Here was Garnett dressed beautifully, new gray uniform, slender, trim, riding that great black mare with the smoky nose. Armistead stood.

Garnett touched his cap. A certain sleepiness seemed to precede the battle, a quality of haze, of unreality, of dust in the air, dust in the haze. Garnett had the eyes of a man who has just awakened.

Garnett said, “How are you, Lo?”

Armistead said, “I’m fine, Dick.”

”Well, that’s good.” Garnett nodded, smiling faintly.

They stood under the trees, waiting, not knowing what to say. The fire seemed to be slackening.

Armistead said, “How’s the leg?”

”Oh, all right, thank you. Bit hard to walk. Guess I’ll have to ride.”

”Pickett’s orders, nobody rides.”

Garnett smiled.

”Dick,” Armistead said, “you’re not going to ride.”

Garnett turned, looked away.

”You can’t do that,” Armistead insisted, the cold alarm growing. “You’ll stand out like… you’ll be a perfect target.”

”Well,” Garnett said, grinning faintly, “well, I tell you, Lo. I can’t walk.”

And cannot stay behind. Honor at stake. He could not let the attack go without him; he had to prove once and for all his honor, because there was Jackson’s charge, never answered, still in the air wherever Garnett moved, the word on men’s lips, watching him as he went by, for Jackson was gone and Jackson was a great soldier… there was nothing Armistead could say. He could feel tears coming to his eyes but he could not even do that. Must not let Garnett see. There was always a chance. Perhaps the horse would be hit early. Armistead put out a hand, touched the horse, sorry to wish death on anyone, anything.

Garnett said, “Just heard a funny thing. Thought you’d appreciate it.”

”Oh?” Armistead did not look him in the face. A shot took off the limb of a tree nearby, clipped it off cleanly, so that it fell all at once, making a sound like a whole tree falling. Garnett did not turn.

”We have some educated troops, you know, gentlemen privates. Well, I was riding along the line and I heard one of these fellas, ex-professor type, declaiming this poem, you know the one: ‘Backward, turn backward, oh Time, in your flight, and make me a child again, just for this fight.’ And then there’s a pause, and a voice says, in a slow drawl, ‘Yep. A gal child.’”

Garnett chuckled. “Harrison and I found us some Pennsylvania whisky, and experimented, and found that it goes well with Pennsylvania water. Wa’nt bad a-tall. Tried to save you some, but first thing you know…” He shrugged helplessly.

Their eyes never quite met, like two lights moving, never quite touching. There was an awkward silence. Garnett said, “Well, I better get back.” He moved back immediately, not attempting to shake hands. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” he said, and galloped off along the ridge.

Armistead closed his eyes, prayed silently. God protect him. Let him have justice. Thy will be done.

Armistead opened his eyes. Had not prayed for himself. Not yet. It was all out of his hands, all of it; there was nothing he could do about anything anywhere in the whole world. Now he would move forward and lead the men up the ridge to whatever end awaited, whatever plan was foreordained, and he felt a certain mild detachment, a curious sense of dull calm, as on those long, long Sunday afternoons when you were a boy and had to stay dressed and neat and clean with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, waiting for the grownups to let you go, to give you the blessed release to run out in the open and play. So he did not even pray. Not yet. It was all in God’s hands.

Pickett rode toward him, staff trailing behind. The fire was definitely slower now; the air of the woods was clearing. Pickett’s face was bright red. He reined up, but was hopping around in the saddle, patting the horse, slapping his own thigh, gesturing wildly, pointing, grinning.

”Lewis, how’s everything, any questions?”

Armistead shook his head.

”Good, good. As soon as the guns cease fire, we step off. Garnett and Kemper the first line, you’re in the second. Route step, no halting, no stopping to fire, want to get up there as fast as you can. I’ll keep toward the right flank, to cover that side. Do you need anything?”

”Nothing.”

”Good, fine.” Pickett nodded violently “How are you feeling?”

”I’m fine.”

”That’s good. One other point. All officers are ordered to walk. No officer takes his horse. Utterly foolish.” Pickett’s horse, catching the General’s excitement, reared and wheeled; Pickett soothed him. “So you go on foot, no exceptions.”

”Yes,” Armistead said. “But what about Garnett?”

”What about… oh.” Pickett grimaced. “That leg.”

”I don’t think he can walk.”

Pickett said slowly, “Damn it.”

”George, order him not to make the charge.”

”I can’t do that.”

”He’s in no condition.”

But Pickett shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”

”A man on a horse, in front of that line. George, he’ll be the only rider in a line a mile wide. They’ll have every gun on that hill on him.”

Pickett rubbed the back of his neck, slammed his thigh.

”He can’t walk at all?”

”He might get fifty yards.”

”Damn,” Pickett said, caught himself guiltily. Not a good time to be swearing. “But you know how he feels. It’s a matter of honor.” Pickett threw up his hands abruptly, helplessly.

”Order him not to go, George.”

Pickett shook his head reprovingly.

Armistead said, “All right. I understand. Yes. But I think… I’m getting a bit old for this business.”

His voice was low and Pickett did not hear it, was not even listening. Armistead rode with him back into the woods along Seminary Ridge. The woods were dark and blessedly cool. He saw Longstreet sitting on a rail fence, gazing out into the glittering fields toward the enemy line. Pickett rode toward him and Longstreet turned slowly, swiveling his head, stared, said nothing. Pickett asked him about the guns. Longstreet did not seem to hear. His face was dark and still; he looked wordlessly at Pickett, then at Armistead, then turned back to the light. Pickett backed off. There was a savagery in Longstreet they all knew well. It showed rarely but it was always there and it was an impressive thing. Suddenly, in the dark grove, for no reason at all, Armistead looked at the dark face, the broad back, felt a bolt of almost stunning affection. It embarrassed him. But he thought: Before we go, I ought to say something.

Longstreet had moved suddenly, turning away from the rail. Armistead saw Pickett running up through the trees, a note in his hand, his face flushed. Longstreet stopped, turned to look at him, turned slowly, like an old man, looked at him with a strange face, a look tight and old that Armistead had never seen. Pickett was saying, “Alexander says if we’re going at all, now’s the time.”

Longstreet stopped still in the dark of the woods. The huge glare behind him made it difficult to see. Armistead moved that way, feeling his heart roll over and thump once. Pickett said, pointing, “Alexander says we’ve silenced some Yankee artillery. They’re withdrawing from the cemetery. What do you say, sir? Do we go in now?”

And Longstreet said nothing, staring at him, staring, and Armistead felt an eerie turning, like a sickness, watching Longstreet’s face, and then he saw that Longstreet was crying. He moved closer. The General was crying. Something he never saw or ever expected to see, and the tears came to Armistead’s eyes as he watched, saw Pickett beginning to lift his hands, holding out the note, asking again, and then Longstreet took a deep breath, his shoulders lifted, and then he nodded, dropping his head, taking his eyes away from Pickett’s face, and in the same motion turned away, and Pickett let out a whoop and clenched a fist and shook it. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and wrote something on it and handed it to Longstreet and Longstreet nodded again, and then Pickett was coming this way, face alight, look on his face of pure joy. And tears too, eyes flashing and watery, but with joy, with joy. He said something about being chosen for glory, for the glory of Virginia. He said, “Gentlemen, form your brigades.”