Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [126]
He reached the tents, saw a man, an officer, the only uniform he had seen so far, sitting at a small table. The man was writing on a long sheet of paper, and Chamberlain said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my tent. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain.”
The man looked up, glanced him up and down quickly, then stood, saluted.
“Sir, I am Major Gilmore, formerly of the Seventh Maine. I have been sent here to assist you . . . and . . . this regiment.”
“Fine, Major, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You are a veteran, then?”
“Yes, sir. Fought in General Hancock’s brigade, on the peninsula, General Smith’s division.”
“We can use some experience here, Major, myself included. Are you the only officer here?”
“There are others, sir, the company commanders, but the uniforms have not yet arrived.”
“And Colonel Ames?”
“The colonel is expected at any time. I have taken the liberty, sir, of preparing a schedule . . . a routine for the drills. I had thought Colonel Ames would want to begin as soon as possible. They’re a pretty rough bunch, sir. If you’d like, we can begin right away, get a bit of a jump on it before the colonel arrives.”
Gilmore handed him the paper. Chamberlain saw a list of march steps, formations, and column movements, and he examined the list with an attempt at a critical eye, hoped Gilmore did not realize that he would have no idea how to begin drills.
“Yes . . . well done, Major . . . but, this is Colonel Ames’s command. I think we should let him decide the training schedule.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Chamberlain began to look around, studying the faces, the clothes, the mix of city and country, then turned toward the tents, said, “Major, can you point me—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, yes, you are over there . . . that large one, with the open flaps.”
“Thank you, Major.” He began to move that way, felt a childlike excitement, his own tent, sleeping right out here, on the ground, then he felt silly, forced himself not to smile. He leaned over, into the empty tent, saw only one small cot. He threw his bag toward the back, then gazed at the camp again, thought, Maybe I should walk among the men, introduce myself, get to know them. Then he thought, Well, no, maybe a commander shouldn’t do that. But the officers . . . I should find the officers. . . .
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I heared you was a perfessor?”
It was a comical voice, with a crude, exaggerated accent. Chamberlain turned, saw a man coming from between the tents, a small, thin man in baggy clothes. The man had spoken out from under a wide, floppy farmer’s hat, then the hat lifted and he saw: Tom!
“What . . . you come to see me off? What are you doing here?”
“Lawrence, I joined up. I’m in this regiment. I’m going with you.” Then he snapped to attention, threw up a crooked salute, said, “Colonel, sir!”
“How did . . . did Father approve this? How will he run the farm?”
“Lawrence, once he heard you was gonna be a colonel, he couldn’t say no. You know him, he’ll be all right, they both will. I just gave him one less thing to cuss at. And Mama said so many prayers for both of us . . . we got nothin’ to worry about.”
“Well . . .” He looked at the clean smile of the boy, felt the pride, then a hard tug in his gut. His brother, his little brother, was a soldier. “Well, I guess I have one more responsibility—I have to look after you.”
“Me? Lawrence, Mama told me to look after you.”
Chamberlain smiled, could picture that scene, his mother wrapping the tight arms around her youngest son, the last gift of pious advice, and his father standing to one side, grim and silent, maybe one nod, one grudging show of affection.
“This is really something, eh, Lawrence? Look at all these men. And you’re gonna tell ’em all what to do. Think they’ll listen