Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [117]
Chamberlain said, "Nothing to be ashamed of."
"Lawrence?"
Chamberlain turned. Tom was gazing at him, owl-eyed.
"You weren't afraid, much, yesterday."
"Too busy," Chamberlain said.
"No." Tom shook his head. "I shoot and run around and all the time I'm scared green. But you weren't scared at all. Not at all. But at Fredericksburg you were scared."
Chamberlain said, "I was too busy. Had things to do. Couldn't think about getting hurt." But he remembered: There was more to it than that. There was an exultation, a huge delight: I was alive.
"Well," Tom said stubbornly, "you did real good." It was the old family expression, used by one brother to another, down the years. Did I do good? You did real good.
Chamberlain grinned.
"You know what?" Tom said. He grabbed a branch, swung himself into a better position. "I think we're going to win this war." He looked to Chamberlain for confirmation.
Chamberlain nodded, but he was too tired to think about it, all those noble ideals, all true, all high and golden in the mind, but he was just too tired, and he had no need to talk about it. He would hang onto these rocks, all right, of that he was certain. But he didn't know about another charge.
He looked down on the men, the line running down the hill.
A little ammunition, a little food. We'll hang onto these rocks, all right.
Now if I could just get a little sleep...
"Lawrence? The way them Rebs kept coming yesterday... You got to admire 'em."
"Um," Chamberlain said.
"You think they'll come again today?"
Chamberlain looked out across the open air, gazed at the miles of campfires.
"Doesn't look like they're planning to depart."
"You think they'll come again?"
"They'll come again," he said. He stirred himself on the branch. They'll come again, for sure. Must get more ammunition up here. What in God's name is keeping Rice?
"We only got about two hundred men," Tom said thoughtfully. Not with worry but with calculation, a new realist, assessing the cold truth.
"But the position is very good," Chamberlain said.
"I guess so," Tom admitted. Rumble of cannon. At first he thought it was thunder, out of the dark sky to the north.
But he saw the flashes sparkle on Cemetery Hill and knew it was too early for thunder, and as he looked northward he could see sunlight breaking through the overcast, to the north and west, and shells falling on the far side of the cemetery. He put his glasses to his eyes and looked, but all he could see was smoke and mist, an occasional yellow flash. Below him, on the hilltop, the heads of the men turned north. Chamberlain thought: diversion. To Tom he said,
"You go down and alert the pickets. May be a diversion on that flank. They may be coming this way again. Send Ruel Thomas to me, tell him to send another call to Rice for ammunition."
Tom started down the tree. He scratched himself, swore feebly.
"Lawrence, we're going to need another runner, sir, old brother. I go up and down this hill much more my legs going to fall off."
Chamberlain said, "Yes. Tell Ellis Spear to pick a man, send him to me."
Tom moved down into the dark. Chamberlain waited in the tree. It was a very good position. The hill was flat across the top, about thirty yards of flat rock, an occasional tree, but the ascent on all sides was steep. The ground facing the enemy was rocky and steep and heavy with trees, and the ground behind him fell away abruptly, a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet, no worry about assault from that side.
The men had built another rock wall, and now, with enough ammunition, he could hold there for a long time. The end of the line. Overlooking all the world.
They'll come again. Let 'em come.
He half expected another assault. But there was no sound from below. The sky was brighter now, breaks in the overcast; light streamed down in blinding rays. He shaded sleep-filled eyes, gazed out across