Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [132]
They were moving downhill now, and he saw the sun again, the last piece of orange over far hills, and then there was a bugle, from far up ahead, and the lines in front of him began to slow. He pulled his horse up, saw a flood of blue spreading in both directions away from the road, filling small open spaces under great wide trees. The bugles became louder now, came down the line, closer, and the sound filled him with a vast joy, soothing notes. His own men had stopped, began to bunch up again. Ames said something to the color bearers, and a bugle rose up, blew loud and clear, the call to fall out, stack arms. They were done for the day.
September 17, 1862
THE BUGLES began early, before dawn. He rolled off the cot, stared ahead into black nothing, tried to focus his brain. Ames was already gone, up before the bugle, and Chamberlain could make out the empty cot, thought, Is that what it takes to be a commander? He reached for his uniform, laid carefully at the end of his own cot, struggled with the brass buttons, his clumsy fingers not yet awake. He tried to stretch, reached his arms out wide, could not raise them up, so he moved out of the tent, and heard the sounds of men moving, the slow hum of the army coming alive.
“A good mornin’ to ye, Colonel.”
“Huh?” He tried to see the face, a short man, thick, built like a bull, and the man held out a tin cup, steaming hot.
“Colonel Ames sent me to get you, Colonel. Says you might be needin’ a touch of the elixir.”
Chamberlain stared at the man, heard the accent, the hint of the Irish.
“Thank you . . . uh . . .”
“Kilrain, sir. Sergeant Kilrain. Glad to be of service, sir. The boys—we been a-watchin’ you with some interest, that we have. You come a long way. Becomin’ a pleasure to serve under you.”
Chamberlain took the hot cup, drank a painful gulp, could see the face now, faintly in the first light, broad, round, familiar, maybe. There were so many.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Do I know you? You say you’ve been watching me?”
“Aye, Colonel. We ain’t properly met, but bein’ you’re the second in command and all, and not long of this army, we have been takin’ an interest, don’t you see? Fact is, Colonel, when we go into line against those rebels up there, we need to know who’s up front. We was a bit leery of you, some of us older gents. I been tellin’ em you’ll be turnin’ out all right.”
“You a veteran, Sergeant?” He realized from the gravelly voice, the heavy face, Kilrain was older, maybe near the limit, forty-five.
“Aye, Colonel, I suppose you could say that. Did me duty in the regular army for a while—made the great long walk with General Scott, down South. Not very many of us back then, and we did a mighty fine job, if I do say. A great many more of us now, and we’re not doin’ such good work.”
Chamberlain could see now, across the sea of tents and men and wagons, and he felt clearer, not sure if it was the dawn or the coffee. He wanted to ask this sturdy little man some questions, felt something . . . some curiosity, as though this man had something he could use, some knowledge.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. Perhaps we can talk later.” Chamberlain held out a hand, an old instinct.
Kilrain saluted, said, “Best be gettin’ back, Colonel. We be movin’ shortly. There’s a mess of rebs up there, just a ways. Enjoy your coffee, Colonel.”
Chamberlain watched him leave, then turned and began to look for Ames, thought, Maybe I should tell him what Kilrain said, about the rebs . . . the Confederate Army. But Ames would know, of course, and Chamberlain was still feeling slightly left out of things, too high above the flow of rumors and gossip of the men, too far below the official reports. But if Kilrain were right . . . it could be their first fight.
He tossed the last bit of coffee out of the cup, began to walk. Off to the west, down the hard, dry road they would march again, came a rumble, a brief burst of distant thunder, and he thought of rain, an early morning