The Last Full Measure (10 page)

“Men of the Army of the New Republic!” Chamberlain cried as he came to halt just in front of the line. “Our comrades are depending upon us to hold this hill. We have already thrown back our foes more than once, and we can do it again if we hold to our purpose. I will stand here and fight alone if need be, but if you stand beside me we will achieve a victory which will live in the annals of our history alongside Lexington and Concord, and every man who stands firm on this hill will be remembered forever just as those patriots are today! Not because we held a scrap of ground, but because here we stood up to break the chains of tyranny, to save the Constitution and the liberty bequeathed us by the men who forged this nation. Will you stand with me?”

Sergeant Maines cheered first, but the others joined in, a roar of defiance which caused the regulars below to stare upward at the hill.

For the next attack, the regiment of regulars was formed into a single line, four men deep, but so serious had been the regulars’ losses that this line was not as long as that formed earlier by just two companies. Chamberlain walked up and down the stone wall, and across the pike itself as enemy bullets plucked at his clothes, calling out the commands as Armistead had done, standing firm as the regulars charged up so close that they grappled among the tombstones and the stone wall before again falling back.

Chamberlain reloaded his pistol with hands that now shook so badly he could barely hold the shells, stopping when he realized that he had only two cartridges left.

Sergeant Maines, his expression somber, ran up to Chamberlain. “Sir, we’re not equipped like regular forces. Not in weapons and not in ammunition. I’ve checked with the men who are still on their feet and there’s not any with more than two shots left, and most of them have but one.”

“The regulars have not broken at the first volley in their other attacks.”

“No, sir, they have not. But a first volley is all we’ll have the next time they come.” Maines gazed down through the smoke. “And they are preparing to come again, sir.”

“We cannot leave this hill. The others are depending upon us.” Chamberlain recited it like a mantra, his own being focused on carrying out Armistead’s last command.

“Aye, sir. But we can’t stay, neither. We’ve got, I dunno, ten minutes and then they’ll be up and at us again.”

What would Armistead do? What would George Washington have done? Chamberlain gazed down at the pistol in his right hand, then his eyes swung to where Armistead’s sword was clasped tightly in his left. “Do the men have bayonets?”

“Bayonets?” Maines gave Chamberlain a wondering look. “A few, sir. Everyone’s got a knife, and some have got small axes. Tomahawks they call ’em. They used to be standard issue for soldiers.”

That made the solution simple enough. Like George Washington at Trenton, outnumbered and desperate, but with a chance to win by attacking when defense no longer held out hope. Chamberlain wondered at the steadiness of his voice as he spoke again. “Sergeant Maines, inform the men that after we fire our next volley I shall give the order to advance. We will…” What was the right term? “Countercharge. We will meet their attack with our own. I will lead the charge down the hill.”

“Knives against rifles? You’ll lead the way? And them outnumbering us?” The sergeant slowly smiled. “Damn all, sir, that’s crazy.”

“We are going to do it, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. We sure as hell are, sir. I’ll pass the word.” Not far off, they could hear commands being shouted as the regulars formed up and began advancing for the fourth time.

Chamberlain, his heart pounding, walked forward until he was near the center of the line, his hands so tight upon pistol and sword that the metal bit painfully into both palms. The regulars were already close, their line smaller than before but still powerful, still deadly even though Chamberlain could tell from their movements how tired the regulars must be. A hard march from Baltimore, then three assaults up the hill, but still they came on a fourth time. Coming closer up the slope, through the bodies littering the pike and the grass and fields on either side of it, then at shouted orders the regulars broke into a stumbling charge up the hill.

“Steady!” Chamberlain shouted over the crackle of rifle shots as some of the regulars paused to fire. He felt a tug at his shirt as a ball passed close enough to him to rip a hole in the fabric. “Ready!” The regulars reached the line of earlier casualties and kept on, scrambling up the slope, so close that Chamberlain had no trouble seeing their faces. Not just soldiers, not a mass of blue uniforms, but individuals showing their weariness and fear and resolve in eyes and faces.

“Fire!” Chamberlain cried.

