The Killer Angels (19 page)

“Good evening, sir, God bless you, did you see them run? Did you see them? We whipped them again, by God, yes, sir, we did, sir.” Ewell chattered. Lee sensed a strange thin quality in his voice, a wavery exuberance. He escorted Lee through the house, hobbling awkwardly on the wooden leg, talking about the bullet that had hit him there that afternoon while he was mounted on his horse. They went out into an arbor and sat in the warm evening under the grapevines and the soft sky and Ewell sat on the ground and hiked up his pants to show Lee where the bullet had hit, a minié ball just below the jointed knee, a vast gash of splintered white wood. Ewell was giggling, grinning, cocking his head off to the side like a huge parrot, chortling.

Lee asked the condition of the corps, the number of wounded. Early spoke up. Ewell deferred. Early stood with his legs wide apart, his hands clasped behind his back, heavy in the jaw, his face bleak and grim, black beard dirty and untrimmed. He had been a West Pointer, had left the army to become a lawyer, a prosecutor. He was utterly sure of himself. Lee watched and listened. Early explained the situation coolly and logically. Behind him, Ewell nodded in punctuation, his head twitching, his fingers fluttering. Lee felt a strangeness in the air, a coolness. Ewell should speak for himself. Rodes sat silently leaning forward, his hands on his knees, looking at the ground. There was a pause.

Lee said, “I had hoped you would move on through the town and take that hill.”

Ewell blinked, rubbed his nose, looked at Early, looked at Rodes, patted his thigh. Lee, watching, felt a sudden acute depression.

Ewell said, “I didn’t think it was, ah, practical. We were waiting, ah, for many reasons. We had marched all day, and fought, and your orders were a caution against bringing on a general engagement.” He jabbered, rambling, moving about in his chair. Early walked over and sat on the railing of the arbor. Ewell turned to him for confirmation.

Early said calmly, silently, bored, “There were reports of Federal troops in the north. We couldn’t bring artillery to bear, and no word came from Hill, as you know. We decided it would be best to wait for Johnson.” Yes, yes, Ewell nodded vigorously, thumping the wooden leg. “But he did not arrive until dark, just a while ago. He’s out now, looking over the terrain.”

Ewell went on nodding. Lee looked at Rodes, who said nothing. After a moment Early said, “You may remember, sir, that I passed over this ground a few days ago and am familiar with it. The hill is named Cemetery Hill. It has another hill beyond it, also occupied. It will be a very strong position.”

Lee closed his eyes for a moment, was very tired. Think of all of it later. An aide brought a cup of hot boiled coffee, thick with sugar. Lee drank, revived, abruptly saw the face of Jackson in his mind, a flare of cold blue eyes. He looked up, blinked. Could almost see him. Jackson was here. Jackson was looking on.

Ewell was drinking coffee. Early had folded his arms. Rodes still gazed at the ground, plucking at one of his fingers. Lee said, “Can you attack on this flank, in the morning?”

Ewell sat up. Early did not move. Lee felt the depression, cold and slow and steady like a wind in his brain, shook his head to blow it away.

Early said, “That hill will be a very strong position. Once it is fortified. Which they are doing right now.”

“Very strong.” Ewell nodded violently.

“Have you looked over the ground, sir?” Early asked.

“From a distance.”

Early leaned back into the dark. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “I do not think we should attack this point. This will be the strong point. Our troops have marched hard today and fought hard today. I suggest we hold here while the rest of the army makes an attack on the other flank.”

“You think an attack here would succeed?”

“I think it would be very costly.”

Ewell nodded. Lee turned.

“General Rodes?”

Rodes looked up, glanced away, shrugged.

“We’ll attack, of course. But the men have had a good fight. And it will be a strong position.” He looked up at Ewell, then quickly away. “I’m sorry we did not take it today.”

“Well,” Lee said. “Today is done.”

“General Longstreet has not been engaged,” Early said. “His corps has not been fought for some time.” He was referring to Chancellorsville, where Longstreet’s men had been detached. “If he were to attack on the right he would draw the enemy from this position and we could then attempt the assault. Supported, of course, by General Hill.”

Lee thought: Longstreet cannot stand the man. I wonder why? Something too cold here, something disagreeable in the silence of the eyes, the tilt of the head. Jubal. Strange name. Old Jubilee. Nothing happy about the man. And yet, unmistakable competence. Lee said, “Longstreet proposes that we move our army to the right around the enemy flank and interpose between Meade and Washington.”

