”Which way is home. Colonel?”

”Let’s go. Buster.”

”Do I point him generally east?”

Chamberlain shrugged. He started to moved off, and then he turned, and to the black face looking up, to the red eyes, he looked down and bowed slightly, touching his cap.

”Goodbye, friend. Good luck. God bless you.”

He rode off feeling foolish and angry, placed himself in front of the Regiment.

The Division was forming on level ground, down the road-great square blocks of blue. The colors were unfurled, the lines were dressed. A stillness came over the corps. They were expecting a review, possibly Meade himself. But no one came. Chamberlain sat on his horse, alone in the sun before the ranks of the Twentieth Maine. He heard Tozier behind him: “Dress it up, dress it up,” a muffled complaint, whispers, the far sound of hoofs pawing the ground. His own horse stood quietly, neck down, nibbling Pennsylvania grass. Chamberlain let the mare feed. The day was very hot. He saw a buzzard floating along in the pale blue above, drifting and floating, and he thought of the smell of dead men and chicken hawks swooping down and the only eagle he’d ever seen, in captivity, back in Brewer, a vast wingspread, a murderous eve.

Colonel Vincent came down the line, trailing aides like blue clouds. Chamberlain saluted. Vincent looked very happy.

”We’ll be moving up soon. No action this morning. I expect we’ll be in reserve.”

”Yes, sir.”

”Reserve is the best duty. That means they’ll use us where we’re needed. ‘Once more into the breach.’” He grinned brightly, showing teeth almost womanly white.

”How does that go. Professor?”

Chamberlain smiled politely.

”You spell breach with an ‘a,’ am I right? Thought so.

I’m a Harvard man myself.” Vincent grinned, looked thoughtfully at the Regiment. “Glad you got those extra men. You may need ‘em. How they getting along?”

”Fine.”

Vincent nodded, reached out cheerily, patted Chamberlain on the arm. “You’ll be all right. Colonel. Glad to have you with us. I’m having some beef driven up. If there’s time, we’ll have a good feed tonight in this brigade.”

He was interrupted by bugles, and there it was: Dan, Dan, Dan, Butterfield, Butterfield. He swung his horse to listen, saw riders approaching, began to move that way.

Over his shoulder he said, “Anything you need. Colonel,” and he rode off.

The call came to advance. Chamberlain turned to face the Regiment. He ordered right shoulder arms; the rifles went up. He drew his sword, turned. Down the line the order came: advance. He gave the long order to Tozier: guide in the next regiment, the 118th Pennsylvania. He raised his sword. They began to move; the whole Corps in mass, at slow march forward through a flat farm, a peach orchard.

He ordered route step. Looking far off down the line, he saw the men moving in a long blue wave, the heart-stopping sight of thousands of men walking silently forward, rifles shouldered and gleaming in the sun, colors bobbing, the officers in front on high-stepping horses. Chamberlain sucked in his breath: marvelous, marvelous. Behind him he could hear men joking, but he could not hear the jokes.

Details of men, in front, were removing white rail fences.

He rode past a house, slowed to let the men flow round it, saw a fat woman in a bonnet, a gray dress, standing on the porch, her hands in her apron. She extracted one hand, waved slowly, silently. Chamberlain bowed. Some of the men wished her good morning. A sergeant apologized for marching through her farm. The Regiment moved on across the open place and through a cornfield and some low bushes. Then there was high ground to the right. The front of the Corps swung to face south, rolled forward down a slope through more cornfields. The corn was high and the men tried not to trample it, but that was not possible. It was becoming a long walk, up and down in the heat, but Chamberlain was not tired. They came to a brook, cold water already very dirty from many men moving upstream.

Chamberlain sent back word that no one was to fall out to fill a canteen; canteen bearers would be appointed. On the far side of the brook they came upon a broad road and the rear of the army. He saw a long line of dark wagons, a band of Provost guards, men gathered in groups around stacked rifles, small fires. To the right there was an artillery park, dozens of guns and caissons and horses. Beyond the road there was a rise of ground, and at that moment, looking upward toward a broad tree on a knoll just above, a tree with huge branches spread wide in the shape of a cup, full and green against a blue sky. Chamberlain heard the first gun, a cannon, a long soft boom of a gun firing a long way off.

A short while later the Corps was stopped. They were told to stop where they were and rest. The men sat in a flat field, an orchard to the left, trees and men everywhere, higher ground in front of them. They waited. Nothing happened. There was the sound of an occasional cannon.

But even the crows nearby were silent. Some of the men began to lie back, to rest. Chamberlain rode briefly off to find out what would happen, but no one knew. When he returned he found himself a place under a tree. It was very hot. He had just closed his eyes when a courier arrived with a message from Meade to read to the troops. Chamberlain gathered them around him in the field, in the sunlight, and read the order.

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 pea-wit. 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.”