”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.