“And vacate this position?” Ewell popped his eyes, slapped the splintered wood again. “Leave this town, which we have just captured?”

Lee said, with some irritation, “The town is of no importance.”

Ewell looked to Early. Early said slowly, “To move this entire corps, in the face of a fortified enemy?” He smiled slightly, with a touch of the disdain for which he was rapidly becoming notorious.

“Hardly fitting,” Ewell piped. “Hardly. Troops fought so hard for this town, do we move them out and march them off into the woods, in sight of the enemy? Morale will suffer, General. The boys are ready. Our boys are ready.”

“Longstreet is on the defensive again.” Early grinned. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But really, sir, it seems to me, we are here and the enemy is there, and Hill and General Ewell have engaged and Longstreet has not. If Longstreet can be induced to attack on the right, we can give you this hill tomorrow by sundown.”

Ewell was nodding again, pointing at Early, wagging a bony finger. They talked. Lee made no decision. Must not judge Ewell now. The man has been a good soldier for too long. First day in command of the corps. Jackson’s old corps.

Hill is sick. Ewell indecisive. The hill untaken. Longstreet broods on defensive war. Lee said, “Would you gentlemen retreat?”

“Retreat? Retreat?” Ewell sat with his mouth open. Rodes looked up.

“Would you suggest that we fall back behind South Mountain?”

“Retreat?” Ewell was amazed. “But why?”

Lee said, “If we do not withdraw, and if we do not maneuver in the face of the enemy, then we must attack. There is no other alternative.” He rose, not waiting for an answer. They accompanied him to the door. He saw a vase filled with flowers on a small wooden table. A picture of an old man frowned down out of an old round frame. Lee was thinking: Very dangerous to withdraw. To pull this army with all its trains back through that pass. Without cavalry, it cannot be done. Stuart. I have waited long enough.

He thanked the men for their day’s work, told them to get a good night’s rest. Once again he saw Jackson’s blue eyes, probing, reproachful. He thought: General, we miss you.

He rode off into the dark. Taylor was there with messages. Lee answered them, one to Imboden, one to Chilton, sent Taylor off to find the raider, Harry Gilmore, who was with Johnson. He rode off with Venable and then, moving in out of the night to greet him, saw old Isaac Trimble, astride a pale horse, fiery old Isaac. Lee smiled a greeting. General Trimble was almost sixty. Not much older than
you
, old man. But he looks ancient. Do I look that old? I was tired before, but I am not tired now. No pain now. God’s blessing. What will I do about Ewell?

Trimble said, “Sir, I beg your pardon, but I will not serve the man.” He was furious. He raised one huge hand like a vast claw and made a gesture as if pushing a disgusting thing away from him, into the black air. “I will not serve the man. I am a volunteer aide with the man, sir, as you know. I most respectfully request another assignment.” He shook his head violently, almost displacing his hat. “The man is a disgrace. Have you heard it all, sir? What they have been telling you? Ask the aides, sir, or General Gordon, or Johnson.”

He went on. He was a marvelous old man who had sworn to be a major general or a corpse. Lee gathered that he was talking about Ewell. Lee calmed him, but he wanted to hear.

Trimble said, “We should have taken that hill. God in His wisdom knows we could have taken that hill. Beyond Cemetery Hill there is another hill and it was totally unoccupied. There was no one there at all, and it commanded the town. Gordon saw it, sir, he was with us, me and Gordon and Ewell, all standing there in the flaming dark like great fat idiots with that bloody damned hill empty, begging your pardon, General, but that bloody damned hill was as bare as his bloody damned great head and it commands the town. We all saw it, General, as God is my witness, ask anyone here. McKim was there, Smith was there, they were all there. I said, ‘General Ewell, we have got to take that hill. General Jackson would not have stopped like this with the bluebellies on the run and plenty of light left and a hill like that empty as, oh God help us, I don’t know what.’ But nobody there at all. And the Federals running, no guns set up, nothing but one battery and one regiment in line.”

He was running out of breath. Lee had stopped to listen. He sensed, among the anger, the bitter breath of truth. Trimble took off his hat and wiped it across his brow, and his white hair gleamed in the moonlight like wadded cotton. Lee said, “Go on.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, I told him, General Ewell, I said to him, ‘Sir, give me one division and I will take that hill.’ And he said nothing at all. He stood there! He stared at me! I said, ‘General Ewell, give me one
brigade
, and I will take that hill.’ I was becoming disturbed, sir. And General Ewell put his arms behind him and blinked. So I said, ‘General, give me one
regiment
and I will take that hill.’ And he said nothing; he just shook his head, and I threw my sword down.” Trimble gestured helplessly, actually close to tears. “Down on the ground in front of him.” He raised both arms. “We could have done it, sir. A blind man should have seen it. Now they are working, up there, you can hear the axes. Now in the morning many a good boy will die.”

