by Jeff Shaara
“Here you go, Colonel.”
Chamberlain took it, nodded, said, “Thank you, Sergeant.” He wiped carefully at the teary eye, shook his head. “Summer in Virginia.”
Coogan nodded, waited for Chamberlain to return the handkerchief, said, “Not much different from back home. Summer’s always like this. We’re not that far south.” There was a quiet pause and Coogan said, “Sorry, Colonel. I suppose Maine is a bit farther north.”
Chamberlain handed Coogan the handkerchief, was suddenly defensive. “Well, we have our summers in Maine too, Sergeant. A hard sweat does a man good … sometimes.”
The big man was looking at him, nodded, smiled slightly. Chamberlain felt awkward, ridiculous, pawing at the stinging in his eyes. He blinked again, fought it, thought, You have nothing to prove to these men.
“Um … you have mountains where you come from, Sergeant?”
“No, sir, just a few hills. My family’s in York, southern part of the state, near Harrisburg.”
Chamberlain blinked again, the eye better now, said, “Near Gettysburg. Yes, Sergeant, I am familiar with that area.”
Coogan nodded, said nothing, and Chamberlain saw the man’s look, saw the respect they had all given him. No, you do not have anything to prove to these men.
He could smell coffee now, heard the sound of tin cups, men moving toward the fires. The regimental commanders were coming together, small staffs trailing behind, but they were moving slowly, without urgency. He waited for them, had nothing really to say to them, no new orders. He searched the faces, knew they were all good men, all veterans of the hard fight.
The brigade had been organized by Griffin from units that had fought far apart. Some were from Reynolds’s First Corps, which no longer existed, Reynolds himself killed at Gettysburg. The 149th and 150th Pennsylvania regiments were from the old Bucktail Brigade, and the men still wore the furry tails pinned to their hats. But the pride of these men came not just from symbols, but from their good work, from the bloody fields where they’d done their job. It was the one reason that no one objected when this man from Maine was named their commander. No one doubted that Chamberlain was a man to do his job as well.
The officers saluted him. Some were drinking coffee. There were low, quiet greetings. He knew one man was missing, Major Merrick, the newest arrival, commanding the fresh 187th Regiment. He looked around, out over the fields of resting men, then saw him running toward them. Merrick was yelling, waving one arm behind him, pointing. Heads turned, there were small laughs, quiet jokes at the expense of the new officer. Merrick stumbled through the tall grass, and now the soldiers were laughing as well. He stopped, out of breath, still pointed behind him. Chamberlain waited, did not smile.
“Sir! Over there, over that rise … rebels! The enemy is right over there, sir, earthworks, spread on a hill … guns … cannon! We’re in the open, sir!”
Heads turned that way and the laughing stopped. Chamberlain stepped forward, moved past Merrick, could see the low rise, motion, the reflection of guns. Merrick was right, they were very close to the rebel lines. He took a deep breath, thought, No one told me. Why were we sent this close? Why were we stopped right here?
There was sound behind them, wagons, horses. Chamberlain turned, saw a row of big guns moving up, men unlimbering them, quick motion from the flashes of red on the uniforms of the artillerymen. Then the guns were moving into place, pointing out over their heads, toward the rise Merrick had seen. Chamberlain moved toward the guns, looked for an officer, someone in charge, saw a man approaching.
The officer stopped, snapped a crisp salute, said, “Captain John Bigelow, Ninth Massachusetts Battery, at your service, sir.”
Bigelow was a young man who carried the confidence of hard experience. Chamberlain returned the salute, said, “It seems, Captain, that we are very close to the rebel lines. We were halted here, apparently in clear sight of the enemy.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I know. I was told you are serving as a screen for my guns. This is good ground, a good position, clear line of fire. But we are a bit vulnerable, if their infantry should suddenly advance. I was told you are here to protect us.”
