The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [88]
And nothing happened. The guns thundered beyond the hill. They were in line, waiting. Chamberlain looked at his watch. Not quite four. The men were remarkably quiet, most of them still sleepy. Sergeant Ruel Thomas, an orderly, reported from sick call. Chamberlain nodded formally. Meade had ordered every soldier to action, even the provost guards. This was it, the last great effort. Don’t think now: rest.
Here, at last, was Vincent, riding at a gallop down the long slope. He reined up, the horse rising and kicking the air. All the faces watched him.
“Colonel, column of fours. Follow me.”
Chamberlain gave the order, mounted, feeling weak. No strength in his arms. Vincent gave orders to aides; they galloped away. Vincent said, “They’re attacking the left flank. Sickles has got us in one hell of a jam.”
They began moving up the slope. The 20th Maine came after them, four abreast. Vincent was shaking his handsome head.
“Damn fool. Unbelievable. But I must say, remarkably beautiful thing to see.”
They moved up between rocks. The artillery fire was growing, becoming massive. They found a narrow road leading upward: high ground ahead. Vincent spurred his horse, waved to Chamberlain to come on. They galloped across a wooden bridge, a dark creek, then up a narrow farm road. The firing was louder. A shell tore through the trees ahead, smashed a limb, blasted rock. Fragments spattered the air.
Chamberlain turned, saw Tom’s white grinning face, saw him flick rock dust from his uniform, blinking it out of his eyes, grinning bleakly. Chamberlain grimaced, gestured. Tom said, “Whee.”
Chamberlain said, “Listen, another one a bit closer and it will be a hard day for Mother. You get back to the rear and watch for stragglers. Keep your distance from me.”
“Right, fine.” Tom touched his cap, a thing he rarely did, and moved off thoughtfully. Chamberlain felt an easing in his chest, a small weight lifted. Vincent trotted coolly into the open, reined his horse. Chamberlain saw through a break in the trees, blue hills very far away, hazy ridges miles to the west, not ridges, mountains; he was on high ground. Vincent paused, looked back, saw the regiment coming up the road, shook his head violently.
“That damn fool Sickles, you know him?”
“Know of him.”
Another shell passed close, fifty yards to the left, clipped a limb, ricocheted up through the leaves. Vincent glanced that way, then back, went on.
“The Bully Boy. You know the one. The politician from New York. Fella shot his wife’s lover. The Barton Key affair. You’ve heard of it?”
Chamberlain nodded.
“Well, the damn fool was supposed to fall in on the left of Hancock, right there.” Vincent pointed up the ridge to the right. “He should be right here, as a matter of fact, where we’re standing. But he didn’t like the ground.” Vincent shook his head, amazed. “He didn’t like the ground. So he just up and moved his whole corps forward, hour or so ago. I saw them go. Amazing. Beautiful. Full marching line forward, as if they were going to pass in review. Moved right on out to the road down there. Leaving this hill uncovered. Isn’t that amazing?” Vincent grimaced. “Politicians. Well, let’s go.”
The road turned upward, into dark woods. Shells were falling up there. Chamberlain heard the wicked hum of shrapnel in leaves.
Vincent said, “Don’t mean to rush you people, but perhaps we better double-time.”
The men began to move, running upward into the dark. Chamberlain followed Vincent up the rise. The artillery was firing at nothing; there was no one ahead at all. They passed