The Killer Angels (27 page)

“Not yet, not yet,” Longstreet said cheerily, but he got back on his horse and began riding slowly forward into the trees. In the dark of the trees he could smell splintered wood and see white upturned faces like wide white dirty flowers and he looked out to see a battery working steadily, firing into the woods. He heard the first moans but saw no dead. Almost time now. At his elbow, Barksdale was saying something, pleading. The Mississippi boys were staring not at Barksdale but at Longstreet. Longstreet looked down.

“Well,” he said, “I guess it’s time. If you’re ready, sir, why don’t you go take that battery, that battery right there?”

He pointed. Barksdale screamed, waved his hat. The men rose. Barksdale formed them in line, the shells zipping the leaves above him. They stepped out of the woods, Barksdale in front, on foot, forbidden to ride, and Longstreet saw them go off across the field and saw the enemy fire open up, a whole fence suddenly puff into white smoke, and the bullets whirred by and clipped among the leaves and thunked the trees, and Longstreet rode out into the open and took off his hat. Barksdale was going straight for the guns, running, screaming, far out in front, alone, as if in a race with all the world, hair streaming like a white torch. Longstreet rode behind him, his hat off, waving, screaming, Go! Go you Mississippi! Go!

 … heard the cannon begin. Sat up. Kilrain sat up. Tom Chamberlain went on sleeping, mouth open, saintly young, at peace.

Chamberlain said, “That’s mostly in the west.”

Kilrain cocked his head, listening. “I thought the Rebs were all up at Gettysburg.” He looked at Chamberlain, eyes dark. “You don’t suppose they’re flanking us again.”

The cannons were blossoming, filling the air with thunder, far enough away to soften and roll, not angry yet, but growing.

“At Chancellorsville they came in on the right. This time they could be on the left.”

“Do you think they’ll ever learn, our goddamn generals?”

Chamberlain shook his head. “Wait.”

The men in the field were stirring. Some of the newer men were pulling the tent halves down, but the others, professionals, had rolled over and were staring in the direction of the firing. The corn popper remained asleep.

Chamberlain thought: Alert the men? Some of them were looking to him. One stood up, yawned, stretched, glanced unconcernedly in his direction. Not yet. Chamberlain put the novel away.

Kilrain said, “That’s a whole division.”

Chamberlain nodded.

“Good thing their artillery aint very good.”

A rider had come over the crest of the hill, was loping down through the tall grass among the boulders. Chamberlain stood up. The courier saluted.

“Colonel Vincent’s compliments, sir. You are instructed to form your regiment.”

Chamberlain did not ask what was going on. He felt a coolness spreading all the way through him. He began buttoning his shirt as the courier rode off—no hurry, why hurry?—and began slipping on the belt and saber. When he was done with that he began smoothing his hair, yawned, grinned, turned to Tozier.

“Sergeant, have the regiment fall in.”

He looked down on Tom, sleeping Tom. Mom’s favorite. He’ll be all right. Did not want to wake him. Delayed a moment, buttoned his collar. Hot day for that. Shadows growing longer. Cool soon. He nudged Tom with his foot. Tom groaned, licked his lips, groaned again, opened his eyes.

“Hey, Lawrence.” He blinked and sat up, heard the thunder. “What’s happening?”

“Let’s go,” Chamberlain said.

“Right.” He jumped to his feet. Chamberlain walked out into the sun. Some of the men were in line, forming by companies. The regiment was bigger now; Chamberlain was glad of the new men. Ellis Spear had come sleepily up, disarranged, eyes wide. Chamberlain told him to bring everybody, cooks and prisoners, sick-call people. Chamberlain took a deep breath, smelled wet grass, hay, felt his heart beating, looked up into God’s broad sky, shivered as a thrill passed through him. He looked down through the woods. The whole brigade was forming.

And nothing happened. The guns thundered beyond the hill. They were in line, waiting. Chamberlain looked at his watch. Not quite four. The men were remarkably quiet, most of them still sleepy. Sergeant Ruel Thomas, an orderly, reported from sick call. Chamberlain nodded formally. Meade had ordered every soldier to action, even the provost guards. This was it, the last great effort. Don’t think now: rest.

Here, at last, was Vincent, riding at a gallop down the long slope. He reined up, the horse rising and kicking the air. All the faces watched him.

“Colonel, column of fours. Follow me.”

Chamberlain gave the order, mounted, feeling weak. No strength in his arms. Vincent gave orders to aides; they galloped away. Vincent said, “They’re attacking the left flank. Sickles has got us in one hell of a jam.”

They began moving up the slope. The 20th Maine came after them, four abreast. Vincent was shaking his handsome head.

“Damn fool. Unbelievable. But I must say, remarkably beautiful thing to see.”

They moved up between rocks. The artillery fire was growing, becoming massive. They found a narrow road leading upward: high ground ahead. Vincent spurred his horse, waved to Chamberlain to come on. They galloped across a wooden bridge, a dark creek, then up a narrow farm road. The firing was louder. A shell tore through the trees ahead, smashed a limb, blasted rock. Fragments spattered the air.

Chamberlain turned, saw Tom’s white grinning face, saw him flick rock dust from his uniform, blinking it out of his eyes, grinning bleakly. Chamberlain grimaced, gestured. Tom said, “Whee.”

Chamberlain said, “Listen, another one a bit closer and it will be a hard day for Mother. You get back to the rear and watch for stragglers. Keep your distance from me.”