Chamberlain stared at the young man. Protect you? He turned, looked back toward the rise where the rebels were still moving into position. They can see us, he thought. They can see us right here, can see these guns. He scanned the wide field, the men now beginning to stand, all looking out toward the enemy. He saw his group of officers, standing together, and now it finally came, across the field, the puff of smoke, and he yelled, “Move! Spread out!”
They did not look at him, were watching the smoke, and now the sound came right at him, the sharp scream, and behind the guns the first blast threw up a shower of dirt. His officers began to move now, did not need Chamberlain to tell them not to stand together as one very nice brass target. More screams split the air over his head and there were more blasts behind him, the rebel gunners shooting long, harmlessly, behind Bigelow’s guns. The field was filling with shouts from the officers, and the men were coming together, moving into formation. Muskets were being loaded, more shouts from the officers. The rebels always overshoot, Chamberlain thought, but they will adjust. We’re too easy a target.
There were more horses now, men coming down the road from the north, and he saw the flags, saw it was General Warren, and then Griffin as well.
The shells were still flying past, and Warren yelled to Chamberlain, “Good, yes, very good. Colonel, good show displaying your men like this. You must protect these guns. We must discourage the enemy from advancing to this position, they must not believe these guns are easy pickings. Keep your men out in front, make the good show. We have two more batteries moving up along this ridge. Good position …”
Chamberlain moved closer, thought, Good show? The rebel shells now began to fall in front of them, scattering the formations, heavy showers of dirt throwing men to the ground. Chamberlain looked at Griffin, tried to keep his anger from showing as he asked the silent question.
Griffin gazed across the field, said, “General Warren, this is not a good place to defend against the enemy’s artillery.”
There was a sudden blast, close to the horsemen, and Chamberlain saw a man fly into the air, men now crying out. He looked at Warren, thought, We are just here to be a target? You didn’t think they would shell us? We would lie here and drink coffee in plain sight … and the rebels would just watch? He felt the redness boiling up his neck, felt himself shake, holding it in. Warren looked around, and Chamberlain saw his calm expression change, something, perhaps clarity, come over him, like a window opening into a dark room.
Warren said, “Colonel, those guns are somewhat of a menace. Won’t you take your men over there and do something about that?”
Chamberlain stared up at Warren, heard the calm, the matter-of-factness of the request. “Yes, sir. I believe that is a fine idea.” He looked at Griffin, who closed his eyes for a moment, his own silent show of impatience. Chamberlain thought, Careful, no sarcasm, not now. He saluted, said, “General, if you will excuse me. General Griffin, with your permission, sir.”
Griffin nodded, said, “Take care of it, Colonel.”
There were more blasts now, the sharp screams streaking all around them, and Chamberlain moved quickly, shouted to the officers, the faces watching him, waiting for orders. Now the men began to stand, coming together into tight lines, muskets on shoulders. Chamberlain grabbed for his horse, waved the sword, saw the lines straightening.
In a few minutes they were moving forward, pushing through the thick grass. He could hear a new sound now, the enemy answering the assault with muskets. He rode forward, saw the rebel works, bathed in white smoke now, and he yelled, waved the sword again, pushed the horse, and the smoke began to clear. The blasts and shrieks of cannon fire had stopped. Now the only sound was the voices of his men, the low growling yell of men who know they’re close to the enemy. They began to move up the rise, the smoke gone, carried away by
a light breath of wind. Behind the works, the rebels were pulling out, the guns rolling away with a last volley from the infantry. His men reached the works, short rows of fresh dirt thrown up around an old fence line, and climbed over, jumping down, stumbling into the empty trenches. Some fired their muskets, a last chance, and then there was a new sound, a cheer. They had driven the enemy away.
Chamberlain dismounted, saw blood, a dark stain flowing from the horse’s side, a big spotted gray, the gift from the citizens of Brunswick, the horse he called Charlemagne. He stared at the blood, felt sudden shock, the horse looking at him. He reached out and touched the wetness. The ball had hit the horse’s shoulder, and Chamberlain tried to convince himself, thought, It’s all right … we can fix that. He stepped away as an aide took the reins and pulled the horse back. Chamberlain climbed the mound of dirt then, looking for the flag, for Coogan. He moved out past the fence, could see the last of the enemy flowing up a far rise, disappearing behind more works, another long row of thick dirt. His men were still cheering, and then he saw the flag, the big man holding it high, and he moved that way. Coogan was not cheering, was staring out ahead, holding the flag stiffly. Chamberlain reached him, watched the officers moving through their men.
