The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [74]
Bugles were blowing. The men were moving out into formation. Tom came up with the black mare.
“I don’t know what I can do,” Chamberlain said. “Give him some food. Bind him up. Make a good bandage. But I don’t know what else.”
“Which way is home, Colonel?”
“Let’s go, Buster.”
“Do I point him generally east?”
Chamberlain shrugged. He started to move off, and then he turned, and to the black face looking up, to the red eyes, he looked down and bowed slightly, touching his cap. “Goodbye, friend. Good luck. God bless you.”
He rode off feeling foolish and angry, placed himself in front of the regiment.
The division was forming on level ground, down the road—great square blocks of blue. The colors were unfurled, the lines were dressed. A stillness came over the corps. They were expecting a review, possibly Meade himself. But no one came. Chamberlain sat on his horse, alone in the sun before the ranks of the 20th Maine. He heard Tozier behind him: “Dress it up, dress it up,” a muffled complaint, whispers, the far sound of hoofs pawing the ground. His own horse stood quietly, neck down, nibbling Pennsylvania grass. Chamberlain let the mare feed. The day was very hot. He saw a buzzard floating along in the pale blue above, drifting and floating, and he thought of the smell of dead men and chicken hawks swooping down and the only eagle he’d ever seen, in captivity, back in Brewer, a vast wingspread, a murderous eye.
Colonel Vincent came down the line, trailing aides like blue clouds. Chamberlain saluted. Vincent looked very happy.
“We’ll be moving up soon. No action this morning. I expect we’ll be in reserve.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Reserve is the best duty. That means they’ll use us where we’re needed. ‘Once more into the breach.’ ” He grinned brightly, showing teeth almost womanly white. “How does that go, Professor?”
Chamberlain smiled politely.
“You spell breach with an ‘a,’ am I right? Thought so. I’m a Harvard man myself.” Vincent grinned, looked thoughtfully at the regiment. “Glad you got those extra men. You may need ’em. How they getting along?”
“Fine.”
Vincent nodded, reached out cheerily, patted Chamberlain on the arm. “You’ll be all right, Colonel. Glad to have you with us. I’m having some beef driven up. If there’s time, we’ll have a good feed tonight in this brigade.”
He was interrupted by bugles, and there it was: Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield. He swung his horse to listen, saw riders approaching, began to move that way. Over his shoulder he said, “Anything you need, Colonel,” and he rode off.
The call came to advance. Chamberlain turned to face the regiment. He ordered right shoulder arms; the rifles went up. He drew his sword, turned. Down the line the order came: advance. He gave the long order to Tozier, guide on the next regiment, the 118th Pennsylvania. He raised his sword. They began to move, the whole corps in mass, at slow march forward through a flat farm, a peach orchard. He ordered route step. Looking far off down the line, he saw the men moving in a long blue wave, the heart-stopping sight of thousands of men walking silently forward, rifles shouldered and gleaming in the sun, colors bobbing, the officers in front on high-stepping horses. Chamberlain sucked in his breath: marvelous, marvelous. Behind him he could hear men joking, but he could not hear the jokes. Details of men, in front, were removing white rail fences. He rode past a house, slowed to let the men flow round it, saw a fat woman in a bonnet, a gray dress, standing on the porch, her hands in her apron. She extracted one hand, waved slowly, silently. Chamberlain bowed. Some of the men wished her good morning. A sergeant apologized for marching through her farm. The regiment moved on across the open place and through a cornfield and some low bushes. Then there was high ground to the right. The front of the corps swung to face south, rolled forward down a slope through more cornfields. The corn was high and the men tried not to trample