To the left of the line a rabbit broke from heavy brush, darted frantically out into the tall grass. A soldier said, close by, “That’s right, ol’ hare, you run, you run. If I’se an ol’ hare, I’d run too.”
A murmur, a laugh. They came out of the woods into the open ground.
The ground fell away from the woods into a shallow dip. They were out of sight of the Union line. To the left there was a finger of woods between them and Pettigrew’s men. They would not see Pettigrew until they had moved out a way The day was lovely and hot and still, not a bird anywhere. Armistead searched the sky. Marvelous day, but very hot. He blinked. Would love to swim now. Cool clear water, lake water, cool and dark at the bottom, out of the light.
The Division was forming. Garnett was in front, Kemper to the right; Armistead’s line lay across the rear. It was a matchless sight, the Division drawn up as if for review. He looked down the line at the rows of guns, the soft blue flags of Virginia; he began to look at the faces, the tight faces, the eyes wide and dark and open, and he could hear more bands striking up far off to the right. No hurry now, a stillness everywhere, that same dusty, sleepy pause, the men not talking, no guns firing. Armistead moved forward through the ranks, saw Garnett on the horse, went over goodbye. Garnett no longer looked well; his coat was buttoned at the throat. Armistead said, “Dick, for God’s sake and mine, get down off the horse.”
Garnett said, “I’ll see you at the top, Lo.”
He put out his hand. Armistead took it.
Armistead said, “My old friend.”
It was the first time in Armistead’s life he had ever really known a man would die. Always before there was at least a chance, but here no chance at all, and now the man was his oldest friend.
Armistead said, “I ought to ride too.”
Garnett said, “Against orders.”
Armistead looked down the long line. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Garnett smiled.
Armistead said, “They never looked better, on any parade ground.”
”They never did.”
Armistead heard once more that sweet female voice, unbearable beauty of the unbearable past: it may be for years, it may be forever. Then why art thou silent… He still held Garnett’s hand. He squeezed once more. Nothing more to say now. Careful now. He let the hand go.
He said, “Goodbye, Dick. God bless you.”
Garnett nodded.
Armistead turned away, walked back to his brigade. Now for the first time, at just the wrong time, the acute depression hit him a blow to the brain. Out of the sleepiness the face of despair. He remembered Longstreet’s tears. He thought: a desperate thing. But he formed the brigade. Out front, George Pickett had ridden out before the whole Division, was making a speech, but he was too far away and none of the men could hear. Then Pickett raised his sword. The order came down the line. Armistead, his voice never strong, bawled hoarsely, with all his force, “All right now, boys, for your wives, your sweethearts, for Virginia! At route step, forward, ho!”
He drew his sword, pointed it toward the ridge.
The brigade began to move.
He heard a chattering begin in the ranks. Someone seemed to be trying to tell a story. A man said, “Save your breath, boy.” They moved in the tall grass, Garnett’s whole line in front of them. The grass was trampled now, here and there a part in the line as men stepped aside to avoid a dead body, lost the day before. Armistead could still see nothing, nothing but the backs of the troops before him. He saw one man falter, looking to the right, gray-faced, to the sergeant who was watching him, had evidently been warned against him, now lifted a rifle and pointed it that way and the man got back into line.
The Northern artillery opened up, as if it had been asleep, or pulled back to lure them in. Massive wave of fire rolled over from the left. Pettigrew was getting it, then on the right batteries on the Rocky Hill were firing on Kemper. Garnett not yet really touched. Nothing much coming this way. But we didn’t drive off any Yankee guns. Win’s doing. He made them cease fire, knowing soon we’d be in the open. Guns to the left and right, nothing much in the center. Garnett’s doing well.
He began to see. They were coming out into the open, up to where the ground dipped toward the Emmitsburg Road. Now to the left he could see the great mass of Pettigrew’s Division, with Trimble coming up behind him, advancing in superb order, line after line, a stunning sight, red battle flags, row on row. Could not see Pettigrew, nor Trimble. The line must be a mile long. A mile of men, armed and coming, the earth shuddering with their movement, with the sound of the guns. A shell exploded in Garnett’s line, another; gaps began to appear. Armistead heard the sergeants’ hoarse “Close it up, close it up,” and behind him he heard his own men coming and a voice saying calmly, cheerily, “Steady, boys, steady, there now, you can see the enemy, now you aint blind any more, now you know exactly where’s to go, aint that fine?” A voice said hollowly, “That’s just fine.”
But the artillery sound was blossoming. A whole new set of batteries opened up; he could see smoke rolling across the top of the hill, and no counter-fire from behind, no Southern batteries. God, he thought, they’re out of ammunition. But no, of course not; they just don’t like firing over our heads. And even as he thought of that he saw a battery moving out of the woods to his left, being rushed up to support the line. And then the first shell struck near him, percussion, killing a mass of men to his right rear, his own men, and from then on the shells came down increasingly, as the first fat drops of an advancing storm, but it was not truly bad. Close it up, close it up. Gaps in front, the newly dead, piles of red meat. One man down holding his stomach, blood pouring out of him like a butchered pig, young face, only a boy, the man bending over him trying to help, a sergeant screaming, “Damn it, I said close it up.”
Kemper’s Brigade, ahead and to the right, was getting it. The batteries on the Rocky Hill were enfilading him, shooting right down his line, sometimes with solid shot, and you could see the damn black balls bouncing along like bowling balls, and here and there, in the air, tumbling over and over like a blood-spouting cartwheel, a piece of a man.
Armistead turned to look back. Solid line behind him, God bless them, coming on. Not so bad, now, is it? We’ll do it, with God’s help. Coming, they are, to a man. All good men here. He turned back to the front, Garnett’s men were nearing the road. He could see old Dick, still there, on the great black horse. And then the first storm of musketry: the line of skirmishers. He winced. Could not see, but knew.
Long line of men in blue, lined, waiting, their sights set, waiting, and now the first line of gray is near, clear, nearer, unmissable, an officer screams, if they’re soldiers at all they cannot miss, and they’re Hancock’s men. Armistead saw a visible waver pass through the ranks in front of him. Close it up, close it up. The line seemed to have drifted slightly to the left. Heavy roll of musket fire now. The march slowing. He saw Garnett move down, thought for a moment, but no, he was moving down into that one swale, the protected area Pickett had spoken of. Armistead halted the men. Stood incredibly still in the open field with the artillery coming down like hail, great bloody hail. To the left, two hundred yards away, Pettigrew’s men were slowing. Some of the men in front had stopped to fire. No point in that, too soon, too soon. Pickett’s left oblique began. The whole line shifted left, moving to join with Pettigrew’s flank, to close the gap. It was beautifully done, superbly done, under fire, in the face of the enemy…Armistead felt enormous pride, his chest filled and stuffed with a furious love. He peered left, could not see Trimble. But they were closing in, the great mass converging. Now he moved up and he could see the clump of trees, the one tree like an umbrella, Lee’s objective, and then it was gone in smoke.