Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [129]
"Chamberlain. Yes. Heard about you. Want to hear more. Want you to write a report. Rice says you did a good job."
Chamberlain nodded and said thank you and went on smelling chicken. Sykes was a small, thin, grouchy man, had the reputation of a gentleman, though somewhat bad-tempered. Chamberlain thought: There are no good-tempered generals.
Sykes said, observing Chamberlain with the same look one gives a new rifle,
"Rice says you're a schoolteacher."
"Well," Chamberlain said, "not quite."
"You aren't Regular Army."
"No, sir. I taught at Bowdoin."
"Bowdoin? Oh, you mean Bow-doyn. Yes. Heard of it. Amazing." He shook his head. "Tell me you ordered a bayonet charge, drove those people halfway to Richmond."
Chamberlain shifted his feet idiotically.
"Well, I'm going to look into it. Colonel, and let me tell you this, we need fightin' men in this army, any way we can get 'em, Regular Army or no, and one damn thing is sure, we can use some Brigade commanders. I'm going to look into it. Meantime, well done, well done. Now you go rest up. Nothing going to happen today."
He was finished, turned back to his work. Chamberlain asked about rations.
Sykes told a lieutenant to see to it. Chamberlain saluted, backed off, out into the sun. No horse now, have to walk. Right foot on fire. Damn. He limped along the crest, not paying much attention to the view. He was a picturesque figure. He had not changed clothes nor washed nor shaved in a week. His blue pants were torn in several places and splotched with dried blood; his right boot was torn, his jacket was ripped at the shoulder, his sword was without a scabbard, was stuck into his belt. He hobbled along painfully, sleepily, detouring around the front of a Napoleon, didn't notice it until he opened his eyes and looked straight into the black maw, the hole of the barrel, and he blinked and came awake, momentarily, remembering Shakespeare's line: "the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth." Doesn't look like a mouth. Looks like a damn dangerous hole. Stay away from that.
He was passing the group with Hancock and the chickens. He sighed wistfully, smelling fresh coffee, looked that way, was too proud to ask, saw a familiar figure: Meade himself. The crusty old stork, munching on a chicken leg.
Chamberlain paused. Never saw much of Meade, didn't quite know what to think of him. But if he wants to retreat, he's a damn fool. Chamberlain had stopped; a number of the group of officers noticed him. Chamberlain looked down, saw blood coming out of his boot. This keeps up, I'm in trouble. Foot wounds always slow to heal. Wonder why?
An officer had detached himself from the group. Chamberlain had started to move on, but the officer came up, saluted. He was older than Chamberlain, but he was only a lieutenant. Sitting with all the generals. Chamberlain could feel the massed power; it was like being near great barrels of gunpowder. The lieutenant asked if he could be of service. Chamberlain said no thanks, wondering how to conquer pride and if a general would part with some chicken, and then felt ashamed, because his boys had none and would be guilty to eat something up here, but on the other hand, don't get something soon, and keep losing blood, might pass out, in all this damned heat, like you did the other time, and be no good to anybody.
The lieutenant introduced himself: Frank Haskell, aide to General Gibbon. He recognized Chamberlain's name. His eyes showed respect; now that was pleasant.
Chamberlain explained that he'd been to see General Sykes and had no horse, and the foot was bothering him, and did the lieutenant think they might spare one scrawny leg, or even a neck? The lieutenant bowed, came back with three pieces of chicken, hot and greasy, wrapped