The Killer Angels (39 page)

Longstreet got down from his horse. He was very, very tired. He walked toward a cool grove of trees. Sorrel and Goree followed, but Longstreet waved them away. He sat with his back against a tree, put his head in his hands.

There is one thing you can do. You can resign now. You can refuse to lead it.

But I cannot even do that. Cannot leave the man alone. Cannot leave him with that attack in the hands of Hill. Cannot leave because I disagree, because, as he says, it’s all in the hands of God. And maybe God really wants it this way. But they will mostly all die. We will lose it here. Even if they get to the hill, what will they have left, what will we have left, all ammunition gone, our best men gone? And the thing is, I cannot even refuse, I cannot even back away, I cannot leave him to fight it alone, they’re my people, my boys. God help me, I can’t even quit.

He closed his eyes. From a tree close by Colonel Fremantle saw him, thought he was resting before the great battle, could not help but wonder at the enormous calm of the man. What an incredible time to go to sleep!

Past Little Round Top the ground dipped down into a saddle but the line ran straight, unbroken, along the saddle and up the ridge, rising toward the trees and the cemetery, that northern hill. The line was a marvelous thing to see: thousands of men and horses and the gleaming Napoleons, row on row, and miles of wagons and shells. Marching along the crest, they could see back to the Taneytown Road and the rows of tents, the hospitals, the endless black rows of more cannon, wagon trains. The sun was hot along the ridge, and men had stuck bayonets in the ground and rigged shelter halves, and here and there through scarred trees they could see down into the rocks below, bodies there in black clumps, soft among the gray boulders. Back in the woods of Little Round Top, up on the summit of the hill, they had been alone, but now they were in the midst of the army, the great army, a moving fragment of this unending line of men and guns lined along the spine of that ridge going out of sight to the north. Chamberlain gathered strength, limping along the ridge, tucking himself in under his soft black hat, out of the sun.

The lieutenant who was their guide was a dapper young man named Pitzer, who liked to gossip, to show that he was privy to great secrets. He had a runny nose and he sneezed repeatedly but seemed to
be enjoying himself. He pointed out the place where the First Minnesota had made the charge that had the whole army talking. Three hundred men had charged, under Hancock’s direction; only forty had come back. But they had broken a Reb assault, giving reserves time to get up. Chamberlain thought: their casualties much worse than mine. In a fight, it always seems that your fight is the hardest. Must remember that. What happened to them was much worse than what happened to us.

Pitzer said conversationally, “We very nearly retreated this morning.”

“Retreated?
Why
?” Chamberlain was aghast.

“Meade wanted to pull the whole army out. Had a meeting of corps commanders last night. He really did.” Pitzer sneezed emphatically. “Damn ragweed. Happens every sum—” He exploded again, plucked out a bright red handkerchief, wiped his nose, his wheezy eye, grinned. “Meade wrote an order for the whole army to withdraw, then held a meeting of corps commanders and asked for a vote. This army is great for meetings, Colonel. Old Sedgewick did the right thing. He fell asleep.” Pitzer chuckled. “Old Uncle John, you can count on him. He voted, then he fell asleep.”

“What was the vote?”

“Well, hell,
all
the corps commanders voted to stay. I mean the
only
one felt like pulling out was Meade.
General
Meade,” he added thoughtfully, eying Chamberlain. Never knew how to take these civilian colonels. “It was unanimous. Meade had ’em write it out, so it’s all on record. I was watching through a window, saw the whole thing, even old Sedgewick asleep. Now
there’s
an officer. Him and Hancock.” Pitzer shook his head admiringly, wheezing. “Hancock was something to behold. He says they’ll come again one more time and we ought to be right here waiting.”

“He says they’ll come again? Hancock?”

“Yep.”

“Where did he say they’d come?”

Pitzer grinned, pointed, wheezed. “Why, Colonel, right about here.”

They were moving higher up the crest of the hill. They were coming
out on a long space of open ground along the crest before a grove of trees, the cemetery. Down across the field there was a small farmhouse surrounded by horses, flags, many soldiers. Chamberlain could see, even at this distance: the high brass. To the left was a clump of trees, a stone fence, two batteries of artillery, the long line of troops lying in the sun, in the shade of the trees, dug in, waiting.