“Right, fine.” Tom touched his cap, a thing he rarely did, and moved off thoughtfully. Chamberlain felt an easing in his chest, a small weight lifted. Vincent trotted coolly into the open, reined his horse. Chamberlain saw through a break in the trees, blue hills very far away, hazy ridges miles to the west, not ridges, mountains; he was on high ground. Vincent paused, looked back, saw the regiment coming up the road, shook his head violently.

“That damn fool Sickles, you know him?”

“Know of him.”

Another shell passed close, fifty yards to the left, clipped a limb, ricocheted up through the leaves. Vincent glanced that way, then back, went on.

“The Bully Boy. You know the one. The politician from New York. Fella shot his wife’s lover. The Barton Key affair. You’ve heard of it?”

Chamberlain nodded.

“Well, the damn fool was supposed to fall in on the left of Hancock, right
there.
” Vincent pointed up the ridge to the right. “He should be right here, as a matter of fact, where we’re standing. But he didn’t like the ground.” Vincent shook his head, amazed. “He didn’t like the ground. So he just up and moved his whole corps forward, hour or so ago. I saw them go. Amazing. Beautiful. Full marching line forward, as if they were going to pass in review. Moved right on out to the road down there. Leaving this hill uncovered. Isn’t that amazing?” Vincent grimaced. “Politicians. Well, let’s go.”

The road turned upward, into dark woods. Shells were falling up there. Chamberlain heard the wicked hum of shrapnel in leaves.

Vincent said, “Don’t mean to rush you people, but perhaps we better double-time.”

The men began to move, running upward into the dark. Chamberlain followed Vincent up the rise. The artillery was firing at nothing; there was no one ahead at all. They passed massive boulders, the stumps of newly sawed trees, splinters of shattered ones. Chamberlain could begin to see out across the valley: mass of milky smoke below, yellow flashes. Vincent said, raising his voice to be heard, “Whole damn Rebel army hitting Sickles down there, coming up around his flank. Be here any minute. Got to hold this place. This way.”

He pointed. They crossed the crown of the hill, had a brief glimpse all the way out across Pennsylvania, woods far away, a line of batteries massed and firing, men moving in the smoke and rocks below. Chamberlain thought: Bet you could see Gettysburg from here. Look at those rocks, marvelous position.

But they moved down off the hill, down into dark woods. Shells were passing over them, exploding in the dark far away. Vincent led them down and to the left, stopped in the middle of nowhere, rocks and small trees, said to Chamberlain, “All right, I place you here.” Chamberlain looked, saw a dark slope before him, rock behind him, ridges of rock to both sides. Vincent said, “You’ll hold here. The rest of the brigade will form on your right. Look’s like you’re the flank, Colonel.”

“Right,” Chamberlain said. He looked left and right, taking it all in. A quiet place in the woods. Strange place to fight. Can’t see very far. The regiment was moving up. Chamberlain called in the company commanders, gave them the position. Right by file into line. Vincent walked down into the woods, came back up. An aide found him with a message. He sent to the rest of the brigade to form around the hill to the right, below the crown. Too much artillery on the crown. Rebs liked to shoot high. Chamberlain strode back and forth, watching the regiment form along the ridge in the dark. The sun was behind the hill, on the other side of the mountain. Here it was dark, but he had no sense of temperature; he felt neither hot nor cold. He heard Vincent say, “Colonel?”

“Yes.” Chamberlain was busy.

Vincent said, “You are the extreme left of the Union line. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Chamberlain said.

“The line runs from here all the way back to Gettysburg. But it stops here. You know what that means.”

“Of course.”

“You cannot withdraw. Under any conditions. If you go, the line is flanked. If you go, they’ll go right up the hilltop and take us in the rear. You must defend this place to the last.”

“Yes,” Chamberlain said absently.

Vincent was staring at him.

“I’ve got to go now.”

“Right,” Chamberlain said, wishing him gone.

“Now we’ll see how professors fight,” Vincent said. “I’m a Harvard man myself.”

Chamberlain nodded patiently, noting that the artillery fire had slackened. Could mean troops coming this way. Vincent’s hand was out. Chamberlain took it, did not notice Vincent’s departure. He turned, saw Ruel Thomas standing there with his horse. Chamberlain said, “Take that animal back and tie it some place, Sergeant, then come back.”

“You mean leave it, sir?”

“I mean leave it.”

Chamberlain turned back. The men were digging in, piling rocks to make a stone wall. The position was more than a hundred yards long, Chamberlain could see the end of it, saw the 83rd Pennsylvania forming on his right. On his left there was nothing, nothing at all. Chamberlain called Kilrain, told him to check the flank, to see that the joint between regiments was secure. Chamberlain took a short walk. Hold to the last. To the last what? Exercise in rhetoric. Last man? Last shell? Last foot of ground? Last Reb?

The hill was shaped like a comma, large and round with a spur leading out and down:

The 20th Maine was positioned along the spur, the other regiments curved around to the right. At the end of the spur was a massive boulder. Chamberlain placed the colors there, backed off. To the left of his line there was nothing. Empty ground. Bare rocks. He peered off into the darkness. He was used to fighting with men on each side of him. He felt the emptiness to his left like a pressure, a coolness, the coming of winter. He did not like it.

He moved out in front of his line. Through the trees to his right he could see the dark bulk of a larger hill. If the Rebs get a battery there. What a mess. This could be messy indeed. He kept turning to look to the vacant left, the dark emptiness. No good at all. Morrill’s B Company was moving up. Chamberlain signaled. Morrill came up. He was a stocky man with an angular mustache, like a messy inverted U. Sleepy-eyed, he saluted.