The Killer Angels: The Classic Novel of the Civil War (Civil War Trilogy)
“My favorite historical novel . . . a superb re-creation of the Battle of Gettysburg, but its real importance is its insight into what the war was about, and what it meant.”—James M. McPherson
In the four most bloody and courageous days of our nation’s history, two armies fought for two conflicting dreams. One dreamed of freedom, the other of a way of life. Far more than rifles and bullets were carried into battle. There were memories. There were promises. There was love. And far more than men fell on those Pennsylvania fields. Bright futures, untested innocence, and pristine beauty were also the casualties of war. Michael Shaara’s Pulitzer Prize–winning masterpiece is unique, sweeping, unforgettable—the dramatic story of the battleground for America’s destiny.
Of the column. The captain turned them in off the road and herded them into an open space in the field near the regimental flag. The men of the regiment, busy with coffee, stood up to watch. The captain had a loud voice and used obscene words. He assembled the men in two long ragged lines and called them to attention, but they ignored him. One slumped to the ground, more exhaustion than mutiny. A guard came forward and yelled and probed with a bayonet, but abruptly several more men sat down and.
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 to say 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.
See if you stare upward against the vacant blue, the defects of your own eye. They chatted, telling stories of other wars. They discussed the strategy of Napoleon, the theories of Jomini, the women of Richmond. Fremantle was not that impressed by Napoleon. But he was impressed by the women of Richmond. He lay dreamily remembering certain ladies, a ball, a rose garden … This land was huge. England had a sense of compactness, like a garden, a lovely garden, but this country was without borders.
God, is the Lord’s truth.” He blew again, meditating. Then he added, by way of amendment, “Buford’s column, I think it was. To be exact.” Longstreet thought: can’t be true. But he was an instinctive man, and suddenly his brain knew and his own temper boiled. Jeb Stuart … was joyriding. God damn him. Longstreet turned to Sorrel. “All right, Major. Send to General Lee. I guess we’ll have to wake him up. Get my horse.” Sorrel started to say something, but he knew that you did not argue with.
Old paper. Chamberlain nodded. He looked up to see an open space. The Rebs had begun to fall back; now they were running. He had never seen them run; he stared, began limping forward to see. Great cries, incredible sounds, firing and yelling. The regiment was driving in a line, swinging to the fight, into the dark valley. Men were surrendering. He saw masses of gray coats, a hundred or more, moving back up the slope to his front, in good order, the only ones not running, and thought: If they.