The Killer Angels - Michael Shaara [93]
Kilrain nodded. Odd look on his face. Chamberlain felt a cool wind. He put a hand out.
“Buster? You all right?”
Bleak gray look. Holding his side.
“Fine, Colonel. Hardly touched me.”
He turned, showed his side. Tear just under the right shoulder, blood filling the armpit. Kilrain stuffed white cloth into the hole. “Be fine in a moment. But plays hell with me target practice. Would you care for the carbine?”
He sat down abruptly. Weak from loss of blood. But not a bad wound, surely not a bad wound.
“You stay there,” Chamberlain said. Another attack was coming. New firing blossomed around them. Chamberlain knelt.
Kilrain grinned widely. “Hell, Colonel, I feel saintly.”
“Tom’ll get a surgeon.”
“Just a bit of bandage is all I’ll be needin’. And a few minutes off me feet. Me brogans are killin’ me.” Lapse into brogue.
Tom moved off into the smoke. Chamberlain lost him. He stood. Whine of bullets, whisking murder. Leaves were falling around him. Face in the smoke. Chamberlain stepped forward.
Jim Nichols, K Company: “Colonel, something goin’ on in our front. Better come see.”
Nichols: a good man. Chamberlain hopped forward, slipped on a rock, nearly fell, hopped to another boulder, felt an explosion under his right foot, blow knocked his leg away, twirled, fell, caught by Nichols. Damned undignified. Hurt? Damn!
How are you, sir?
Looked at his foot. Hole in the boot? Blood? No. Numb. Oh my, begins to hurt now. But no hole, thank God. He stood up.
Nichols pointed. Chamberlain clambered up on a high boulder. Going to get killed, give ’em a good high target. Saw: they were coming in groups, from rock to rock, tree to tree, not charging wildly as before, firing as they came, going down, killing us. But there, back there: masses of men, flags, two flags, flanking, moving down the line. They’re going to turn us. They’re going to that hole in the left …
He was knocked clean off the rock. Blow in the side like lightning bolt. Must be what it feels like. Dirt and leaves in his mouth. Rolling over. This is ridiculous. Hands pulled him up. He looked down. His scabbard rippled like a spider’s leg, stuck out at a ridiculous angle. Blood? No. But the hip, oh my. Damn, damn. He stood up. Becoming quite a target. What was that now? He steadied his mind. Remembered: They’re flanking us.
He moved back behind the boulder from which he had just been knocked. His hands were skinned; he was licking blood out of his mouth. His mind, temporarily sidetracked, oiled itself and ticked and turned and woke up, functioning. To Nichols: “Find my brother. Send all company commanders. Hold your positions.”
Extend the line? No.
He brooded. Stood up. Stared to the left, then mounted the rock again, aware of pain but concentrating. To the left the regiment ended, a high boulder there. Chamberlain thought: What was the phrase in the manual? Muddled brain. Oh yes: Re-fuse the line.
The commanders were arriving. Chamberlain, for the first time, raised his voice. “You men! MOVE!”
The other commanders came in a hurry. Chamberlain said, “We’re about to be flanked. Now here’s what we do. Keep up a good hot masking fire, you understand? Now let’s just make sure the Rebs keep their heads down. And let’s keep a tight hold on the Eighty-third, on old Pennsylvania over there. I want no breaks in the line. That’s you, Captain Clark, understand? No breaks.”
Clark nodded. Bullets chipped the tree above him.
“Now here’s the move. Keeping up the fire, and keeping a tight hold on the Eighty-third, we re-fuse the line. Men will sidestep to the left, thinning out to twice the present distance. See that boulder? When we reach that point we’ll re-fuse the line, form a new line at right angles. That boulder will be the salient. Let’s place the colors there, right? Fine. Now you go on back and move your men in sidestep and form a new line