by Jeff Shaara
He moved the horse up closer, pulled his pistol, tried to find a target in the swarming mass of men around him, aimed, then held up, the chaos now complete, the targets swirling together into one mass of confusion. He raised the pistol again, saw a man swinging down hard on a blue soldier with the butt of a musket, a huge man with a bearded face, eyes now looking up at him, staring at Chamberlain with the bloody fire of some terrible demon. The man smiled, staring right at him, and Chamberlain aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger, his hand jumping with the blast. There was smoke, then he saw the man still staring at him, but the eyes were different now, the demon gone, and the man slowly dropped to his knees and fell forward.
Chamberlain heard his name, saw an officer, yelling, waving him away, heard the man say something, then again, now heard the words, “Sir! Get back! Move back!”
He looked into the mass of the fight again, thought, One hundred fifty yards behind the line…
Men were swarming out on both sides of him, all along the log wall, the fight now all around him. He turned the horse, thought, You damned fool, get out of here. He spurred the horse, crouched low, saw a rebel officer suddenly right in front of him, the face of a boy, a long sword in the man’s hand, and the sword went up, the man aiming for the legs of the horse. Chamberlain raised the pistol again, fired into the man’s chest, moved quickly past him, did not look back, thought, Keep moving, go!
He saw staff officers now, Sergeant Arthur with the flag, and he turned, could still see the fight across the enemy’s works. Men were shouting all around him, officers giving orders, some with wounds. Others now moved back, away from the fight, with bloody faces, torn clothes.
He moved the horse again, could see the woods beyond the wall, men up in the trees, sharpshooters taking slow, careful aim. Then he saw more men moving forward, coming out of the woods, more flags, rebel troops moving right into the fight, fresh muskets, and he could hear more of that horrible sound, a rising chorus of rebel yells.
His men began to climb back out of the rebel works, some crouching low, reloading muskets, some without weapons at all, some snatching up muskets from the arms of the dead. He could still see beyond the wall, a cluster of blue moving across the road, straight into the oncoming rush of the enemy. He felt a thrill, thought, Yes, move ahead. Then he saw the rebels around them and stared in horror, recalling the men who had come by him before, near the creek, and he thought, My God … prisoners … my men.
Chamberlain turned the horse, saw officers pulling their men back, trying to keep some order, pulling away from the rebel works, but there was no order, men firing blindly, more now climbing away from the enemy. He yelled, pointed, and an officer saw him, moved a few men into one small line. They loaded their muskets, the order was given, a small piece of command, and the muskets swept away a group of rebels climbing over the wall.
His men were beginning to pull away, some organization forming now, small lines of musket fire holding the enemy back, keeping them away just long enough for the blue soldiers to make an orderly retreat. Chamberlain moved away from the road, toward the farmhouse, saw his men in a neat row, kneeling, firing. He rode toward the sawdust pile, saw rebels on both sides of it now, moving forward, pressing the retreat. His men were holding their position, firing in waves, the volleys growing, blowing in both directions, the waves of smoke drifting across. He held tight to the horse, stared for a long moment, and now his men began to move back again, slowly giving ground. The horse abruptly moved forward, pulled him into a cloud of smoke, and he could see nothing, the sounds of the fight suddenly all around him again. He pulled hard at the leather straps, jerked the horse to the side, and now a deafening blast of musket fire blew past him. The horse lurched forward in full panic, dashing through the smoke. He tried to hold it back, pulled hard on the reins. He could see the works again, the logs draped with the bodies of men, and the horse now rose up, threw him back. He lunged forward, grabbed the horse’s mane, gripped the thick hair, thought, Damn you, stop! Behind him, he heard shouts, his own men, more horses, heard his name, a staff officer, but the horse still bucked him.
