To do nothing? To wait until the war was over?

And if so, from what vantage point and what distance? How far do you stand from the attack on your home, whatever the cause, so that you can bear it? It had nothing to do with causes; it was no longer a matter of vows.

When Virginia left the Union she bore his home away as surely as if she were a ship setting out to sea, and what was left behind on the shore was not his any more. So it was no cause and no country he fought for, no ideal and no justice.

He fought for his people, for the children and the kin, and not even the land, because not even the land was worth the war, but the people were, wrong as they were, insane even as many of them were, they were his own, he belonged with his own. And so he took up arms willfully, knowingly, in perhaps the wrong cause against his own sacred oath and stood now upon alien ground he had once sworn to defend, sworn in honor, and he had arrived there really in the hands of God, without any choice at all; there had never been an alternative except to run away, and he could not do that. But Longstreet was right, of course: he had broken the vow. And he would pay. He knew that and accepted it. He had already paid. He closed his eyes. Dear God, let it end soon. Now he must focus his mind on the war.

Alternatives? Any real choice here?

Move on, to higher ground in another place. Or stay and fight.

Well, if we stay, we must fight. No waiting. We will never be stronger. They will be gaining men from all directions. Most of the men will be militia and not the match of our boys, but they will come in thousands, bringing fresh guns. Supplies will come to them in rivers, but nothing will come to us. Richmond has nothing to send.

So if we stay, we fight soon. No more chance of surprise.

No more need for speed or mobility. But no more delay We cannot sit and wait. Bad effect on the troops.

And if we pull out?

He saw that in his mind’s eye: his boys backing off, pulling out, looking up in wonder and rage at the Yankee troops still in possession of the high ground. If we fall back, we will have fought here for two days and we will leave knowing that we did not drive them off, and if it was no defeat, surely it was no victory. And we have never yet left the enemy in command of the field.

I never saw soldiers fight well after a retreat. We have always been outgunned. Our strength is in our pride. But they have good ground. And they have fought well. On home ground.

He saw a man coming toward him, easy gait, rolling and serene, instantly recognizable: Jeb Stuart. Lee stood up.

This must be done. Stuart came up, saluted pleasantly, took off the plumed hat and bowed.

”You wish to see me, sir?”

”I asked to see you alone,” Lee said quietly. “I wished to speak with you alone, away from other officers. That has not been possible until now I am sorry to keep you up so late.”

”Sir, I was not asleep,” Stuart drawled, smiled, gave the sunny impression that sleep held no importance, none at all.

Lee thought: here’s one with faith in himself. Must protect that. And yet, there’s a lesson to be learned. He said, “Are you aware. General, that there are officers on my staff who have requested your court-martial?” Stuart froze. His mouth hung open. He shook his head once quickly, then cocked it to one side.

Lee said, “I have not concurred. But it is the opinion of some excellent officers that you have let us all down.”

”General Lee,” Stuart was struggling. Lee thought: now there will be anger. “Sir,” Stuart said tightly, “if you will tell me who these gentlemen…”

”There will be none of that.” Lee’s voice was cold and sharp. He spoke as you speak to a child, a small child, from a great height. “There is no time for that.”

”I only ask that I be allowed-“ Lee cut him off. “There is no time,” Lee said. He was not a man to speak this way to a brother officer, a fellow Virginian; he shocked Stuart to silence with the iciness of his voice. Stuart stood like a beggar, his hat in his hands.

”General Stuart,” Lee said slowly, “you were the eyes of this army.” He paused.

Stuart said softly, a pathetic voice, “General Lee, if you please…” But Lee went on.

”You were my eyes. Your mission was to screen this army from the enemy cavalry and to report any movement by the enemy’s main body. That mission was not fulfilled.” Stuart stood motionless.

Lee said, “You left this army without word of your movements, or of the movements of the enemy, for several days. We were forced into battle without adequate knowledge of the enemy’s position, or strength, without knowledge of the ground. It is only by God’s grace that we have escaped disaster.”