Pitzer said, pointing, “That’s Meade’s headquarters, over there. Position of your regiment will be back there, down near the road. You’ll be in reserve behind the crest. Don’t have to dig in, but don’t go ’way.” Pitzer led them down the grass, pointed to a flat space just above the road, the masses of guns and wagons, in plain sight of the headquarters. “Here it is, Colonel. I’m to place you here. Colonel Rice will be by in a bit. Says you are to report to General Sykes later on.” He saluted, sneezed, wandered off, in no great hurry, wiping his nose.

Chamberlain placed the regiment. They sat in the field, in the sun. There were questions about rations. Chamberlain thought: All those wagons down there, there ought to be something. He sent Ruel Thomas out to scrounge. Brother Tom went off to find the hospital, to see how the boys were, to see how Buster Kilrain was getting along. Chamberlain smelled coffee, the lovely smell of cooking chicken. He tried to follow his nose, was interrupted by another odor. He climbed a stone fence, knee high, saw a shallow depression filled with dead horses, dragged there to get them off the crest, legs and guts and glaring teeth, beginning to smell. Wind still luckily from the south. Chamberlain went back across the stone fence, looked up toward the crest. Couldn’t see much from here. Could sure use some food. Felt incredibly lonesome, no one to talk to anymore. Sat by himself. The men around him were rigging shade, collapsing. Ellis Spear came up, sat down, said hello, fell asleep. The sun was too much. The men were moving with slow, drugged movements. Chamberlain thought: Any minute now I will go to sleep. Dreamyly. He smiled. Did not want to sleep. Food. Get some fuel. Mustn’t sleep.

A rider. Man stopped before him. Chamberlain squinted upward. Message from General Sykes. Would like the pleasure of Colonel Chamberlain’s company.

Chamberlain squinted. “Where is he?”

The rider indicated the crest, trees at the far end. Chamberlain said, “Haven’t got a horse, but I guess I can make that.”

He staggered to his feet. The rider, solicitous, hopped down, offered him the horse, led the animal by the bridle, making Chamberlain feel boyish and ridiculous. Chamberlain took the reins, woke Ellis Spear, told him to take over. Spear agreed blearily. The messenger led Chamberlain up the crest.

Past a clump of trees to his left the view opened. He could see a long way down across open fields to a road, a farmhouse, a long sweep of wheat rising up to green woods on the far ridge, at least a mile off. Lovely country. Heat shimmered on the road. Chamberlain thought: must be ninety. Hope my next war is in Maine. Where I will fight dreamyly. Owe her a letter. Soon. Kids be playing now. Sitting down to lunch. Eating—cold, cold milk, thick white bread, cheese and cream, ah.

He rode up into the shade of the trees. Sitting there ahead … was Hancock.

Chamberlain perked up, straightened his uniform. He had seen Hancock only a few times, but the man was memorable. Picture-book soldier: tall and calm, handsome, magnetic. Clean white shirt, even here, white cuffs, hat cocked forward slightly jauntily, shading his eyes. He was sitting on a camp stool, gazing westward intently. He moved; his arm came up. He was eating a piece of chicken.

He was surrounded by generals. Some of them Chamberlain recognized: Gibbon, of Hancock’s corps, the cold man with the icy reputation. He had three brothers with the South. How many out there today, across that silent field? There was Pleasanton, of the cavalry, and Newton, new commander of the First Corps. Chamberlain saw a vast pot of stewed chicken, a pot of hot tea, a disappearing loaf of battered bread, some pickles. His mouth opened, watered, gulped. The generals went on eating mercilessly. The messenger took Chamberlain on past the food to a dark spot near a white barn. General Sykes was sitting there, smoking a cigar, staring down at some papers, dictating an order. The messenger introduced him as he dismounted, then departed with the horse. Sykes stood up, extended a hand, looked him over as you look over a horse you are contemplating buying.

“Chamberlain. Yes. Heard about you. Want to hear more. Want you to write a report. Rice says you did a good job.”

Chamberlain nodded and said thank you and went on smelling chicken. Sykes was a small, thin, grouchy man, had the reputation of a gentleman, though somewhat bad-tempered. Chamberlain thought: There are no good-tempered generals.

Sykes said, observing Chamberlain with the same look one gives a new rifle, “Rice says you’re a schoolteacher.”

“Well,” Chamberlain said, “not quite.”

“You aren’t Regular Army.”

“No, sir. I taught at Bowdoin.”