He yelled, “Turn around!” In front of him there was a great flash of musket fire, and the horse rose again, its front legs pawing the air. He felt a hard punch in his chest, then was slammed down hard on the horse’s neck. He wrapped his arms around the horse, felt a flood of wetness. The horse was running now, and he gripped the mane, his hat blown off. He could see nothing, the smoke choking him as he held tight to the mane, the blood now soaking his shirt. He could see red spreading down the horse’s neck, his face pressed into it. Chamberlain thought, Oh God … both of us …
He leaned back, out of control, his hand not holding the reins, and he caught a blurry glimpse of the sleeve, the coat ripped into bloody shreds. He tried to grab the reins, could not feel his hand or flex his fingers, his face soaked by the blood of the horse. He thought, No, not an arm … please, God, don’t take my arm. The horse jerked again, and he dropped the pistol, grabbed at the mane with his right hand, but now the horse reared back and then down, Chamberlain thrown forward, his head slamming hard into the bloody wound on the horse’s neck.…
* * *
HE WAS STILL ON THE HORSE, FELT A HAND INSIDE HIS SHIRT, COULD hear voices, distant echoes of sound. He tried to shake his head, clear his eyes, felt a rag rubbed across his face, heard a soft voice.
“My dear general, you are gone.”
Chamberlain opened his eyes, focused, saw Griffin’s face close to his, realized that Griffin was holding him up. He tried to move, felt a sharp pain through his ribs, then looked at his left arm, saw the fingers, thick with dried blood, flexed them, flexed them again, felt a great flood of relief, said, “Well, no, not just yet …”
He turned, his ribs screaming, saw a staff officer, and the surgeon who had a handful of bandages and was frowning, waiting to do his good work. Chamberlain gritted his teeth, sat up in the saddle, and Griffin released him, surprised. Chamberlain looked at the horse’s neck, saw the hole, the thick blood still flowing. “Is it mortal?” he asked.
The surgeon said, “No, sir, not to worry. The bullet tore your sleeve, punched through your orders book, apparently, and moved … around you. Came out …” He pointed to Chamberlain’s back, touched a tear in Chamberlain’s coat. “… right here.” The surgeon was pleased with himself.
Chamberlain was suddenly annoyed, said, “No, doctor … the horse!”
“Oh, well, no, sir. The horse took the bullet before you did, probably saved your life. It passed through his neck, but just the muscle. We can patch that up as well.”
Griffin was staring at Chamberlain’s face, said, “Doctor … the blood.”
Chamberlain felt his face, the crusty goo, his hair a thick mat, saw now that his shirt was dark red.
The doctor said, “From the horse, sir …”
Chamberlain could hear musket fire now, said, “What … how are we doing?”
Griffin backed away, still looking at him with horror, and Chamberlain tried to clear his brain again, gazed out toward the sounds.
Griffin leaned closer, took another look at him, said, “We are holding the line, General. A few more minutes and I’ll have you a battery. Are you … sure you’re all right?”
Chamberlain felt the tender ribs again, winced, said, “I am fit for duty, sir.”
He could see the smoke now, a new volley of musket fire, thought, We’re … still in place, they’re still behind the works. He looked down at the horse, spurred it lightly, and the horse moved forward, ready for the next command. He touched the neck, and the surgeon handed him a small bandage, rolled into the shape of a plug. Chamberlain stuck the bandage into the hole, and the horse quivered, then snorted.
Chamberlain looked at Griffin, said, “General, when will those guns be here?”
Griffin turned, looking to the rear. “Anytime now. Just … hold on.”
Then Griffin moved away, and another man rode up, sweating, his fa
ce covered with dust. He reined up, looked at Chamberlain with wide eyes, said, “General Chamberlain, we have a problem … on the right, sir. The enemy is reinforcing, sir.” The man looked closely at Chamberlain’s face, said, “Are you … all right, sir?”
He thought, I have to see a mirror, reached into his coat, felt the metal frame of the small shaving mirror, pulled it from his pocket, a small shower of glass falling into his hands. He said, “The bullet seems to have made another stop in its travels.”
HE PUSHED THE HORSE HARD, FOLLOWED THE WAVE OF HIS MEN, the momentum now driving the enemy away on the flank. For the moment, the crisis was over. They were pressing the enemy back into the woods, and there were small works here too, fresh-cut trees. He wanted to jump the horse across, move closer to his men, thought, One hundred fifty yards behind the line. He stopped, looked at the horse, saw the head go down, the strength fading, thought, No, dear God … hang on, old man. He jumped down, turned the horse toward the rear, gave him a swat on the rump, and the horse began to move away from the fighting.
Climbing up on the works, Chamberlain saw his men firing, saw bodies everywhere. Right below him, beside him, a man was sprawled faceup against the trees, the eyes wide, ghastly. He made himself look away, jumped down and felt for the pistol, moved toward his men, and suddenly they were not men in blue. The smoke washed past him, exposing different men, wearing ragged brown and tan, men with rough beards, barefoot, screaming. He thought of firing the pistol, turned, suddenly looked at the small black hole of a musket, the point of the bayonet right under his chin. There were voices, more bayonets.