The volley erupted from the hilltop, slamming into the regulars and throwing the attack into momentary confusion. “Forward!” Chamberlain shouted as loud as he could. “Charge!” Raising his sword again, and not daring to think about what he was doing, Chamberlain ran down the pike, dimly aware of a roar on either side as his men rose and ran with him through the smoke filling the air.

The shape of a regular rose out of the smoke and Chamberlain’s pistol came up and fired as if on its own, the bullet knocking down the regular. There were more regulars in front of him and he fired a second time, then dropped the empty pistol and shifted the sword to his right hand, swinging wildly at another regular, who made a desperate attempt to ward off the blow with his rifle, then dropped the weapon and ran.

Chamberlain staggered, swung at another figure rushing past, then stopped as he became aware that no more regulars were close by. His men were shouting triumphantly, and raising his gaze Chamberlain saw the regulars running, most of them having thrown away their weapons and packs, running back down the Baltimore Pike past the farmhouse and the two cannon still positioned there. A single officer on horseback was trying to rally the regulars, but they streamed past in a panic.

The volunteers kept chasing the regulars, down the slope and onto level ground. Something was wrong, Chamberlain realized. But what? Then he remembered Stuart’s cavalry to the north. If the regular cavalry realized what was happening, disengaged from Buford’s forces and swept south around the edge of the hills it would catch Chamberlain’s men in the open where they would be as helpless as the Roman legions facing the Parthian horsemen at Carrhae. “Hold!” he shouted. “Halt the charge! Back to your positions!”

He probably wouldn’t have succeeded in halting the charge except for two things. The regulars’ cannon fired, reminding the volunteers that they would have to charge those guns if they kept attacking. But the defenders were also exhausted and stumbling to a halt, lacking the fear which lent speed and strength to the fleeing regular infantry. Gathering together the defenders, Chamberlain led them back up the hill and into their positions, everyone picking up weapons and cartridge boxes abandoned by the regulars. When they were in place once more on top of the hill, the volunteers were well-armed and had plenty of ammunition even though their numbers had been thinned by the fighting.

Chamberlain brought up Armistead’s field glasses and looked north, trying to figure out what was happening between the mounted forces in the town. Regular cavalrymen were still swirling around the east edge of the town, small groups dashing in among the buildings, followed by the distant pop of guns firing and gouts of smoke visible from some of the windows, before the regulars fell back again with a few more saddles empty. But, as he watched, Chamberlain saw another horseman ride up from the south, gesturing urgently, and the regular cavalry began forming up and withdrawing to the southeast. “Are they going to come at us?” he wondered aloud.

Sergeant Maines shook his head. “I would think they would be coming right south, straight at us, if that was their intent, sir. Looks more like they’re being pulled back to screen the infantry we just sent scurrying. That’s what the book says to do, use the cavalry to cover for infantry.”

Chamberlain kept his eyes on the regular cavalry, but the sergeant’s assessment proved accurate as the horsemen swung wide around the edge of the hills and south toward the Baltimore Pike. “They’re not moving very fast.”

“The horses are worn out, I expect, sir,” Maines suggested. “After all that action they’re in no shape for more charges today.”

But since Buford’s men had fought from cover, their horses would be rested, Chamberlain realized. Over the course of this battle, some important advantages had shifted to the volunteers.

A horseman left the town, riding straight for the hill at a good clip and arriving in a flurry of dust. “Where’s Major Armistead?” the rider asked, looking around and saluting quickly.

Chamberlain gestured over toward where Armistead’s body lay. “Dead. After we repulsed the first attacks under his command. I’m Captain Chamberlain.” He marveled for a moment how easily that title came to him. In the course of a few hours Professor Chamberlain had gone, replaced by a soldier. “I have been in command since Major Armistead died.”

The horseman stared at Chamberlain. “It was you who held the position, sir? And led the charge?”

“Yes. Only after Major Armistead died. He commanded against the first two attacks.” It seemed very important to say that, to let everyone know that this had been a battle which Major Armistead had won by his placement of the defenders and effective leadership.

