Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [133]
“. . . and we will remain near this road . . . staying in reserve of the rest of the corps until needed. Tell your men . . . be ready, stay in formation.” Ames turned, saw Chamberlain, said, “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, I woke with the bugle—”
“If I had needed you, Colonel, I would have awakened you. I have just informed the officers that we have been instructed to remain in place, in our position in line of march. The army is spreading out in front of us, a couple miles up. The enemy is dug in behind a small creek, Antietam Creek, just this side of Sharpsburg. We may be put into the attack at any time. For now, get the men to step it up, finish their breakfasts, then wait for the orders to move. Got that?”
“Certainly, Colonel.” He paused, listened again. The rumbling had stopped. “Colonel, whose guns are those? Is the attack begun?”
“Likely it’s the first feeling out, probing, testing the strength. It’s like a game to the artillery boys, letting you know they can hit you when the time comes. Let’s grab some breakfast, Colonel.”
Ames moved away, and Chamberlain followed, toward the wagons and the plates of food. The fare was much simpler now, hardtack, the thin bread with the consistency and flavor of old bricks, and bacon, nearly raw. He caught the smell: a steaming pot of thick coffee. He felt his stomach turn slightly, did not feel hungry, but he saw Ames putting hardtack in his pocket, thought, If today is the day . . . there might not be a mess wagon later. He grabbed a handful of thick, greasy bacon, stuffed it in his mouth, then the hardtack, and he followed Ames’s lead, put a few pieces in his pocket, kept one out to eat now. He held out the tin cup Kilrain had given him, the mess orderly filled it, and suddenly there was a bugle, their own, and the men began to flow away from the tents and the wagons, and his stomach turned again. He looked at the coffee, tossed it out, and ran toward the front of the gathering troops.
THEY REACHED a small village, Porterstown, and marched through wide streets, the townspeople standing in doorways, leaning out windows, some waving, others just staring. Farther ahead, on the creek itself, was the Middle Bridge, held by the Confederate division of Daniel Harvey Hill. The rebel forces were dug in, back, away from the creek, and to their front the Federal Army was spreading out, into lines of attack, were crossing the creek and preparing for the assault. The battle had begun on the far right, just after dawn, and now, as the sun began to rise up behind them, Chamberlain could hear the steady rumble, and as they moved closer, the sharp sounds of single cannon. He sat high on his horse, moving along with the same slow rhythm of the march, but now the men did not fall out, did not feel the weight of the hot September morning, but stared to the front, marching steadily, closer to the sound of the guns.
He heard the steady clatter of muskets now, still off to the right of the road, to the northwest. The battle is not in front of us, he thought. Strange that we should move this way . . . not up there.
In front of them Chamberlain saw a rise, a long, wide hill, and as they began to move up, he saw guns, rows of black cannon set into shallow, round depressions before the crest of the hill. Just then they began to fire, quick bursts of gray smoke, and a sudden shocking boom that startled him and his horse. He bounced around on the road, had to grab the horse hard to calm him. From over the hill he saw Ames, riding hard, past lines of troops that were moving away now, to the right, toward the sounds of the battle.
Ames reined up his horse, and Chamberlain saw he was sweating. “Colonel, we