Hour of decision, enemy on soil. When he came to the part about men who failed to do their duty being punished by instant death, it embarrassed him. The men looked up at him with empty faces. Chamberlain read the order and added nothing, went off by himself to sit down. Damn fool order. Mind of West Point at work.
No time to threaten a man. Not now. Men cannot be threatened into the kind of fight they will have to put up to win. They will have to be led. By you, Joshuway, by you. Well. Let’s get on with it.
He looked out across the field. The men were sleeping, writing letters. Some of them had staked their rifles bayonet first into the ground and rigged tent cloth across to shade them from the sun. One man had built a small fire and was popping corn. No one was singing.
Kilrain came and sat with him, took off his cap, wiped a sweating red face.
“John Henry’s still with us.” He indicated the woods to the east. Chamberlain looked, did not see the dark head.
“We ought to offer him a rifle,” Kilrain said.
There was a silence. Chamberlain said, “Don’t know what to do for him. Don’t think there’s anything we can do.”
“Don’t guess he’ll ever get home.”
“Guess not.”
“Suppose he’ll wander to a city. Pittsburgh. Maybe New York. Fella can always get lost in a city.”
A cannon thumped far off. A soldier came in from foraging, held a white chicken aloft, grinning.
Kilrain said, “God damn all gentlemen.”
Chamberlain looked: square head, white hair, a battered face, scarred around the eyes like an old fighter. In battle he moved with a crouch, a fanged white ape, grinning. Chamberlain had come to depend on him. In battle men often seemed to melt away, reappearing afterward with tight mirthless grins. But Kilrain was always there, eyes that saw through smoke, eyes that could read the ground.
Chamberlain said suddenly, “Buster, tell me something. What do you think of Negroes?”
Kilrain brooded.
“There are some who are unpopular,” he concluded.
Chamberlain waited.
“Well, if you mean the race, well, I don’t really know.” He hunched his shoulders. “I have reservations, I will admit. As many a man does. As you well know. This is not a thing to be ashamed of. But the thing is, you cannot judge a race. Any man who judges by the group is a peawit. You take men one at a time, and I’ve seen a few blacks that earned my respect. A few. Not many, but a few.”
Chamberlain said, “To me there was never any difference.”
“None at all?”
“None. Of course, I didn’t know that many. But those I knew … well, you looked in the eye and there was a man. There was the divine spark, as my mother used to say. That was all there was to it … all there is to it.”
“Um.”
“We used to have visitors from the South before the war. It was always very polite. I never understood them, but we stayed off the question of slavery until near the end, out of courtesy. But toward the end there was no staying away from it, and there was one time I’ll never forget. There was this minister, a Southern Baptist, and this professor from the University of Virginia. The professor was a famous man, but more than that, he was a good man, and he had a brain.”
“Rare combination.”
“True. Well, we sat drinking tea. Ladies were present. I’ll never forget. He held the tea like this.” Chamberlain extended a delicate finger. “I kept trying to be courteous, but this minister was so damned wrong and moral and arrogant all at the same time that he began to get under my skin. And finally he said, like this: ‘Look here, my good man, you don’t understand.’ There was this tone of voice as if he was speaking to a stupid dull child and he was being patient but running out of patience. Then he said, ‘You don’t understand. You have to live with the Negro to understand. Let me put it this way. Suppose I kept a fine stallion in one of my fields and suddenly one of your Northern abolitionists came up and insisted I should free it. Well, sir, I would not be more astonished. I feel exactly that way about my blacks, and I resent your lack of knowledge, sir.’ ”
Kilrain grunted. Chamberlain said, “I remember him sitting there, sipping tea. I tried to point out that a man is not a horse, and he replied, very patiently, that that was the thing I did not understand, that a Negro was not a man. Then I left the room.”
Kilrain smiled. Chamberlain said slowly, “I don’t really understand it. Never have. The more I think on it the more it horrifies me. How can they look in the eyes of a man and make a slave of him and then quote the Bible? But then right after that, after I left the room, the other one came to see me, the professor. I could see he was concerned, and I respected him, and he apologized for having offended me in my own home.”
