He was surrounded by Generals. Some of them Chamberlain recognized: Gibbon, of Hancock’s Corps, the cold man with the icy reputation. He had three brothers with the South. How many out there today, across that silent field: There was Pleasanton, of the cavalry, and Newton, new commander of the First Corps. Chamberlain saw a vast pot of stewed chicken, a pot of hot tea, a disappearing loaf of battered bread, some pickles. His mouth opened, watered, gulped. The Generals went on eating mercilessly. The messenger took Chamberlain on past the food to a dark spot near a white barn. General Sykes was sitting there, smoking a cigar, staring down at some papers, dictating an order. The messenger introduced him as he dismounted, then departed with the horse. Sykes stood up, extended a hand, looked him over as you look over a horse you are contemplating buying.
”Chamberlain. Yes. Heard about you. Want to hear more. Want you to write a report. Rice says you did a good job.”
Chamberlain nodded and said thank you and went on smelling chicken. Sykes was a small, thin, grouchy man, had the reputation of a gentleman, though somewhat bad-tempered. Chamberlain thought: There are no good-tempered generals.
Sykes said, observing Chamberlain with the same look one gives a new rifle, “Rice says you’re a schoolteacher.”
”Well,” Chamberlain said, “not quite.”
”You aren’t Regular Army.”
”No, sir. I taught at Bowdoin.”
”Bowdoin? Oh, you mean Bow-doyn. Yes. Heard of it. Amazing.” He shook his head. “Tell me you ordered a bayonet charge, drove those people halfway to Richmond.”
Chamberlain shifted his feet idiotically.
”Well, I’m going to look into it. Colonel, and let me tell you this, we need fightin’ men in this army, any way we can get ‘em, Regular Army or no, and one damn thing is sure, we can use some Brigade commanders. I’m going to look into it. Meantime, well done, well done. Now you go rest up. Nothing going to happen today.”
He was finished, turned back to his work. Chamberlain asked about rations. Sykes told a lieutenant to see to it. Chamberlain saluted, backed off, out into the sun. No horse now, have to walk. Right foot on fire. Damn. He limped along the crest, not paying much attention to the view. He was a picturesque figure. He had not changed clothes nor washed nor shaved in a week. His blue pants were torn in several places and splotched with dried blood; his right boot was torn, his jacket was ripped at the shoulder, his sword was without a scabbard, was stuck into his belt. He hobbled along painfully, sleepily, detouring around the front of a Napoleon, didn’t notice it until he opened his eyes and looked straight into the black maw, the hole of the barrel, and he blinked and came awake, momentarily, remembering Shakespeare’s line: “the bubble reputation in the cannon’s mouth.” Doesn’t look like a mouth. Looks like a damn dangerous hole. Stay away from that.
He was passing the group with Hancock and the chickens. He sighed wistfully, smelling fresh coffee, looked that way, was too proud to ask, saw a familiar figure: Meade himself. The crusty old stork, munching on a chicken leg. Chamberlain paused. Never saw much of Meade, didn’t quite know what to think of him. But if he wants to retreat, he’s a damn fool. Chamberlain had stopped; a number of the group of officers noticed him. Chamberlain looked down, saw blood coming out of his boot. This keeps up, I’m in trouble. Foot wounds always slow to heal. Wonder why?
An officer had detached himself from the group. Chamberlain had started to move on, but the officer came up, saluted. He was older than Chamberlain, but he was only a lieutenant. Sitting with all the generals. Chamberlain could feel the massed power; it was like being near great barrels of gunpowder. The lieutenant asked if he could be of service. Chamberlain said no thanks, wondering how to conquer pride and if a general would part with some chicken, and then felt ashamed, because his boys had none and would be guilty to eat something up here, but on the other hand, don’t get something soon, and keep losing blood, might pass out, in all this damned heat, like you did the other time, and be no good to anybody.
The lieutenant introduced himself: Frank Haskell, aide to General Gibbon. He recognized Chamberlain’s name. His eyes showed respect; now that was pleasant. Chamberlain explained that he’d been to see General Sykes and had no horse, and the foot was bothering him, and did the lieutenant think they might spare one scrawny leg, or even a neck? The lieutenant bowed, came back with three pieces of chicken, hot and greasy, wrapped in a dirty white cloth. Chamberlain took them with gratitude, staggered off down the hill. He ate one piece, preserved the other two. It was awful but marvelous. When he got back to the company he gave the two surviving pieces to Ellis Spear and told him to figure out a way to share them with somebody, that rations would be here soon, Sykes had promised.
He rested and took off his boot. Nothing to wrap it with. He tore off a bit of his shirt, was working away diligently, saw Tom coming.
Tom was losing the chipper edge. Chamberlain thought: Be all right in a bit. The young recover quickly. Must think on the theology of that: plugging a hole in the line with a brother. Except for that, it would all have been fine. An almost perfect fight, but the memory of that is a jar, is wrong. Some things a man cannot be asked to do. Killing of brothers. This whole war is concerned with the killing of brothers. Not my family. He thought of Gibbon. Praise be to God. Must send Tom somewhere else. In that moment, Chamberlain made up his mind: Tom would have to go. Tell him soon. Not now.
Tom sat. Lines in the face. Something wrong. Chamberlain saw: Kilrain?
”Lawrence, I been down to the hospital. Godawful mess. No shade, no room. They lying everywhere, out in the sun. They cuttin’ off arms and legs right out in the open, front of everybody, like they did at Fredericksburg. God, they ought to know better, they ought not do that in public. Some of them people die. Man ought to have privacy at a time like that. You got to yell sometimes, you know? Lord…”
”Did you see Kilrain?” Tom nodded. He sat with his back against the wall; the small stone wall this side of the dead horses, plucking grass. He sighed.
Chamberlain said, “How is he?”
”Well, Lawrence, he died.”
”Oh,” Chamberlain said. He blinked. The world came into focus. He could see leaves of the trees dark and sharp against the blue sky. He could smell the dead horses.
”He died this morning, ‘fore I got there. Couple of the boys was with him. He said to tell you goodbye and that he was sorry.” Chamberlain nodded.
”It wasn’t the wounds. They say his heart give out.” Chamberlain had stopped wrapping his bloody foot. Now he went on. But he could see the weary Irish face, the red-nose leprechaun. Just one small drink, one wee pint of the cruel…
Tom said, “I tell you, Lawrence, I sure was fond of that man.”
”Yes,” Chamberlain said.
Tom said nothing more. He sat plucking grass. Chamberlain wrapped the foot. The moment was very quiet. He sat looking down at his bloody leg, feeling the gentle wind, the heat from the south, seeing Kilrain dead on a litter, no more the steady presence. Sometimes he believed in a Heaven, mostly he believed in a Heaven; there ought to be a Heaven for young soldiers, especially young soldiers, but just as surely for the old soldier; there ought to be more than just that metallic end, and then silence, then the worms, and sometimes he believed, mostly he believed, but just this moment he did not believe at all, knew Kilrain was dead and gone forever, that the grin had died and would not reappear, never, there was nothing beyond the sound of the guns but the vast dark, the huge nothing, not even silence, just an end…