Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [135]
He saw down to the left the arch of a stone bridge, crossing the creek to the south. Down in front of him, where the creek swung closer to the base of the hill, he could see the Middle Bridge, saw troops moving across, a steady advance, and then he saw the rebels on the far side, moving into position, and he understood: the attack is moving, shifting this way, we will begin now, here. He turned to watch the men working the cannon, and was startled to see more men, his men, watching the battle, lying on the ground, creating a neat blue patch on the hill. He had not thought anyone else would be up here, should not have been up here; he should not be up here, but he knew they could not just wait, could not sit behind some big hill and hear it all and not see.
Chamberlain stood up, began to wave his arms, fast and high, motioning to the men, and another blast came from the guns. He braced himself, did not fall, kept waving, back, move back, wondered if they saw him or were ignoring him. He moved along the hillside, tried to yell, but the sound of the guns took his voice away, and suddenly he heard a high, distant scream, louder now, whistling toward him, dropping down on him from behind. He turned, saw nothing, but the sound pierced his ears, and the ground suddenly flew high around him, dirt spraying him, knocking him down, and he lay still, shook his head . . . checked, all right, but . . . a bad day for the ears. Then another scream, overhead, and behind the hill, down where the rest of his men sat waiting, there was another explosion, and he tried to see, but it was beyond the crest.
Suddenly, someone had him under the arms, lifting him, and he said, “No, I’m all right,” and he saw the face of an officer, a man with black crust under his eyes, around his mouth and nose, glaring at him with eyes of cold steel.
“You are bloody well not all right, you damned fool! Get these men back off this hill. You’re drawing fire to my guns!”
Chamberlain saw the uniform, a captain, realized suddenly he had done a supremely stupid thing, and the man turned away, was gone through a new cloud of smoke.
Chamberlain crouched down, ran along the hill, yelling at the men, “Back, get back, we’re giving the enemy a target!”
They were watching him, understood, and moved fast and low, back over the hill and away from the guns.
He slowed as he came down out of the smoke, saw his men moving back in their lines, where most of the others, the ones who did not have to see, were down on the ground, resting. He saw the still smoking earth, the round fresh hole from the enemy shell, and he thanked God it had not gone farther, had not gone into the rows of men.
Captain Spear was standing, talking to another officer, and they looked at him, questioned silently, saw the dirt, the black grime that covered him, and he said, “The battle may be moving our way. Keep them ready!”
They nodded, looked at him without expression, and he wondered if they knew what he had done, that he had stood up high on a hill, out in front of his own carefully placed cannon, and waved his arms like some idiotic fire-breathing evangelist.
He moved away, felt thirsty, looked for his horse, his canteen, and saw a sergeant, the short and sturdy Irishman, Kilrain, standing, leaning on the barrel of his musket.
“Well, now, Colonel, did you get a fine look at what we’re facin’?”
Chamberlain wiped at the dirt on his face, said, “Quite a sight . . . right over that hill, it’s a few hundred yards, all of it.”
“Impressive, ain’t it, Colonel? Watchin’ them line up and walk right into the fire.”
“Yes . . . impressive.” He stared back up the hill, the big guns quiet now, the smoke clearing, and he could see them again, lining the crest of the hill. The cannon are hidden, of course, he realized, hard to get the range on them that way. I will damned well remember that.
“The word is, Colonel . . .” Kilrain said, and Chamberlain turned, looked into the heavy face. “The word is, we’ll be sittin’ here