Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [127]
Chamberlain felt a sting, said, “They’ll do what they have to do . . . it will take some time. But one thing has to change right away.”
“What’s that, Lawrence?”
“Stop calling me Lawrence.”
HE LAY alone and quiet, heard nothing, the camp dark and silent. He thought, I had better sleep . . . I have to be sharp tomorrow. But there was no sleep, and he tried to move, lay on his side, hoping it would be more comfortable. But the stiff cot would not give in, and he rolled onto his back again, staring at white canvas. He sat up, stuck his head out through the flaps, saw the stars, a clear, lovely night, and stepped outside, stretched, looked out over the sea of tents. Nearly a thousand men, he thought, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Waiting for me. No wonder you can’t sleep. He looked farther out, saw a lone figure moving, walking, then toward the other side, another one: sentries. Major Gilmore had posted guards, something Chamberlain would not have thought of. Guarding against what? We’re still in Maine. But, of course, the guards were there to keep these men here.
He thought of taking a walk, strolling through the cool air, but no, it would be a bad example. Try to get some sleep, Colonel, he told himself, and he moved back into the tent, sat on the cot. His brother was there. He had not counted on that. It shouldn’t change things, he thought, but it does.
Stretching out on the cot, he stared up again, at the blank canvas. He tried to relax his mind, heard himself breathing, and then saw Fannie—God, I miss her already. He thought of the many nights he would reach over to her, run his hand gently over her arm, touch her hair. . . .
It was a terrible screeching, a dying animal, some horrible demon tearing through his brain, a hellish whine in his ears. It was dawn . . . and it was a bugle.
Chamberlain turned over, tried to find the floor, rolled off the edge of the cot and hit the hard ground with his whole body. Then he pulled himself up, tried to stand, and his head bumped the canvas above him. He tried to see, stumbled toward the opening in the tent, saw it was still dark, a faint white glare beyond the far trees. The bugle continued to blow, a broken and tuneless flow of sounds, and men were moving now. He heard voices and curses, and he backed into the tent, looked through the darkness for his clothes, realized he was already dressed, had never taken them off. He turned again, fought his way out through the tent, stood outside in the chilly morning and saw a man on a horse, a sharp silhouette in the faint light. It was Gilmore, and beside him, standing, was the man blowing the bugle. Chamberlain began to move that way, thought, I really do need a uniform, and as he approached, Gilmore saw him and saluted stiffly. Behind him, Chamberlain saw a horseman sitting stiffly, a smaller man in a wide-brimmed hat. The man moved his horse up beside Gilmore, the major said something, and, blessedly, the bugle stopped.
Then Gilmore said, “Colonel Ames, I am pleased to present Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain.”
He felt confused, then realized it was him, and he saluted in the man’s direction. He could not see the face, but he heard, “Colonel Chamberlain, please accompany me to breakfast.”
Food? he thought. “Yes, sir. When, sir?”
Ames stared down at him, said nothing, and now the men were gathering in numbers, most of them up and out of the tents.
Gilmore shouted, “Line up . . . here, across here.”
The men began to fall in, and Chamberlain heard the voices, “Where’s the coffee?” “Kill that bugler,” and he thought, Yes, a brave man carries the bugle.
Gradually the men came together, a sea of bodies in the faint light, and Gilmore shouted, “Quiet! Men of the Twentieth Maine Regiment of Volunteers, this is your commanding officer, Colonel Adelbert Ames.”
There were some cheers, applause, and Gilmore waved his arms frantically. “Quiet! You do not applaud your commander. You will learn to salute him. Now, here . . . this is Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain, your second in command.