The fight had been quick and the casualties light. The officers were organizing their troops, the smaller company flags now in place along the fence line. Chamberlain stared across the open ground toward the new rebel works. This is no victory, he thought. They were too far forward, and we just drove them back to the main lines. They were lucky to keep their guns. If we had been a bit quicker …
The men were quiet now, the cheering having exhausted them more than the assault. He could see them lining up in the enemy’s trenches, but it was not a strong position. The best protection was behind them, since the ground in front was open, cut by small clumps of brush. Still, they were in the enemy’s works, had taken the position, and if there was no great strategic gain, it was good for the men. He saw Merrick now, thought, Yes, this is good for the 187th, a shot of confidence. Merrick was following the example of the other commanders, quieting his men, taking charge, spreading them into line in the works. Chamberlain moved toward him, and Merrick saluted, beaming a smile.
Chamberlain said, “Well, Major, fine work. Now your men are veterans.”
Merrick glanced down his lines, said, “Yes, sir! We are ready to go again, sir!”
Chamberlain smiled, remembered how anxious he’d been to get into the first fight, the frustration of being in the reserves at Antietam, unused, watching the rest of the army do the bloody work.
“There will be time for that, Major. Patience …”
Behind them he could hear the big guns moving forward, more this time, the batteries Warren had mentioned. He climbed the dirt, anchored himself with one foot on a piece of fence line, watched as the men unhitched the guns, other men with shovels throwing dirt in the air. All along the ridge shallow pits were quickly dug behind the crest, and now the guns were wheeled forward, their muzzles just above the ground.
He jumped down, moved to the horses, saw one man beside his Charlemagne. The bloodstain was dark and dry, but the wound had a small white dressing, a plug of cloth stuck straight into the bullet hole. Chamberlain moved close, stared at the dressing, then at the horse. The man said, “He’s fine, sir. A grand old fellow. Take more than a musket ball to bring him down. Even got the bullet out of him … here.” The man showed Chamberlain the flattened piece of lead.
Chamberlain said, “Good, thank you. Fine work. Yes, he’s a grand old fellow. Not ready to lose him yet.”
He reached out, patted the horse, reached into the saddlebag and brought out his field glasses. He moved back to the old fence, climbed up, stared out over the works, looked through the glasses. The ground dropped away in front of them, and in the low area there was a creek, winding through brush. The banks were steep, but the creek was narrow enough for a man to jump … if the ground were hard. He could see where the rebels had crossed, tracks in deep mud. It’s swampy, he thought. They must have known where to pull the guns through, the drier ground. He lifted his gaze up the rise, saw the enemy works, motion, the sharp glare from bayonets. There were many bayonets.
The works spread all along the ridge in front of him and far out to the right, disappearing beyond more ridge lines. In front of where he stood, the enemy’s lines curved away to the left, the apex of the curve pointing right at him. He lifted the glasses and gazed beyond the enemy’s lines, could see church steeples, the tops of buildings. His heart jumped, the sun reflecting off rooftops. It was the town of Petersburg.
There were shouts from behind the works, the sound of a horse, and Chamberlain turned, saw a staff officer climbing over the fence, a face he did not know. The man looked around, followed the hands that pointed toward him, then moved close. Saluting, he said to Chamberlain, “Colonel, I have orders for you, from General Meade. You are to attack the enemy position immediately.”
Chamberlain was trying to remember the face, wondered who the man was, then said, “General … Meade? What of General Warren? Excuse me, but this is not chain of command … um, Colonel …”
“Abercrombie. I come straight from General Meade. The commanding general is considerably, um, agitated that his attacks have not been carried out. Your position is the most forward of the army. You are closest to the enemy’s lines. You are to attack the position.”