A startled grin spread over the rider’s face. “Captain Buford sends his respects, sir, and his congratulations and admiration for your action here.” The smile faded. “But a sad loss, sir. The victory was dearly bought.” He turned to point toward the town. “Captain Buford wishes to inform you, sir, that he is confident of holding the town until sunset, but believes that enemy reinforcements are on the way and that the enemy may attempt to outflank our current positions in the dark. He recommends falling back under cover of night to meet up beyond the town and be prepared with the dawn to jointly defend that ridge to the west of the town where the Chambersburg Pike passes through. McPherson Ridge it’s called. Captain Buford believes that even if the enemy is pressing us, we’ll be able to fall back again down the pike to where a gap pierces the next ridge near a place called Herr’s Tavern. If we do that, it is Captain Buford’s belief that we will have ensured Colonel Hancock’s force is safe from our pursuers.”

Chamberlain looked around, taking in the land to the north and west. Dust visible along a road in the far distance might well be that raised by Hancock’s column and the wagons with it. They had bought enough time that Lincoln had a good chance of escaping, with all that meant for placing a civilian of small means and great purpose at the head of the effort to restore liberty to all, but the price had indeed been very high. “Tell Captain Buford that, uh, Captain Chamberlain sends his respects and, uh, agrees with Captain Buford’s proposed course of action.” There was something about withdrawals at night that was tugging at Chamberlain’s memory, something from his reading. Herodotus, that was it. “Tell him that we will light large watch fires along the ridge before withdrawing, so as to make it appear that we remain occupying this position through the night.”

“Excellent, sir.” The rider saluted briskly, then tugged his horse around and spurred the stallion back toward the town.

Chamberlain stood watching the rider as Sergeant Maines came up beside him. “Relax if you can, sir,” the sergeant advised. “There won’t be any more attacks today. It’s over.”

“Over for today, you mean.”

“Aye, sir, I do mean that.”

“How many men did we lose?”

“I’ll do another muster, but by my last count we’ve thirty men left on their feet.” The sergeant turned to look southeastward. “It will be war now. No more skirmishes in the woods, but our volunteers in stand-up fights against whatever armies the federal government can raise. Both sides raising big armies that’ll make this battle look like a skirmish. A war for the Republic. What’ll they call it, do you think, sir? The Second American Revolution?”

“Perhaps.” Chamberlain looked to the south as well, to where the flags of the US Army fluttered around the artillery which had fallen silent for now. “But we will be fighting for control of the federal government. Both sides will try to control Washington, DC, and ensure the government there reflects their wishes. That would make it a civil war.”

“A civil war?” Sergeant Maines spat into the grass. “They’ll give Lee command of the whole US Army. You’ll see. He’ll be the one we have to defeat to get into Washington, but I don’t expect he’ll just sit behind the forts there and wait for us. Colonel Lee will go on the attack, mark my words.” The sergeant pointed toward the town. “I guess they’ll name this battle after that place. What’s its name?”

“Gettysburg,” Chamberlain answered. “Crossroads like this tend to attract battles, and there are likely to be more here, but this one will be remembered. The battle where the war for liberty and the soul of our Republic truly began. It may be a long road, I fear.”

“Some roads you got to walk. Some things are worth fighting for.”

“Yes, sergeant. Some things are.” Chamberlain wondered when he would see his wife and family again, or his brother, and whether he would survive to see the New Republic. “Do you suppose Lincoln will ever come back here? If he will once again look upon this place where men died for the sake of liberty?”

“I’ve heard him talk,” Sergeant Maines offered. “He’d give a fine speech if he came back to Gettysburg. Lincoln would tell everyone why we fought here. And why some died here.”

“I hope you are right.” Captain Joshua Chamberlain of the Army of the New Republic gestured toward the cemetery gate arch. “We will have to leave Major Armistead’s body here when we depart. I will ask the cemetery keeper to inform Colonel Lee when the regulars enter the town. Colonel Lee will see to it that the major’s remains are taken care of properly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send some men to get the town doctor to tend our wounded and any wounded regulars in front of our position. They are also to get food and water for everyone. Let the remainder of the men rest. We will have more marching tonight and perhaps more fighting tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
, the bard’s words echoed in Chamberlain’s head. But one of those tomorrows would see the New Republic.