One man said, “You are mine, Yankee. Surrender or die.”
Chamberlain stared at the musket, then slowly looked up at the man’s face, blackened with dirt, red eyes, no smile, no emotion, just the business of the fight. The man looked at Chamberlain’s coat, the dirt and blood blended into dull filth, and Chamberlain saw a moment of doubt, a small question, and said, “Surrender?” He thought of the man’s words, the perfect drawl, and said to him in a voice as close as he could to the one he’d just heard, “What’s the matter with you? What do you take me for? The fight’s … thataways!”
The muskets were lowered, the men behind looking toward the works, toward their own line, where the Yankees had pushed them back. Now more rebels were moving past, the flow going forward, and Chamberlain looked at the man, saw the bayonet moving away, the man still looking at him, still not sure. Chamberlain moved then, said, “Come on, boys! Follow me!”
He reached the works, saw his own men on the far side, muskets aimed at him, then the faces, confusion, the muskets again rising toward the men behind him, the rebels following him across the works. He rushed straight at his men, thought, Dear God, let them see … Now they moved forward, a sudden lunge, muskets firing, bayonets clashing together, but there were too many men in blue, and suddenly the small group of rebels was surrounded, hands went up, muskets hit the ground. He looked back, saw the stunned surprise, saw the one man, his captor, looking at him. The man slowly nodded, looked to the ground, a quiet salute.
His men began to pull away from the works now. There was another lull, a breath of silence, and he moved with them, saw officers on horseback and walked that way, felt the stiffness in his ribs, the arm throbbing. The officers saw him and there were salutes, men with wide eyes.
One man said, “Sir … are you all right?”
He looked at the man, familiar, then recalled his name and smiled; Major McEuen. “I believe so,” he said. “Tend to your line, pull them together. We’re not through here yet.”
McEuen turned, shouted something behind him, and now there was a horse, a heavy white mare. Chamberlain looked at McEuen, said, “Thank you, Major. I’ll try to take good care of her.”
He climbed up, his side ripping with the pain, and felt the ribs, the wetness. Yes, the bullet was not that kind, had ripped into him more than he realized, a neat tear under his shirt, his skin split around his side. He looked at McEuen again, saw the concern, and McEuen said, “You sure, sir? We can have you escorted to the rear.…”
Chamberlain heard the sound, the ball coming right past him, heard the impact, the sharp punch. McEuen looked at him with sudden surprise, shocked, his mouth open, now reached out a hand. Chamberlain reached for the hand, McEuen’s fingertips just touching his, watched as the young man fell forward, off the horse, hard to the ground. Men were off their horses in sudden jumps, turned the young man over. There was blood now on McEuen’s chest, his eyes staring away. Chamberlain closed his eyes, could not look at the face, thought, You cannot … you must not stop.
The right had been secured, the 198th Pennsylvania now holding the flank. He looked at the officer kneeling beside McEuen’s body, saw the man was crying, thought of words, felt suddenly weak, powerless.
A horseman was coming fast, shouting, “General Chamberlain …” He reined, stared at Chamberlain in horror, said, “Sir … are you all right?”
Chamberlain nodded wearily, thought, Maybe I should carry a sign reading “Yes dammit, I’m fine!”
The man studied him carefully, said, “Major Glenn is looking for you, sir! We are holding around the road, but the major requests your presence, sir!”
Chamberlain said nothing, turned the horse, wanted to look down, one last glimpse, but he kicked with the spurs and the horse moved under him, taking him away.
He rode back along the line, saw the faces turn, watching him. As they saw him, muskets went down, the fighting stopped, a brief pause, his own men pointing, staring, then a cheer. He moved toward the center again, saw his men in line, ready, a brief lull here as well. The rebels were in their works again, the two sides pausing, licking their wounds, two weary animals making ready for the next assault.
