Lee remembered: beautiful woman on a golden horse, riding with Pender on the banks of the Rappahannock. Lovely sight, a sunset sky.
”Mrs. Pender is, ah, a pious woman, and she believes that now that we have invaded Pennsylvania we are in the wrong, and God has forsaken us-you know how these people reason, sir-and she says she cannot pray for him.”
Lee shook his head. God protect us from our loving friends. He saw for one small moment the tragic face of his own frail wife, that unhappy woman, the stone strong face of his mother. Venable said, “I think a talk might help Pender, sir. Another man would shake it off, but he’s… taken it badly. Says he cannot pray himself.” Venable paused. “I know there are others who feel that way.”
Lee nodded. Venable said, “It was easier in Virginia, sir. On our home ground.”
”I know.”
”Will you speak to him, sir?”
”Yes,” Lee said.
”Very good, sir. I know it will help him, sir.”
Lee said, “I once swore to defend this ground.” He looked out across the misty grove. “No matter. No matter. We end the war as best we can.” He put his hand to his chest. “Napoleon once said, ‘The logical end to defensive warfare is surrender.’ You might tell him that.”
”Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
Venable went away. Lee felt a deeper spasm, like a black stain. I swore to defend. Now I invade. A soldier, no theologian. God, let it be over soon. While there’s time to play with grandchildren. It came too late. Fame came too late. I would have enjoyed it, if I were a younger man.
He moved back to the map table. The guilt stayed with him, ineradicable, like the silent alarm in the fragile chest. Swore to defend. Misty matters. Get on with the fight. He looked down at the map. The roads all converged, weblike, to Gettysburg. And where’s the spider? Nine roads in all. Message from Ewelclass="underline" his troops were on the move, would be coming down into Gettysburg from the north. Lee looked at his watch: eight o’clock. The rain had stopped, the mist was blowing off. He thought: good. Too much rain would muck up the roads. The first sun broke through, yellow and warm through steaming tree leaves, broad bright light blazed across the map table. Lee began to come slowly awake, blinking in the blaze of morning.
Out on the road the troops were moving in a great mottled stream: Longstreet’s First Corps, the backbone of the army, moving up behind Powell Hill. The barefoot, sunburned, thin and grinning army, joyful, unbeatable, already immortal. And then through the trees the familiar form: big man on a black horse, great round shoulders, head thick as a stump: James Longstreet.
It was reassuring just to look at him, riding slowly forward into the sunlight on the black Irish stallion: Dutch Longstreet, old Pete. He was riding along in a cloud of visitors, bright-clad foreigners, observers from Europe, plumes and feathers and helmeted horsemen, reporters from Richmond, the solemn members of Longstreet’s staff. He separated from the group and rode to Lee’s tent and the motley bright cloud remained respectfully distant. Lee rose with unconscious joy.
”General.”
”Mornin’.”
Longstreet touched his cap, came heavily down from the horse. He was taller than Lee, head like a boulder, full-bearded, long-haired, always a bit sloppy, gloomy, shocked his staff by going into battle once wearing carpet slippers. Never cared much for appearance, gave an impression of ominous bad-tempered strength and a kind of slow, even stubborn, unquenchable anger: a soft voice, a ragged mouth. He talked very slowly and sometimes had trouble finding the right word, and the first impression of him around that gay and courtly camp was that he was rather dull-witted and not much fun. He was not a Virginian. But he was a magnificent soldier. With Jackson gone he was the rock of the army, and Lee felt a new clutching in his chest, looking at him, thinking that this was one man you could not afford to lose. Longstreet smiled his ragged smile, grumbled, jerked a finger over his shoulder.
”Her Majesty’s forces in the New World passed a restful night.”
Lee looked, saw the ludicrous man in the lustrous hat and the wide gray coat. The man made a sweeping, quixotic bow, nearly falling from the horse. Colonel Fremantle was up. Lee gave a formal bow, smiling inwardly.
Longstreet observed with sloe-eyed surprise. “After a while, you know, he actually begins to grow on you.”
”You’re keeping him entertained?”
”Not exactly. He’s got his heart set on a cavalry charge.
Drawn sabers, all that glorious French business. He was horrified when I had to tell him we didn’t use the British square.”
Lee smiled.
”But he’s a likable fella.” Longstreet took off his hat, scratched his head. “Can’t say he’s learning much. But he seems to like us, all right. He says you have a great reputation in Europe.”
Lee said, “There’ll be no help from there.”
”No.”
”President Davis has hope.”
”Well, I guess that won’t do him any harm to hope.”
”At least we’ll be good hosts.” Lee felt a sudden strength. It came out of Longstreet like sunlight. Lee said happily, “And how are you this morning. General?”
”Me?” Longstreet blinked. “I’m all right.” He paused, cocked his head to one side, stared at the old man.
Lee said happily, “You must take care of yourself.”
Longstreet was mystified. No one ever asked him how he felt. His health was legendary, he never tired.
Lee said diplomatically, “The Old Soldier’s illness is going around.”
”It’s the damned cherries,” Longstreet gloomed. “Too many raw cherries.”
Lee nodded. Then he said softly, “General, in the fight that’s coming, I want you to stay back from the main line.”
Longstreet looked at him, expressionless. Black eyes glistened, bright and hard under hairy eyebrows. Impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Lee said, “You are our only veteran commander.”
Longstreet nodded.
”If I should become once again indisposed,” Lee said.
”God forbid.” Longstreet stared. “And how are you?”
Lee smiled, waved a deprecating hand. “I am well, very well. Thank God. But there is always… a possibility. And now Jackson is gone, and we must all do more than before. And I do not know if Hill or Ewell are ready for command, but I know that you…”
He paused. Hard to speak in this fashion. Longstreet was staring with cold silent eyes. Lee said sternly, “You have a very bad habit. General, of going too far forward.”
Longstreet said, “You cannot lead from behind.”
”Well. Let me put it plainly. I cannot spare you.”
Longstreet stood silent for a moment. He bowed slightly, then he grinned. “True,” he said.
”You will oblige me?”
”My pleasure,” Longstreet said.
Lee rubbed his nose, looked down at the table. “Now, let us look to the day. Nothing will happen today. But we have an opportunity, I believe.”
”Nothing from Stuart?”
Lee shook his head. Longstreet grumbled,’ ‘The Federals are closing in.”
”I have no new information.”
”When Stuart comes back, if he does come back-which he will eventually, if only just to read the Richmond newspapers-you ought to court-martial him.”
”And will that make him a better soldier?”
Longstreet paused. He said, “All right. What will?”
”Reproach, I think. I must let him know how badly he has let us down.”
Longstreet chuckled. He shook his head, gazing at Lee.
”Yes, by George. Maybe. Reproach from you. Yes.” Longstreet grinned widely. “Might do the job. But me… I’m not good at that.”
”Different men, different methods. Docile men make very poor soldiers.”
Longstreet grinned wryly. “An army of temperamentals. It isn’t an army, it’s a gentlemen’s club. My God. Remember when old Powell Hill wanted to fight me a duel, right in the middle of the war?”