Killer Angels, The - Michael Shaara [93]
Pity the men out there. Very good men. Here they come. Whose?
The next charge struck the angle at the boulder, at the colors, lapped around it, ran into the new line, was enfiladed, collapsed. Chamberlain saw Tom come up, whirling through smoke, saw a rip in his coat, thought: no good to have a brother here. Weakens a man. He sent to the 83rd to tell them of his move to the left, asking if perhaps they couldn't come a little this way and help him out. He sent Ruel Thomas back up the hill to find out how things were going there, to find Vincent to tell him that life was getting difficult and we need a little help.
He looked for Kilrain. The old Buster was sitting among some rocks, aiming the carbine, looking chipper. Hat was off. An old man, really. No business here.
Kilrain said, "I'm not much good to you. Colonel."
There was a momentary calm. Chamberlain sat.
"Buster, how are you?"
Grin. Stained crooked teeth. All the pores remarkably clear, red bulbous nose.
Eyes of an old man. How old? I've never asked.
"How's the ammunition?" Kilrain asked.
"I've sent back."
"They're in a mess on the other side." He frowned, grinned, wiped his mouth with the good hand, the right arm folded across his chest, a bloody rag tucked in his armpit. "Half expect Rebs comin' right over the top of the hill.
Nothing much to do then. Be Jesus. Fight makes a thirst. And I've brought nothin' a-tall, would you believe that? Not even my emergency ration against snakebite and bad dreams. Not even a spoonful of Save the Baby."
Aimed fire now. He heard a man crying with pain. He looked down the hill.
Darker down there. He saw a boy behind a thick tree, tears running down his face, ramming home a ball, crying, whimpering, aiming fire, Jolted shoulders, ball of smoke, then turning back, crying aloud, sobbing, biting the paper cartridge, tears all over his face, wiping his nose with a wet sleeve, ramming home another ball.
Kilrain said, "I can stand now, I think."
Darker down the hill. Sunset soon. How long had this been going on? Longer pause then usual. But... the Rebel yell. A rush on the left. He stood up. Pain in the right foot; unmistakable squish of blood in the boot. Didn't know it was bleeding. See them come, bounding up the rocks, hitting the left flank.
Kilrain moved by him on the right, knelt, fired. Chamberlain pulled out the pistol. No damn good expect at very close range. You couldn't hit anything.
He moved to the left flank. Much smoke. Smoke changing now, blowing this way, blinding. He was caught m it, a smothering shroud, hot, white, the bitter smell of burned powder. It broke. He saw a man swinging a black rifle, grunts and yells and weird thick sounds unlike anything he had ever heard before. A Reb came over a rock, bayonet fixed, black thin point forward and poised, face seemed blinded, head twitched. Chamberlain aimed the pistol, fired, hit the man dead center, down he went, folding; smoke swallowed him. Chamberlain moved forward He expected them to be everywhere, flood of brown bodies, gray bodies.
But the smoke cleared and the line was firm.
Only a few Rebs had come up, a few come over the stones all were down. He ran forward to a boulder, ducked, looked out: dead men, ten, fifteen, lumps of gray blood spattering everywhere, dirty white skin, a claw-like hand, black sightless eyes. Burst of white smoke, again, again. Tom at his shoulder:
"Lawrence?"
Chamberlain turned. All right? Boyish face. He smiled.
"They can't send us no help from the Eighty-third. Woodward said they have got their troubles, but they can extend the line a little and help us out."
"Good. Go tell Clarke to shift a bit, strengthen the center."
Kilrain, on hands and knees, squinting: "They keep coming in on the flank."
Chamberlain, grateful for the presence: "What do you think?"
"We've been shooting a lot of rounds."
Chamberlain looked toward the crest of the hill. No Thomas anywhere. Looked down again