by Jeff Shaara
Cutler turned away, began to move to the tent, said aloud, "I will know what to do when the time comes.
Cutler disappeared into the tent, and Chamberlain felt the staff begin to move again, a collective release of air. He looked around, and the faces were not looking at him. The meeting was over. He felt exhausted, angry. He had lost his patience completely, thought, Yes, I understand the orders now. General Meade, I am grateful I do not have your job.
He moved to the horse and took the reins from the aide, who said quietly, "Best of luck to you, Colonel Chamberlain."
Chamberlain looked at the man, surprised, saw the gentle seriousness in the man's eye, suddenly felt he knew him, the older face familiar, even the voice.
"Thank you, Corporal. Do I know you?"
"Don't reckon so, Colonel. But I know you. Some of us... we just pay a bit more attention than they give us credit for. We know who the good ones are. It's not important, Colonel. You just take good care. The man saluted, backed away, and Chamberlain watched him, still felt something familiar, even something in the man's walk, a slow calm step. The man was gone now, beyond the lines of troops beginning to move, the army slowly coming to life. He climbed the horse, tried to see the man again, then he knew, saw another old face, heard the voice in his mind, the thick Irish brogue. It was Kilrain, and he thought, Yes, Buster, there are more of you, aren't there? There are many who see beyond the orders and the flags and the stars on the shoulders. This army still has men like you, men so unlike the rest, men who know how to think, who see all that happens around them with such clarity. He thought, I should have asked the corporal's name. But no, it won't matter, after all. He will not survive. The thought gave him a shiver. I know it, I am absolutely certain of it. My God... and he knows it too. It's so clear, the calm... you can see it in the eyes, hear it in the voice. He will sleep soundly, while the men around him stare nervously at stars. It's the men who know they are going to die who sleep well. If you have doubts, if you are uncertain, then you are afraid. He thought of the man's words. Take good care... GLANCED AT THE POCKET WATCH, THEN BACK BEHIND THE lines, to the far ridge where they had begun the day. The ground was empty, nothing moving, not one man, not one piece of blue. He lifted the field glasses, searched down to the left, back into the heavier trees, where Cutler's division should be. He tried to focus, strained his eyes, thought, Where are you? He turned, looked now to the right rear of the brigade, saw the long row of guns, waiting, as he was waiting. He looked again at the watch. It was nearly three o'clock. Well, he thought. We wont have to wait much longer.
All along his lines the men were crouched low, a last moment of rest, and he walked out in front of them, saw a solid line of blue in both directions, and they were waiting as well. Most of the faces were looking straight at him, and he was suddenly stronger, felt the power of these men, the strength of their confidence. Yes, we will do the job, he thought. These men will not stop.
The four veteran regiments were to move out in one battle line, with the 187th coming up behind. It would be an assault nearly four hundred yards wide, and if the orders were carried out, they would be supported strongly on both flanks. He'd seen the troops above them, on the right, another strong line, out in front of more big guns. They were not as close to the enemy as he was, but the flanks were secure, and there would be no mistake-when Chamberlain began to move, the rest of the Fifth Corps would move with him. He stood now in front of them, his back to the enemy, looked again down to the left flank, the empty ground. Damn that old man! He clenched his fists, wanted to shout, yell out toward the empty patch of woods. But Cutler had his orders, and he kept bearing the arrogance in the old man's words: I shall know what to do when the time comes... He walked down toward the left flank, the exposed end of his line, looked at the faces watching him, wondered if they knew, that without support they would be hit the worst. He glanced far to the left, to a low hill half a mile away. It was on the maps, a small circle on the crude sketches of the enemy positions. The rebels called it Fort Mabone, and he'd seen it with the glasses, had seen the motion of the flags, the small black dots along the edge of the works. The fort was filled with cannon. He looked back to the men, would not see that place now, thought, If Cutler doesn't come up, those guns will have nothing to shoot at but... these men.
He saw their faces again. It doesn't matter to them, not any not the men who have done this so many times. There are always Sometimes you see them right in front of you, the sharp bright that sweeps away the man beside you, but more often you nnevee them, you only hear what they can do to you, the high scream, sudden shattering blast, moving the ground under your feet. But none of that matters, because after all, the guns are far away, and always the enemy is much closer, those men out there, the muskets pointing at your heart. That is your target, the goal. If the artillery blast takes you a that is the hand of God, the poor stroke of Fate. But that man there, the one looking right at you, you can never look beyond that man. He turned, gazed across the wide-open ground, could see the reflectionc of the bayonets.
It was suddenly deathly still, no breeze, no sound at all. He stared at the enemy's works for a few seconds, then turned back to his men. The faces were watching him still, and he suddenly felt like speaking to them. He remembered Cutler's strange old corporal, looked down the rows of his own men, thought, How man you know for certain you will not come back? He stepped closer to the line, walked slowly toward the center of the line. He felt a cloud of words building up inside of him, had to say something... if nnot for them, for himself.
"Gentlemen..." The word stuck in his throat, and he was demy angry at himself. No, these are not gentlemen.