He wiped his face. It was all out of him. The fire died. He slumped forward in the saddle.

“General, sir, I request another assignment.”

Lee said softly, “Thank you, General. You will be of great service, thank you.”

Now that Trimble was quieter Lee could question him. Dick Ewell had frozen; he had deferred to Early. Lee thought: I must look into this. He told Trimble to rest and he rode back to his headquarters in the dark. He was becoming increasingly tired, but there was much to do. Food. Get some fuel. The ancient body had no reserve. His chest was stuffed, a feeling of cool bleakness there, no strength in him. He thought of that and of Stuart off somewhere, possibly dead, and of Ewell’s weakness and Hill’s illness and the Union Army growing now in the night on that hill, blossoming darkly across the field like a fungus, a bristly fungus.

The headquarters was in a small stone house on Seminary Ridge. An elderly woman, the resident, was cooking for him. Lee chatted with her politely, his mind on other things, while aides came and went, generals pushed in and out, reporters and artists and the Prussian and the Austrian passed in and out. There was a rocking chair for Lee; it received him like an enfolding arm. Taylor appeared with a squad of men, led by a man named Watters, a Marylander. Now late at night it was becoming difficult to recognize people, to remember their names. Lee prepared sealed orders to be given to each of Watters’ men; they were to scatter out over the countryside and find Stuart and get him back to Gettysburg with all possible speed. When that was done Lee looked for Longstreet, but the stubborn face was not there. Lee closed his eyes. The uproar of jokes and joy went on around him. Must see Ewell
now
, without Early. He motioned to Marshall, sent for Ewell. The room gradually cleared. Lee signed orders. I do too much myself. He was thinking: Retreat is not even an option; we must assault or maneuver. If we assault, Longstreet must bear the load.

Lee took a quick nap. He was awakened by the arrival of Ewell. He rose and went out into the night. The strange beaked figure waited with deference. Lee said, “How are you, sir?”

“I am fine, sir. The leg troubles me a bit.”

Lee suggested a doctor. Ewell shook his head. “Drugs injure a man’s thinking. The leg is minor. Sir?”

“Johnson’s men are in position now. He is very optimistic; much more than Early. I believe we ought to attack
there
, sir.”

“Attack the hill?”

“Yes, sir. Culp’s Hill or Cemetery Hill, or both, sir.”

There was a new certainty in his voice. Lee was very glad to hear it. A small relief blossomed like a flower. Lee said only, “I have made no decision yet. But in your opinion, we should attack on your flank.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lee nodded. “I will consider it. I am glad to hear you are well.”

“General,” Ewell said. His face was not clear in the evening light, the lamplight from inside, the moon from the heavens, but there was a sadness in his voice, regret apparent in the motion of his head, the beak above the wild mustache bobbing. “I think I was too slow today, sir. I regret that very much. I was trying to be … careful. I may have been too careful.”

Lee was moved. My good old soldier. He was embarrassed. He said quickly, “You won a victory, General.” Ewell looked up. His eyes were strained. “It was not a large victory, it might have been larger, we might have pushed harder. But it was a victory. I am satisfied. The men fought well. This was your first day. It is not as easy as it sometimes appears.”

“No, sir,” Ewell said.

“Now get some rest.” Lee sent him off. He went back into the stone house feeling much better. The old man had been a good soldier for too long; you cannot worry about Ewell. And then Lee thought: But sometimes I have seen it happen. A man loses part of himself, an arm, a leg, and though he has been a fine soldier he is never quite the same again; he has lost nothing else visible, but there is a certain softness in the man thereafter, a slowness, a caution. I did not expect it with Ewell. I do not understand it. Very little of a man is in a hand or a leg. A man is in his spirit and he has that in full no matter what part of his body dies, or all of it. But, Lee thought, you may not understand. It has not happened to you, so you don’t understand. So don’t judge. He was a good soldier. He is not Jackson. Jackson is gone—not entirely gone; Jackson was there today watching, and Ewell sees
his
eyes—but you cannot blame him for not being Jackson. You must make do with the tools God has given for the job. Richard Ewell, old Baldy … and his ridiculous horse.