”General Lee.” Stuart was in pain, and the old man felt pity, but this was necessary; it had to be done as a bad tooth has to be pulled, and there was no turning away. Yet even now he felt the pity rise, and he wanted to say, it’s all right, boy, it’s all right; this is only a lesson, just one painful quick moment of learning, over in a moment, hold on, it’ll be all right. His voice began to soften. He could not help it.

”It is possible that you misunderstood my orders. It is possible I did not make myself clear. Yet this must be clear: you with your cavalry are the eyes of the army. Without your cavalry we are blind, and that has happened once but must never happen again.” There was a moment of silence. It was done. Lee wanted to reassure him, but he waited, giving it time to sink in, to take effect, like medicine. Stuart stood breathing audibly.

After a moment he reached down and unbuckled his sword, theatrically, and handed it over with high drama in his face.

Lee grimaced, annoyed, put his hands behind his back, half turned his face. Stuart was saying that since he no longer held the General’s trust, but Lee interrupted with acid vigor.

”I have told you that there is no time for that. There is a fight tomorrow, and we need you. We need every man. God knows. You must take what I have told you and learn from it, as a man does. There has been a mistake. It will not happen again. I know your quality. You are a good soldier.

You are as good a cavalry officer as I have known, and your service to this army has been invaluable. I have learned to rely on your information; all your reports are always accurate. But no report is useful if it does not reach us. And that is what I wanted you to know. Now.” He lifted a hand.

”Let us talk no more of this.” Stuart stood there, sword in hand. Lee felt a vast pity, yet at the same time he could feel the coming of a smile. Good thing it was dark. He said formally, “General, this matter is concluded. There will be no further discussion of it. Good night.” He turned away. Stuart stood holding the sword, but he had too much respect for Lee to speak. He began to move slowly away. Lee saw him stop before going back out into the night and put the sword back on. A good boy. If he is a man, he will learn. But now he will be reckless, to prove himself. Must beware of that. Longstreet would not approve. But court-martial would have destroyed him. And he is spirited, and that is a great part of his value. Keep him on rein, but on a loose rein. He has to be checked now and then. But he’s a fine boy. And I am sorry to have to do that.

Yet it was necessary.

He sat back on the fence. Another figure was coming. He sighed, wanting silence. But the man was Venable, back from Ewell’s camp. Like all of Lee’s aides he had too much to do and had slept little in the last two days and he was nearing exhaustion. He reported, speech blurred.

”Sir, I think I’ve, ah, pieced it together. I’ve been studying General Ewell’s, ah, operation. Regret to say, very strange. There is much confusion in that camp.”

”Is General Ewell in firm command?” They had discussed it. Venable, who was fond of Dick Ewell, paused before answering. Then he said slowly, “Sir, I think General Ewell defers too much to General Early. He is… uncertain. I regret the necessity for speaking, sir. I would have preferred not…”

”I know.” Lee bowed his head. So. The choice of Dick Ewell had been a mistake. But how was one to know?

Honest Old Baldy. Had been a fine soldier. But cannot command a corps. Could I have known? Who else was there? Dorsey Pender… is wounded, Venable said, “General Ewell could not set his corps in position for the attack this afternoon until some hours after Longstreet had already begun. General Rodes got his men bottled up in the streets of Gettysburg and never attacked at all.”

”Not at all?”

”No sir. General Early attacked at dusk-“

”At dusk. But that was hours late.”

”Yes, sir, Longstreet’s attack was virtually over before Early got into action. But Early made no progress and called off the attack very soon. General Johnson managed to capture some trenches. Casualties were, ah, light.” Lee said nothing. He thought: Jackson would have moved… no time for that. He stared at the bold moon.

”You gave General Ewell my orders for the morning?”

”Yes, sir. He understands he is to be in position to attack at first light.”

”He understands that sir.” “He will have all night to prepare. That should be nearly ample time.” There was in Lee’s voice a rare touch of bitterness.

Venable paused warily, then said, “Are there further orders, sir?”

