The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [50]
That was enough. Lee thought: Docile men do not make good soldiers. He said nothing. Longstreet could see the conversation was at an end. He said, “I’ll bring my boys up as soon as I can.”
Lee nodded. As Longstreet was going, Lee said, “General.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your spy was correct in his reports. Had it not been for that report, this army might have been destroyed in detail. I thank you.”
Longstreet nodded. If the compliment pleased him, he did not show it. He moved off.
Lee stood alone, troubled. He had had enough of defensive war. The King of Spades. Let us attack, and let it be done. I am extraordinarily tired. You are an old man. And if something happens to you?
He picked up the glasses, waiting for Ewell’s attack. No attack began.
*Cemetery Hill.
4.
CHAMBERLAIN
Chamberlain rode slowly forward, into the western sun. It was soft green country, a land of orchards and good big barns. Here and there along the road people came out to see the troops go by and there were a few cheers, but most of the people were silent and glum, not hostile, apprehensive. The sight was depressing. Some of them were selling food to the troops. One farmer had a stand offering cold milk for sale, at outrageous prices, and after Chamberlain was past there was a scuffle and some of the men requisitioned the milk and told him to charge it to the U.S. Guvmint. Chamberlain heard but did not look back. It was beginning to be very hot, and Chamberlain closed his eyes to let the salt sweat gather in the corners of his eyelids and wiped it away and rode with his eyes closed, himself tucked away back in the dark under his hat. When he opened his eyes again the day was violently bright and very dusty, and so he rode half asleep, eyes partly closed, dreaming.
At noon they reached the Pennsylvania border. Now there were more people and they were much more friendly and the band behind struck up “Yankee Doodle.” Now the farmers began to hand out free food; Chamberlain smelled fresh bread baking. A very pretty young girl with long blond hair rushed up to him and pressed a warm cake into his hand and he was embarrassed. The regiment greeted the girl with cheers. It was good to be first in line. No dust ahead. Chamberlain swiveled in the saddle and looked back down the road, and there down in the dust like a huge blue snake came the whole Fifth Corps along the winding road, some men on horses riding high in black hats, among the tilting flags. More bands were playing. Chamberlain wiped sweat from his eyes.
It was time to dismount. A good officer rode as little as possible. He got down from the horse and began to march along in the dust, in the heat. Near him he could hear Tom Chamberlain talking to one of the new men from the Second Maine, explaining the ways of this regiment. Tom was proud but not too proud. The Second Maine had seen more action. Chamberlain thought of Tom and his mind wandered back to Maine: young Tom lost, in the dark of the winter, a long search, Mother crying, we never found him, he survived out there and came back himself, a grinning kid with a bright red nose, never once afraid …
“One of the things you get to know,” Tom Chamberlain was saying, “is that this here brigade has got its own special bugle call. You ever hear tell of Dan Butterfield?”
“General Butterfield what was with Hooker?”
“Right. Same man. Well, he used to be our brigade commander.”
“They say he was a pistol. No man like him for having a good time.” He gave a lewd wink, suggestion of coarseness.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but he liked to write bugle calls. Trouble with this army is too many bugle calls. Call for artillery and infantry and get up and eat and retreat and all that, and it got a mite confusin’, so Ole Dan Butterfield wrote a call for this here brigade, special. If there is an order for this brigade, well, somebody else would be blowing his blame bugle and we’d think it was for us only it wasn’t, but we would follow the order anyway, and next thing you know