"Men... it is close to the time. You are aware that by your successful action this morning, we have advanced well in front of thee of the army, and so... they are looking to us to begin the assault There were a few cheers, fists punched the air. He waited, continued the slow walk, saw men farther down the line beginning to stand, trying to hear him.
"We have a duty to perform here. It is not that different from the duty which many of you have performed before. You may have wondered... how many times, why must we do this again? We have known men... friends, who have fallen on fields just like this.
And all of you know that some of us will not survive this field. If God is merciful, then it will be only a few. Look at the man besidee you. member him, know that you are fighting together, that each of you h a part in something much greater than yourself. Think about t ground, where it is we are."
There were more cheers, men began to shout, "Virginia!"
He waited again, then raised his hand, and the shouts quieted.
"Yes... we are very close to the end of this war. It may be today, it may be by the very action you take today, by the heroism of this very brigade, of these regiments, of the man beside you... of you. Do we know the name of this place? Will history record what we do here? Did we know that a name like Gettysburg would have such meaning? Take that with you, across this ground. What each of you does here may decide the end of the war. Think of the importance of that. If it matters to you that your nation be proud of what you do, then carry that with you. If you have a family back home, make them proud as well, take inspiration from that. But if all that is very far away, if you can only see the enemy, and you feel alone, or even afraid, then look again, now, at the man beside you. Know that he is there, and the man beside him, and the men all down the line, that what you do today may be the one great effort, the last full measure that God requires of us, to break this unholy rebellion."
Men began to cheer again, and the regimental flags began to move forward. He saw the officers step out in front, saw Coogan now, with the brigade colors, and Coogan nodded, looked at the ground beside him, a quick downward glance, a silent reminder. Chamberlain stared at him a brief moment, then felt a sudden chill, looked at his watch. It was three o'clock.
He looked down the line, both directions, drew his sword, held it straight in the air, then
turned, pointed across the wide field, straight at the enemy.
"Attention... trail arms!" he shouted.
"Double quick! March."
The men surged forward, and he moved with them, Coogan by his side. He felt the wild thrill again, wanted to yell out, Yes, we are unstoppable, a mighty force! He glanced at Coogan, the big man holding the flag steadily, staring straight ahead. Now the voices spread over the field, the low growling sound, rising into one single chorus. They were moving quickly down the long rise, and he could see far off to the right, more masses of blue, the assault beginning for the rest of the corps.
Behind him, the air was shattered by the blasts from the big guns, Bigelow's battery, then more, down the crest of the hill, the other guns of the corps. The shells began to strike the works out in front of them, across the way, flashes of light, great bursts of dirt and timber. The chorus of sound from the men began to slow now, the raw excitement giving way to the hard breathing, the exertion of the charge.
He looked back down to the left, could still see the patch of woods, and there was still no movement, no sign of the Fourth Division. Cutler was still not up. He felt a rage boiling up, felt like blowing a cannon blast into Cutler's smug face. I will have him court-martialed... I will march into that damned tent and grab that gray beard...
He looked down the hill again, kept moving, pressing forward by the great flow of men around him. He began to feel something else, the quiet anticipation, the voices now silent. As they moved down the hill they all waited for it, knew it would come in a sudden shocking wave, and each man held his Jaw tight, pulled his arms in tight against his sides, stepping forward in rhythm with the man beside him. And then it came, the first wave of shells ripping through the lines, solid shot rolling through the men like a hard wind, some streaking overhead, some plowing down into the ground beneath their feet. Then the hollow shells began to whistle past, a different sound, fuses timed to ignite directly overhead. But the fuses were never very good, and the blasts began to fill the air high out in front of them, bursts of fire, and then far behind them, exploding harmlessly over the ground they'd already crossed. But then would be the one good shell, the perfect timing, and the great blinding fire would shatter the air overhead, men punched down, blown away by the shock and the small pieces of iron. The officers were screaming, "close it up." There were gaps in the line now.
Chamberlain pushed down through the smoke, could feel the impact of each shell that hit the ground around him, the rumble, the sudden shock under his feet. He looked behind him, saw Coogan, steady, still looking grimly ahead, the flag straight in the air. Chamberlain moved closer to him, waved the sword, the silent command that the men did not need.