“Bowdin?
Oh
, you mean Bow-doyn. Yes. Heard of it. Amazing.” He shook his head. “Tell me you ordered a bayonet charge, drove those people halfway to Richmond.”

Chamberlain shifted his feet idiotically.

“Well, I’m going to look into it, Colonel, and let me tell you this, we need fightin’ men in this army, any way we can get ’em, Regular Army or no, and one damn thing is sure, we can use some brigade commanders. I’m going to look into it. Meantime, well done, well done. Now you go rest up. Nothing going to happen today.”

He was finished, turned back to his work. Chamberlain asked about rations. Sykes told a lieutenant to see to it. Chamberlain saluted, backed off, out into the sun. No horse now, have to walk. Right foot on fire. Damn. He limped along the crest, not paying much attention to the view. He was a picturesque figure. He had not changed clothes nor washed nor shaved in a week. His blue pants were torn in several places and splotched with dried blood; his right boot was torn, his jacket was ripped at the shoulder, his sword was without a scabbard, was stuck into his belt. He hobbled along painfully, sleepily, detouring around the front of a Napoleon, didn’t notice it until he opened his eyes and looked straight into the black maw, the hole of the barrel, and he blinked and came awake, momentarily, remembering Shakespeare’s line: “the bubble reputation in the cannon’s mouth.” Doesn’t look like a mouth. Looks like a damn dangerous hole. Stay away from that.

He was passing the group with Hancock and the chickens. He sighed wistfully, smelling fresh coffee, looked that way, was too proud
to ask, saw a familiar figure: Meade himself. The crusty old stork, munching on a chicken leg. Chamberlain paused. Never saw much of Meade, didn’t quite know what to think of him. But if he wants to retreat, he’s a damn fool. Chamberlain had stopped; a number of the group of officers noticed him. Chamberlain looked down, saw blood coming out of his boot. That keeps up, I’m in trouble. Foot wounds always slow to heal. Wonder why?

An officer had detached himself from the group. Chamberlain had started to move on, but the officer came up, saluted. He was older than Chamberlain, but he was only a lieutenant. Sitting with all the generals. Chamberlain could feel the massed power; it was like being near great barrels of gunpowder. The lieutenant asked if he could be of service. Chamberlain said no thanks, wondering how to conquer pride and if a general would part with some chicken, and then felt ashamed, because his boys had none and would be guilty to eat something up here, but on the other hand, don’t get something soon, and keep losing blood, might pass out, in all this damned heat, like you did the other time, and be no good to anybody.

The lieutenant introduced himself: Frank Haskell, aide to General Gibbon. He recognized Chamberlain’s name. His eyes showed respect; now
that
was pleasant. Chamberlain explained that he’d been to see General Sykes and had no horse, and the foot was bothering him, and did the lieutenant think they might spare one scrawny leg, or even a neck? The lieutenant bowed, came back with
three
pieces of chicken, hot and greasy, wrapped in a dirty white cloth. Chamberlain took them with gratitude, staggered off down the hill. He ate one piece, preserved the other two. It was awful but marvelous. When he got back to the company he gave the two surviving pieces to Ellis Spear and told him to figure out a way to share them with somebody, that rations would be here soon, Sykes had promised.

He rested and took off his boot. Nothing to wrap it with. He tore off a bit of his shirt, was working away diligently, saw Tom coming.

Tom was losing the chipper edge. Chamberlain thought: Be all right in a bit. The young recover quickly. Must think on the theology of that: plugging a hole in the line with a brother. Except for that, it
would all have been fine. An almost perfect fight, but the memory of that is a jar, is wrong. Some things a man cannot be asked to do. Killing of brothers. This whole war is concerned with the killing of brothers. Not my family. He thought of Gibbon. Praise be to God. Must send Tom somewhere else. In that moment, Chamberlain made up his mind: Tom would have to go. Tell him soon. Not now.

Tom sat. Lines in the face. Something wrong. Chamberlain saw: Kilrain?

“Lawrence, I been down to the hospital. Godawful mess. No shade, no room. They lying everywhere, out in the sun. They cuttin’ off arms and legs right out in the open, front of everybody, like they did at Fredericksburg. God, they ought to know better, they ought not to do that in public. Some of them people
die
. Man ought to have privacy at a time like that. You got to yell sometimes, you know? Lord …”

“Did you see Kilrain?”

Tom nodded. He sat with his back against the wall, the small stone wall this side of the dead horses, plucking grass. He sighed.