Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [102]
In Washington, the administration had heard enough of McClellan’s strange logic, and the general’s paranoia about those who conspired against him became reality. He was relieved of command, and the Army of the Potomac was given to General John Pope.
21. CHAMBERLAIN
July 1862
THE UNIFORMS were fresh and blue and sharply creased, and most seemed to fit their wearers well, but occasionally the taller boys or the shorter would self-consciously glance at their too-short pants legs or the sleeves that rode down over their hands. They marched down the main street, and people came out from the shops to watch and admire. There had been no great patriotic fever in Brunswick, no loud breathers of fire, abolitionist orators, radical Unionists screaming out from soapboxes, but these boys, this new company of clean-faced boys, the sons of the shopkeepers and bankers and longshoremen, the boys who had responded to the calls for volunteers, stirred something in them, brought them together in a new way, and so they watched quietly as the slightly uneven lines paraded by.
Chamberlain had come into town to see the tailor. He now carried his package, a bundle of new shirts, all crisp and white and neatly folded, encased in a tight wrapping of brown paper. He tossed the parcel up onto the seat of the small carriage, began to pull himself up, and heard a drumbeat, a rhythmic pounding that surprised him. Then he saw the line of blue rounding the corner a block away. There was a flag, held up high by a boy in front of the line, and beside him was the drummer, who bounced the drum awkwardly in front of him, suspended by a thin strap around his neck, somehow maintaining the steady beat. Chamberlain climbed up into the carriage, sat sideways on the small seat and waited, saw the townspeople now, the small crowd gathering along the edge of the street. Then he saw the flag, a bright red A on a blank field of blue. They marched four abreast, and the line stretched back, still emerging from around the corner. He began to count, and made a quick guess, maybe two hundred. They reached him and passed at a deliberate march, the drummer setting the pace. He saw the faces, felt a cold thump in his chest; they were the faces of children.
Chamberlain had built a reputation at Bowdoin for respecting his students as much as they respected him. He advocated less strict discipline, and more equal exchange of ideas, and this put him in conflict with the old professors, the men who treated the students with a mindless rigidity, an inflexible doctrine of study and examination. The attitude appalled him, and he did much to show the students that they not only had the right to question their instructors, but were obligated to do so. He taught them to accept the responsibility for their own education, because, sadly, many of the professors would not. Now he saw the same faces, the young men he had taught, several marching in line alongside the local boys, the farmers’ sons who did not go to school, who had been taught only that they would do as their fathers had done. But now there was a war.
As the troops marched by him, some of the students saw him, turning discreetly, nodded in his direction. And he saw the looks, the pride, and he thought, No, they are too young. They are not old enough to become an army. But the uniforms were new, shining buttons and black leather belts, and he turned away, felt a sudden sickness, knew the image would be with him for a long time, boys and their uniforms, marching happily to war. He waited for the last of the troops to pass, slapped the horse with the leather straps, turned the carriage toward his home.
There were empty chairs, gaps among the crowd of seated students. He walked to the front of the classroom, placed his notes down slowly, on the podium, and looked out at the young faces. They watched him as they always did, the talking stopped, and there was a moment when there was no noise at all.