“Oh yes.” Kilrain nodded. “He would definitely do that.”
“But then he pointed out that he could not apologize for his views, because they were honestly held. And I had to see he was right there. Then he talked to me for a while, and he was trying to get through to me, just as I had tried with the minister. The difference was that this was a brilliant man. He explained that the minister was a moral man, kind to his children, and that the minister believed every word he said, just as I did, and then he said, ‘My young friend, what if it is you who are wrong?’ I had one of those moments when you feel that if the rest of the world is right, then you yourself have gone mad. Because I was really thinking of killing him, wiping him off the earth, and it was then I realized for the first time that if it was necessary to kill them, then I would kill them, and something at the time said: You cannot be utterly right. And there is still something every now and then which says, ‘Yes, but what if you are wrong?’ ” Chamberlain stopped. A shell burst dimly a long way off, a dull and distant thumping.
They sat for a long while in silence. Then Kilrain said, softly smiling, “Colonel, you’re a lovely man.” He shook his head. “I see at last a great difference between us, and yet I admire ye, lad. You’re an idealist, praise be.”
Kilrain rubbed his nose, brooding. Then he said, “The truth is, Colonel, that there’s no divine spark, bless you. There’s many a man alive no more value than a dead dog. Believe me, when you’ve seen them hang each other … Equality? Christ in Heaven. What I’m fighting for is the right to prove I’m a better man than many. Where have you seen this divine spark in operation, Colonel? Where have you noted this magnificent equality? The Great White Joker in the Sky dooms us all to stupidity or poverty from birth. No two things on earth are equal or have an equal chance, not a leaf nor a tree. There’s many a man worse than me, and some better, but I don’t think race or country matters a damn. What matters is justice. ’Tis why I’m here. I’ll be treated as I deserve, not as my father deserved. I’m Kilrain, and I God damn all gentlemen. I don’t know who me father was and I don’t give a damn. There’s only one aristocracy, and that’s right here—” he tapped his white skull with a thick finger “—and you, Colonel laddie, are a member of it and don’t even know it. You are damned good at everything I’ve seen you do, a lovely soldier, an honest man, and you got a good heart on you too, which is rare in clever men. Strange thing, I’m not a clever man meself, but I know it when I run across it. The strange and marvelous thing about you, Colonel darlin’, is that you believe in mankind, even preachers, whereas when you’ve got my great experience of the world you will have learned that good men are rare, much rarer than you think. Ah—” he raised his hands, smiling “—don’t you worry about ministers. The more you kill, the more you do the world a service.” He chuckled, rubbing his face. His nose was fat and soft, rippling under his fingers.
Chamberlain said, “What has been done to the black is a terrible thing.”
“True. From any point of view. But your freed black will turn out no better than many the white that’s fighting to free him. The point is that we have a country here where the past cannot keep a good man in chains, and that’s the nature of the war. It’s the aristocracy
I’m after. All that lovely, plumed, stinking chivalry. The people who look at you like a piece of filth, a cockroach, ah.” His face twitched to stark bitterness. “I tell you, Colonel, we got to win this war.” He brooded. “What will happen, do you think, if we lose? Do you think the country will ever get back together again?”
“Doubt it. Wound is too deep. The differences … If they win there’ll be two countries, like France and Germany in Europe, and the border will be armed. Then there’ll be a third country in the West, and that one will be the balance of power.”
Kilrain sat moodily munching on a blade of grass. More cannon thumped; the dull sound rolled among the hills. Kilrain said, “They used to have signs on tavern doors: Dogs and Irishmen keep out. You ever see them signs, Colonel?”
Chamberlain nodded.
“They burned a Catholic church up your way not long ago. With some nuns in it.”
“Yes.”
“There was a divine spark.”
