The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [13]
“Looking for the commanding officer, Twentieth Maine.”
“You’ve found him,” Chamberlain said.
“That’s him all right.” Tom’s voice, behind him, very proud. Chamberlain suppressed a smile.
“You Chamberlain?” The captain stared at him grimly, insolently, showing what he thought of Maine men.
Chamberlain did not answer for a long moment, looking into the man’s eyes until the eyes suddenly blinked and dropped, and then Chamberlain said softly, “Colonel Chamberlain to you.”
The captain stood still for a moment, then slowly came to attention, slowly saluted. Chamberlain did not return it. He looked past the captain at the men, most of whom had their heads down. But there were eyes on him. He looked back and forth down the line, looking for a familiar face. That would help. But there was no one he knew.
“Captain Brewer, sir. Ah. One-eighteen Pennsylvania.” The captain tugged in his coat front, produced a sheaf of papers. “If you’re the commanding officer, sir, then I present you with these here prisoners.” He handed the papers. Chamberlain took them, glanced down, handed them back to Tom. The captain said, “You’re welcome to ’em, God knows. Had to use the bayonet to get ’em moving. You got to sign for ’em, Colonel.”
Chamberlain said over his shoulder, “Sign it, Tom.” To the captain he said, “You’re relieved, Captain.”
The captain nodded, pulling on the dirty gloves. “You’re authorized to use whatever force necessary, Colonel.” He said that loudly, for effect. “If you have to shoot ’em, why, you go right ahead. Won’t nobody say nothin’.”
“You’re relieved, Captain,” Chamberlain said. He walked past the captain, closer to the men, who did not move, who did not seem to notice him. One of the guards stiffened as Chamberlain approached, looked past him to his captain. Chamberlain said, “You men can leave now. We don’t need any guards.”
He stood in front of the men, ignoring the guards. They began to move off. Chamberlain stood for a moment looking down. Some of the faces turned up. There was hunger and exhaustion and occasional hatred. Chamberlain said, “My name is Chamberlain. I’m Colonel, Twentieth Maine.”
Some of them did not even raise their heads. He waited another moment. Then he said, “When did you eat last?”
More heads came up. There was no answer. Then a man in the front row said huskily, in a whisky voice, “We’re hungry, Colonel.”
Another man said, “They been tryin’ to break us by not feedin’ us.” Chamberlain looked: a scarred man, hatless, hair plastered thinly on the scalp like strands of black seaweed. The man said, “We aint broke yet.”
Chamberlain nodded. A hard case. But we’ll begin with food. He said, “They just told us you were coming a little while ago. I’ve told the cook to butcher a steer. Hope you like it near to raw; not much time to cook.” Eyes opened wide. He could begin to see the hunger on the faces, like the yellow shine of sickness. He said, “We’ve got a ways to go today and you’ll be coming with us, so you better eat hearty. We’re all set up for you back in the trees.” He saw Glazier Estabrook standing huge-armed and peaceful in the shade of a nearby tree. “Glazier,” Chamberlain said, “you show these men where to go. You fellas eat up and then I’ll come over and hear what you have to say.”
No man moved. Chamberlain turned away. He did not know what he would do if they did not choose to move. He heard a voice: “Colonel?”
He turned. The scarred man was standing.
“Colonel, we got grievances. The men elected me to talk for ’em.”
“Right.” Chamberlain nodded. “You come on with me and talk. The rest of you fellas