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.