Chamberlain grinned, shook his head. Kilrain turned away. Chamberlain sat for a while silently and then took out a copy of Harper’s Weekly he’d carried up with him and began to look through it. There was an article by a general from Argentina concerning the use of Negro troops. He said that they fought very well, with training.
Chamberlain’s nose wrinkled. The world around him grew silent; there was something in the air. The odor of dead meat came down on the wind, drifting through the trees. Soft and sour, the smell of distant death. It passed like an invisible cloud. Kilrain said, “Make you a little wager, Colonel. We’ll sit here all day and in the evening we’ll march away again.” He lay back. “So I might’s well get some rest.”
Chamberlain moved back against a tree. He was not tired. He closed his eyes, saw a sudden shocking memory of death, torn flaps of skin, the black rotted meat of muscle.
Kilrain said sleepily, “I bet nothing happens today.”
But Chamberlain knew. He was certain. He looked toward the odor of death. Still early in the day. Long time until nightfall. They’ll come. He could not relax. But what if it is you who are wrong? But I am not wrong. Thank God for that. If I were an officer for them, on the other side, what would I be feeling now?
The cannon had stilled. The old soldier was popping corn: pop pop poppity pop.
Chamberlain put down the paper, folded his arms. Waited.
3.
LONGSTREET
They had taken a door from its hinges at the Thompson house and placed it across fence rails to serve as a map table. Lee stood above it with his arms folded behind him, staring down. Although the morning was warm and humid his coat was buttoned at the throat, his face pale. He put one hand down, drummed on the map, shook his head, then turned abruptly and walked off to the edge of the trees to look toward Cemetery Hill.
Longstreet sat gazing at the map, fixing it in his mind. Johnston and Clarke had scouted the Union position and it was drawn now on the map in blue ink. Longstreet looked down at the map and then up at the hazy blue ridge in the east, trying to orient himself.
There were two hills beyond Gettysburg: first Cemetery Hill and beyond that Culp’s Hill. The Union Army had dug in along the crest of both hills, in a crescent. From the two hills ran a long ridge, like the shaft of a fishhook, Cemetery Ridge, sloping gradually down to the south to two more hills, one rocky and bare, the other high and thickly wooded. Meade had put troops along the ridge so that his position was shaped like the fishhook, but there were no troops yet on the rocky hills.
Longstreet sat alone, a forbidding figure. He was thinking: Lee has made up his mind; there’s nothing you can do. Well. Then there will be a scrap. He took a deep breath. Ought to get something to eat.
“General?”
He looked down, saw the handsome face of Taylor, Lee’s aide.
“General Lee wishes to speak to you, sir.”
Lee was up on the rise by the seminary, walking back and forth under the shade trees. Officers sat quietly by, joking softly, respectfully with each other, keeping an eye on the old man walking back and forth, back and forth, stopping to stare at the eastern hills, the eastern haze. Longstreet came up.
“General,” Lee said.
Longstreet grunted. There was bright heat in Lee’s eyes, like fever. Longstreet felt a shudder of alarm.
Lee said, “I like to go into battle with the agreement of my commanders, as far as possible, as you know. We are all members of this army, in a common cause.”
Longstreet waited.
“I understand your position,” Lee said. “I did not want this fight, but I think it was forced upon us. As the war was.” He added, “As the war was.” He stopped and frowned, put up his fingers and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said. He gestured toward the north, toward Ewell. “General Ewell has changed his mind about attacking to the left. He insists the enemy is too firmly entrenched and has been heavily reinforced in the night. I’ve been over there personally. I tend to agree with him. There are elements of at least three Union corps occupying those hills.”
Longstreet waited. Lee had been over to the left, through Gettysburg, to inspect Ewell’s position, but he had not been to the right to check on Longstreet. It was a measure of his trust, and Longstreet knew it.
“I spoke to Ewell of your suggestion that he move around to the right. Both he and Early were opposed.”
“Early.” Longstreet grimaced, spat.