He was close to the creek now, felt his boots slipping into softer ground, then sticking deep in thick mud. He pulled his feet into each step, forced his boots up and down, could see the winding ditch of the creek in front of him. It was very wet, the ground a mire, and the men began to slow, to reach the creek, some climbing down, some jumping across, stumbling, then standing again. He saw one man stopping, yelled at him, "No, keep moving..." But the man was reaching back, pulling another man out of the creek bed, and now more were doing the same, the men gathering now on the far side of the creek, and out in front the officers began to form the line again. Now there was a new sound, the sharp zip of the musket ball, the first volleys from the works up the hill. He tried to see, looked up the hill, across more open ground, stared into the gray smoke, great choking clouds rolling toward them, from the muskets of the enemy. How close, he thought, how much farther do we have to go? He looked out through the smoke, tried to see the faces of the men behind the works, the muskets and bayonets. If we can see them... we will keep moving... He stood beside the creek, watching waves of his men flowing across, climbing down then up the soft banks. He looked at Coogan, to give the order, move the flag across, and there was a blast of hot air, a sudden burst of thunder in his face, knocking him straight back. He was still on his feet, the words still in his mouth, but the big man was gone, completely, swept horribly away. Chamberlain stared at the flag. It was standing upright, still, held by... nothing. The flag began to fall, and he jumped forward, grabbed it, looked again for the big man, the grim face, dependable. The ground behind him was a mass of churned up mud and smoke, and small pieces of blue. He stared, felt something in him turn slowly, closed his eyes, held it tight, then looked, saw more troops coming up now, Merrick's men, the 187th bringing up the rear, and he waved the flag, held it high, turned, jumped across the creek, looked up, tried to see the enemy again, a glimpse of the musket fire, sheets of red flame pouring down from the crest of the hill. He looked again for Merrick, thought of yelling, something, anything, but the sounds were deafening, and there was nothing he could say now, this was about blood and instinct and the courage of good men. And we will move up the hill... He was spun around, a sharp hot sting in his side, at his hip. He felt one knee give way, and gripped the flagstaff, held himself up, looked down, tried to see... what? There was a rip in his pants, blood streaming out of his hip, and he felt the other knee weaken, then give way. He stabbed the ground with the sword, leaned on it, tried to stand straight, but the one leg would not hold him. He tried to pull himself up, lean his weight on the one leg, saw more blood now, on both sides, his pants legs now soaked. He let go of the sword, left it UPright in the soft mud, now slowly felt the wetness, touched the torn cloth, thought, I am shot through, clean through.... He let go of the flag and fell forward, his hands in the mud, and now there were hands under his arms, lifting him up, pulling him back. He looked at the faces of young men staring down at him, said, "Thank you... I am shot."
He tried to see across the creek, to sit up, but there was no strength, and he looked again at his side, thought, Too much... too much blood... you are dying.
Around him men were shouting, loud frantic voices. He lay back, the hands under his head, easing him down, and now his head was spinning, and the smoke began to drift across again, the thick gray clouds covering him, the fight still around him, the men still moving forward, fighting for each other, fighting for him.
26. GRANT
JUNE 18, 1864 THE STAFF WAS NOT TALKING. THE ONLY SOUNDS WERE THE TIN
forks, the dull knives, the men hacking slowly on the hard meat of the dinner. Grant was not watching them, sat at the head of the table, listening to the soft sounds of the night, the crickets, the calling of the unseen animals as the fading light woke them to duty. He had finished his own meal, still sat at the table, staring into the dark. Down below, along the wide river, the heavy boats were moving against the landings, and he listened for that, for the sounds of wood against wood, the shouts of the officers, the sailors. He looked down at the plate, one piece of meat left, one good bite of crusty black beef. He stabbed it with a fork, held it up and looked it over, admiring it, then stuffed it in his mouth. There was a small plate of fruit on the table, grapes and berries of every kind, dried figs, and his eyes focused on the sweet dates crusted in sugar. He glanced at the staff, reached slowly out, sneaking, eased his fingers around the flaking sugar, pulled the hand quickly back toward him, the guilty pleasure held tightly, out of sight. Good, he thought, they did not see that. He stood, pushed the chair back, and the faces looked at him, the quiet broken only by the sounds of struggle with the overcooked meat.
"Gentlemen, thank you. Colonel Porter, a fine meal, fine. Thank you.
Porter nodded, had seen Grant's grab of the small treat, did not let on. He began to back away from the table.
Grant said, "No, keep your seat, Colonel. I'll have a cigar and wait for General Meade. He should be along any time now."
Porter relaxed, glanced at the closed hand where Grant guarded the small piece of dessert. Grant saw the look, moved his hand behind his back, hiding the evidence. He moved into the dark, glanced around at the fires, could see movement now, small sounds, a few men leading slow horses, coffee cups and tin plates. He glanced over his shoulder
, the staff all content to stay at the table, and he slowly lifted the hand, quickly stuffed his treat into his mouth, glanced around again. Now he saw Porter, smiling, turning away, and he clenched his teeth, thought, Porter saw me, Porter knows.
They always were bringing him special food. The quartermasters seemed to search far and wide for what they assumed to be the special tastes of the commanding general. He didn't understand that, knew that for the last few weeks the staff supply duty had gone to Horace Porter, the officers taking turns working with the quartermasters, and even Porter did it, brought all manner of odd and delicate foods to the table. Grant thought, What is it about... rank? Am I supposed to become suddenly strange in my eating habits, Just because I am in command? Save it for the men, for the soldiers, the ones who earn it. They eat bacon and hardtack, and my mess table is covered with amazing varieties of... stuff. He thought of the sweetbreads Porter had found, and it gave him a shudder. He had first eaten them when he was very young, was not partial to the taste, the feel of it. Then he learned what part of the animal it was and it made him sick. A few days earlier5 Porter had served the staff a tall plate of this odd "treat," and Grant couldn't touch it. While the others feasted, he had sliced a cucumber. They often found chickens, scrawny birds that had somehow escaped the scavenging of soldiers. Grant would not touch that either, could never stop thinking about feathers.
