real good.”
“They’re all marching together?”
“Right. Glazier’s got the six hardheads in tow.”
“Well, get all the names and start assigning them to different companies. I don’t want them bunched up, spread them out. See about their arms.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”
Chamberlain reached the head of the column. The road ahead was long and straight, rising toward a ridge of trees. He turned in his saddle, looked back, saw the entire Fifth Corps forming behind him. He thought: 120 new men. Hardly noticeable in such a mass. And yet … he felt a moment of huge joy. He called for road guards and skirmishers and the 20th Maine began to move toward Gettysburg.
3.
B UFORD
The land west of Gettysburg is a series of ridges, like waves in the earth. The first Rebel infantry came in that way, down the narrow gray road from the mountain gap. At noon they were in sight of the town. It was a small neat place: white board houses, rail fences, all in order, one white church steeple. The soldiers coming over the last ridge by the Lutheran Seminary could see across the town to the hills beyond and a winding gray road coming up from the south, and as the first gray troops entered the town there was motion on that southern road: a blur, blue movement, blue cavalry. They came on slowly around the last bend, a long blue smoking snake, spiked with guns and flags. The soldiers looked at each other across vacant fields. The day was very hot; the sky was a steamy haze. Someone lifted a gun and fired, but the range was too long. The streets of Gettysburg were deserted.
Just beyond the town there were two hills. One was wooded and green; the other was flat, topped by a cemetery. The Union commander, a tall blond sunburned man named John Buford, rode up the long slope to the top of the hill, into the cemetery. He stopped by a stone wall, looked down across flat open ground, lovely clear field of fire. He could see all the way across the town and the ridges to the blue mountains beyond, a darkening sky. On the far side of the town therewas a red brick building, the stately seminary, topped with a white cupola. The road by the building was jammed with Rebel troops. Buford counted half a dozen flags. He had thought it was only a raiding party. Now he sensed power behind it, a road flowing with troops all the way back to the mountains.
The first blue brigade had stopped on the road below, by a red barn. The commander of that brigade, Bill Gamble, came up the hill on a muddy horse, trailed by a small cloud of aides, gazed westward with watery eyes. He wheezed, wiping his nose.
“By God, that’s infantry.”
Buford put the glasses to his eyes. He saw one man on a black horse, waving a plumed hat: an officer. The Rebel troops had stopped. Buford looked around, searching for other movement. He saw a squad of blue troopers, his own men, riding down into deserted streets. Still no sound of gunfire.
Gamble said, “That’s one whole brigade. At least one brigade.”
“Do you see any cavalry?”
Gamble swept the horizon, shook his head.
Strange. Infantry moving alone in enemy country. Blind. Very strange.
Gamble sneezed violently, wiped his nose on his coat, swore, wheezed. His nose had been running all that day. He pointed back along the ridge beyond the cemetery.
“If you want to fight here, sir, this sure is lovely ground. We tuck in here behind this stone wall and I’d be proud to defend it. Best damn ground I’ve seen all day.”
Buford said, “It is that.” But he had only two brigades. He was only a scout. The big infantry was a long day’s march behind him. But Gamble was right: It was lovely ground.
“By God, I think they’re pulling back.”
Buford looked. The gray troops had turned; they had begun to withdraw back up the road. Slowly, very slowly. He could see back-turned faces, feel the cold defiance. But he felt himself loosen, begin to breathe.
“Now that’s damned strange.” Gamble sniffled.
“They’re all marching together?”
“Right. Glazier’s got the six hardheads in tow.”
“Well, get all the names and start assigning them to different companies. I don’t want them bunched up, spread them out. See about their arms.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”
Chamberlain reached the head of the column. The road ahead was long and straight, rising toward a ridge of trees. He turned in his saddle, looked back, saw the entire Fifth Corps forming behind him. He thought: 120 new men. Hardly noticeable in such a mass. And yet … he felt a moment of huge joy. He called for road guards and skirmishers and the 20th Maine began to move toward Gettysburg.
3.
B UFORD
The land west of Gettysburg is a series of ridges, like waves in the earth. The first Rebel infantry came in that way, down the narrow gray road from the mountain gap. At noon they were in sight of the town. It was a small neat place: white board houses, rail fences, all in order, one white church steeple. The soldiers coming over the last ridge by the Lutheran Seminary could see across the town to the hills beyond and a winding gray road coming up from the south, and as the first gray troops entered the town there was motion on that southern road: a blur, blue movement, blue cavalry. They came on slowly around the last bend, a long blue smoking snake, spiked with guns and flags. The soldiers looked at each other across vacant fields. The day was very hot; the sky was a steamy haze. Someone lifted a gun and fired, but the range was too long. The streets of Gettysburg were deserted.
Just beyond the town there were two hills. One was wooded and green; the other was flat, topped by a cemetery. The Union commander, a tall blond sunburned man named John Buford, rode up the long slope to the top of the hill, into the cemetery. He stopped by a stone wall, looked down across flat open ground, lovely clear field of fire. He could see all the way across the town and the ridges to the blue mountains beyond, a darkening sky. On the far side of the town therewas a red brick building, the stately seminary, topped with a white cupola. The road by the building was jammed with Rebel troops. Buford counted half a dozen flags. He had thought it was only a raiding party. Now he sensed power behind it, a road flowing with troops all the way back to the mountains.
The first blue brigade had stopped on the road below, by a red barn. The commander of that brigade, Bill Gamble, came up the hill on a muddy horse, trailed by a small cloud of aides, gazed westward with watery eyes. He wheezed, wiping his nose.
“By God, that’s infantry.”
Buford put the glasses to his eyes. He saw one man on a black horse, waving a plumed hat: an officer. The Rebel troops had stopped. Buford looked around, searching for other movement. He saw a squad of blue troopers, his own men, riding down into deserted streets. Still no sound of gunfire.
Gamble said, “That’s one whole brigade. At least one brigade.”
“Do you see any cavalry?”
Gamble swept the horizon, shook his head.
Strange. Infantry moving alone in enemy country. Blind. Very strange.
Gamble sneezed violently, wiped his nose on his coat, swore, wheezed. His nose had been running all that day. He pointed back along the ridge beyond the cemetery.
“If you want to fight here, sir, this sure is lovely ground. We tuck in here behind this stone wall and I’d be proud to defend it. Best damn ground I’ve seen all day.”
Buford said, “It is that.” But he had only two brigades. He was only a scout. The big infantry was a long day’s march behind him. But Gamble was right: It was lovely ground.
“By God, I think they’re pulling back.”
Buford looked. The gray troops had turned; they had begun to withdraw back up the road. Slowly, very slowly. He could see back-turned faces, feel the cold defiance. But he felt himself loosen, begin to breathe.
“Now that’s damned strange.” Gamble sniffled.
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