“Yes.” Lee nodded. “Both generals were of the opinion that an attack on the right would draw off Union forces and that they would then be able to take the hills. They insist that withdrawing from Gettysburg, giving it back to the enemy, would be bad for morale, is unnecessary, and might be dangerous.”
Lee looked at him, the deep-set eyes still bright, still hot, still questing. Longstreet said nothing.
“You disagree,” Lee said.
Longstreet shrugged. He had disagreed last night, had argued all morning, but now he was setting his mind to it. The attack would come.
“We must attack,” General Lee said forcefully. “We must attack. I would rather not have done it upon this ground, but every moment we delay the enemy uses to reinforce himself. We cannot support ourselves in this country. We cannot let him work around behind us and cut us off from home. We must hit him now. We pushed him yesterday; he will remember it. The men are ready. I see no alternative.”
“Yes, sir,” Longstreet said. He wants me to agree. But I cannot agree. Let’s get on with it.
Lee waited for a moment, but Longstreet said nothing, and the silence lengthened until at last Lee said, “You will attack on the right with the First Corps.”
Longstreet nodded. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was beginning to relax inside, like an unclenching fist. Now that you knew for sure it was coming a man could rest a bit.
“I want you to attack en echelon, to take Cemetery Hill in reverse. Hill will support you with Pender and Anderson. Heth’s division will be in reserve. It had a hard day yesterday. Ewell’s people will demonstrate, to keep them from reinforcing against you.”
“All right,” Longstreet said. “But I don’t have Pickett. I have only Hood and McLaws.”
Lee said, “You will have to go in without him.”
Longstreet said stubbornly, “Law’s brigade is still coming up. I must have Law.”
“How long will that take?”
“At least another hour.”
“All right.” Lee nodded. His head bobbed tightly; he was blinking.
“It will take time to position the men, the artillery.”
“At your discretion, General.”
“Sir.” Longstreet bowed slightly.
“Let us go to the map.” Lee turned back toward the table. “I am suspicious of written orders since that affair at Sharpsburg.”
Back at the map table men waited for them expectantly. Someone told a joke; there was a ripple of laughter. Lee did not seem to notice.
McLaws and Hood were
at the table, along with A. P. Hill. Hill had looked well in the morning, but he did not look well now. Lee bent down over the map. He said, “You will attack up the Emmitsburg Road, up Cemetery Ridge, passing in front of the Rocky Hill. Your objective will be to get in the rear of the Union Army.”
McLaws bent over the map. He was a patient man, stubborn and slow, not brilliant, but a dependable soldier. He had a deep streak of sloppy sentimentality to him and he loved to sit around fires singing sad songs of home. He tended to be a bit pompous at times, but he was reliable.
Lee said to McLaws, “Well, General, do you think you can carry this line?”
McLaws shrugged, glanced briefly at Longstreet. He was well aware of Longstreet’s theory of defensive tactics. He said pontifically, “Well, sir, I know of nothing to prevent my taking that line, but then, of course, I haven’t seen it myself. I wouldn’t mind taking out a line of skirmishers to reconnoiter the position.”
“Unnecessary,” Longstreet said. “Waste of time. We’ve had scouts out all morning. Let’s get on with it, General. I don’t want you to leave your division.”
McLaws looked to Lee. Lee nodded.
“Yes. Well, we will step off in echelon, from right to left. Ewell will wait until he hears your artillery. The left of your advance will be on the Emmitsburg Road. Your right will sweep under those rocky heights.”
“We’ll have enfilade fire coming down on us.”
“Not for long,” Lee said. “You’ll be up over the ridge and take them in the rear. When you are heavily engaged, Ewell will take them in the front.”
Longstreet nodded. It might work. Heavy loss, but it might work.
Hood, who had been silent, said suddenly, softly, “General Lee?”
They turned to face him. Lee considered him a fine tactician, and more than that, Hood was a man you listened to. He said, in that soft voice, “General, I’d like to send one brigade around those rocky heights. I think I can get into their wagon trains back there.”