He had not found his hat, rubbed his hand over his head, felt the hair stiff and matted thick with the blood, suddenly thought of Fannie: It is a good thing … no women spectators. The men began to cheer him, and he moved toward the sawdust pile. He heard his name, tried not to look at them, focused on the job at hand, on the lines of the enemy waiting beyond the works. There was scattered musket fire, a sudden sharp volley down to the left, and Chamberlain looked that way, began to ride. Another group of his men saw him for the first time, his face a solid mask of deep red, the shirt and coat ripped and still wet. He saw the faces, the horror, changing now to relief, then something else, the cheering rolling along the line as though he was some sort of horrible symbol, their own messenger of death, one horseman of the Apocalypse. Then, across the field, the open ground scattered with men from both sides, rebel troops began to stand up on the works, and he looked that way, saw an officer, sword in the air, and muskets, men raising them high overhead. The sound echoed across the bloody ground, but it was not the rebel yell, the enemy was not coming out again with a new charge. They were cheering him.
THE GUNS CAME UP JUST AS GRIFFIN HAD PROMISED, AND THEN THE fight turned, the battery adding new weight to Chamberlain’s balance. On the flank, more troops from the corps moved forward as well, men who had been delayed by the swollen waters of the distant creeks, who could not be where Chamberlain needed them. Now the rebels began to move away, withdrew from the logs and the woods behind the farm, moved to another strong line, stronger still, reinforced by more of Lee’s army, a new defensive line anchored hard along the White Oak Road.
Night had finally swept the field, and Chamberlain rode slowly, felt the unfamiliar rhythm of a new horse. He’d been to the hospital, seen the men who carried the wounds, the men who might yet survive, the ones who would not. He had made a brief visit to the magnificent Charlemagne, now resting, recovering from yet another wound. He looked down in the dark, the white mane, did not know this horse’s name, thought it was probably for the best: I’m a curse on horses.
The Fifth Corps had spread into position, and his brigade would now rest in the rear, men gathering in exhausted silence around the small fires, the blessed food. They were fewer now, had l
ost nearly a quarter of their strength. But Chamberlain had heard from the staff, then from General Warren himself. The rebel prisoners came from four brigades, a force numbering nearly seven thousand of the enemy’s troops. Warren had promised him a promotion, a personal note to Washington, then rode away in the splendor of a command that today did not lose.
He is probably a very good commander, Chamberlain thought. But we could have used some help today. It could have been very different. He remembered the prisoners, watching his men marched away, thought, Where are they now? What will happen to them? He’d heard the stories, rumors and poorly written newspaper articles, sensational and dramatic, the rebel prison camps down south, Georgia, one place called Andersonville. No, don’t think on that, he told himself. It is a part of it, part of it all. They will survive. They are not like the men in the hospital, the men who will go home broken, leaving something behind.
He had seen the same horrifying sight, always around the hospitals, the great piles of arms and legs, thought again of his own great fear, the shock, believing he’d lost an arm. He reached down, probed the old wound slightly, low in his gut, thought, I always believed it would be … in the body. If I went down, it would be there. Usually, that meant you would die. But to go home … missing something. He could never admit that fear, not to the men, not to anyone. He marveled at the ones who actually came back to fight, men like Oliver Howard, one sleeve hanging empty. He had heard about Ewell, and John Bell Hood, the horrific wounds, the rebel commanders still riding into the fight, thought, It must change them. It would change me.
He had tried not to think of the young McEuen, the body resting under a blanket, laid to one side, one awful corner of the hospital. He would have to write McEuen’s father, a doctor in Philadelphia, knew that the memory would stay with him now in that terrible place, where all the memories would stay. The doctor had visited the camp the autumn before, had come to see his son’s small command for himself, the pride of the father. He had put his hand on Chamberlain’s shoulder, a stern request, to take good care of his boy, as though the boy’s safety were Chamberlain’s responsibility. Chamberlain had been gracious, smiling, assuring the old man that the boy would return a hero. Now he would have to send a letter, as he’d sent many letters. He was a master at language, at the use of words, but when that time came, when he could see the faces of the men he wrote about, the words dissolved. Nothing he could ever say, no prayers, no tales of heroics, would replace the loss of the son, or the husband. He could not help it now, saw the boy’s face, and the face of his father, could see it all, the letter being read aloud, the women weeping, the father trying to comfort. Would there be blame, anger? Would he be cursed by this man, the man to whom he had given the promise? Am I responsible, after all? He stared into the dark, thought, No, the army does not think so, it is all a part of the job. But what do people in Philadelphia know of … the job?