”Not just yet.” Lee rested against the rail fence. Cannot depend on Ewell, nor on Hill. There is only Longstreet: Pickett is fresh. Longstreet has fresh men. Virginians. For whom we broke the vow. Lee shook his head. Well, one thing is sure, if we attack tomorrow, it will be with Longstreet. He meditated a moment, weariness flowing through him like a bleak slow wind. Think now, before you get too tired. He dismissed Venable and turned back to the night.

He sat down once more against the rail fence. The horse moved in over him; he had to move to keep from being stepped on. He sat on the far side of the fence and reviewed the facts and made the decision.

It did not take him very long. He was by nature a decisive man, and although this was one of the great decisions of his life and he knew it, he made it quickly and did not agonize over it. He did not think of the men who would die; he had learned long ago not to do that. The men came here ready to die for what they believed in, for their homes and their honor, and although it was often a terrible death it was always an honorable death, and no matter how bad the pain it was only temporary, and after death there was the reward.

The decision was clear. It had been there in the back of his mind all that night, as he worked, remembering every moment the sight of his blue Virginia flags going up that long slope to the top, almost to victory, so close he could feel the world over there beginning to give like a rotten brick wall. He could not retreat now. It might be the clever thing to do, but cleverness did not win victories; the bright combinations rarely worked. You won because the men thought they would win, attacked with courage, attacked with faith, and it was the faith more than anything else you had to protect; that was one thing that was in your hands, and so you could not ask them to leave the field to the enemy. And even if you could do that, cleverly, there was no certainty they would find better ground anywhere else, not even any certainty that they could extricate themselves without trouble, and so he had known all along that retreat was simply no longer an alternative, the way a man of honor knows that when he has faced an enemy and exchanged one round of blows and stands there bleeding, and sees the blood of the enemy, a man of honor can no longer turn away. So he would stay And therefore, he would attack.

The rest was clear as an engraving, so natural there seemed no alternative. There would be no surprise now; speed no longer mattered. So motion meant nothing. The enemy had been attacked on both wings; he had reinforced there and would be strongest there. So the weak point was the center.

The enemy had high ground on each wing, but in the center there was a long slope. So he would be softest there, and if you hit him there with everything you had, all the artillery firing to prepare the way in a pont au feu, if you sent Pickett’s fresh Virginians straight up the center with Longstreet’s hand the guiding force, the dominant force, you would drive a split in the center and cut Meade’s army in two, break the rotten wall and send the broken pieces flying in all directions, so that if you sent Stuart’s cavalry around to the rear he could complete the rout, in among the wagons to finish the wreckage, yes, Stuart raw with -wounded pride and so anxious to redeem himself that he would let nothing stop him, and neither would Pickett, who had come in that day so desperately eager for battle.

Lee knelt and began to pray. His engineer’s mind went on thinking while he prayed. He could find no flaw: we will go up the center and split them in two, on the defense no longer, attacking at last, Pickett and Hood and McLaws. By the end of the prayer he was certain: he felt a releasing thrill. This was the way, as God would have it. Face to face with the enemy, on grounds of his own choosing. End with honor.

The weight of it was gone. He felt a grave drowsiness.

The horse nuzzled his ear; he smiled and rubbed the delicate nostrils. Then he began to drift off. He should go into bed now, but he was not comfortable lying down; he could not breathe. It was far better to sit in the night alone with the beautiful horse standing guard above him. It was not so bad to be an old man, drifting. Soon to see the Light. He wondered what it would be like to enter the Presence. They said there would be a fierce blinding light. How could they know, any of them? He wondered: Do you see all the old friends? At what age will they be? Will I see my father?

But it was all beyond him, and he accepted it. He had done his best: the Lord knew it. The heart thumped twice, a grave reminder. Lee nodded, as if at a summons, and prayed to the Lord for a little more time. After a while, he slept. He dreamed of little girls, dancing a cotillion. Then he dreamed of horses, herds of great horses, thundering by through black canyons of cloud. Beyond his tree, as he slept, the first blood light of dawn was rising up the sky.