“Alone?” Chamberlain was moved to anger again, had begun to wonder if this man was some impostor. He thought, I don’t get my orders straight from General Meade. He tried to imagine Griffin’s response to a breach in protocol like this, wondered if this man was a spy.
“Colonel Abercrombie, does corps headquarters know of these orders? Has General Warren been informed?”
Abercrombie glanced around, lowered his voice. “Colonel, all I know is what I was told. General Meade has expressed considerable frustration at General Warren’s lack of aggressiveness. Your name was mentioned … your actions this morning were noted by the commanding general, and by General Grant as well. I do not speculate on General Meade’s orders, but there was considerable anger behind his instructions to me.”
Chamberlain thought, But we are one brigade. If we assault those works, we will receive fire from all over the field. This is suicide.
He looked past the officer, to where others were beginning to gather. He pointed to an aide, said, “Corporal, a sheet of paper?”
The man hurried forward, pulling a paper from his coat, and handed it to Chamberlain. Chamberlain stepped to the fence, spread the page on a flat board, began to write.
I have just received a verbal order not through the usual channels, but by a staff officer unknown to me, purporting to come from the general commanding the army, directing me to assault the main works of the enemy in my front. Circumstances lead me to believe the General cannot be perfectly aware of my situation, which has greatly changed within the last hour. I have just carried a crest, an advanced post occupied by the enemy’s artillery, supported by infantry. I am advanced a mile beyond our own lines, and in an isolated position …
He stopped, looked out across the ground, then continued to write, described the ground, the enemy’s entrenchments, the position of his troops. The anger grew as he wrote, and he finished the note, signed it:
Very Respectfully, Joshua L. Chamberlain, Colonel Commanding 1st Brigade, 1st Division, 5th Corps
The officer watched him, waited, and Chamberlain folded the paper, handed it to him.
“If you don’t mind, take this to your commanding general, and request a response. Respectfully request a response.”
There was a look of dread on the man’s face, and he nodded. “Whatever you say, Colonel. I would suggest, sir, if I may, that judging by the commanding general’s mood this morning, you can anticipate these orders will be repeated. Reports of delay have been received at headquarters with some … frustration.” Abercrombie saluted, moved back toward his h
orse.
Chamberlain stared out across the open ground, could see movement in the rebel position even without the field glasses, said, “They’re still filling the works.”
He looked around, the officers watching him. No, be careful, he thought. Keep it to yourself. He looked up at the sun, nearly straight overhead, thought, Plenty of time. We may yet do it. It would be nice, though, if the rest of the army decided to lend a hand.
THE ORDERS CAME BACK EXACTLY AS BEFORE. BUT THE REST OF the army would lend a hand. Meade ordered the assault to begin at three o’clock, and included a general assault across the entire front. Chamberlain’s position was closest to the enemy works, and his brigade was chosen as the focal point to begin the attack.
Warren’s Fourth Division was commanded by Lysander Cutler, an old soldier who saw events very much in his own way. The Fourth was positioned behind Chamberlain’s left flank, too far behind to protect it. There was time before the assault, and Chamberlain decided to speak with Cutler himself.
He rode a borrowed horse slowly into Cutler’s camp, a staff of unfamiliar faces watching him with no expression. He dismounted, handed the reins to a silent aide, stood in silence, felt strangely out of place.
“Excuse me, but can someone direct me to General Cutler?”
One man pointed to a tent, the only tent, and Chamberlain thought, Why is there a tent? We’ve been on the march all day. This isn’t the time to camp. He stepped forward, saw a sergeant standing stiffly beside the tent, and the sergeant bent low, said something quietly into the tent. Chamberlain waited, then saw the gray hair, the old man emerging slowly. Cutler stood up straight, and Chamberlain was surprised, he looked much older than the near-sixty he’d been told. Cutler stepped forward, looked at Chamberlain with impatience, as though something terribly important had been halted for this meeting.