Tom was meditating. “Gosh, Lawrence. There’s almost as many men there as we got in the whole regiment. How we going to guard them?”
Chamberlain said nothing. He was thinking: How do you force a man to fight-for freedom? The idiocy of it jarred him. Think on it later. Must do something now.
There was an officer, a captain, at the head of the column.
The Captain turned them in off the road and herded them into an open space in the field near the Regimental flag. The men of the Regiment, busy with coffee, stood up to watch.
The Captain had a loud voice and used obscene words. He assembled the men in two long ragged lines and called them to attention, but they ignored him. One slumped to the ground, more exhaustion than mutiny. A guard came forward and yelled and probed with a bayonet, but abruptly several more men sat down and then they all did, and the Captain began yelling, but the guards stood grinning confusedly, foolishly, having gone as far as they would go, unwilling to push further unless the men here showed some threat, and the men seemed beyond threat, merely enormously weary. Chamberlain took it all in as he moved toward the Captain. He put his hands behind his back and came forward slowly, studiously. The Captain pulled off dirty gloves and shook his head with contempt, glowering up at Chamberlain.
”Looking for the commanding officer. Twentieth Maine.”
”You’ve found him,” Chamberlain said.
”That’s him all right.” Tom’s voice, behind him, very proud. Chamberlain suppressed a smile.
”You Chamberlain?” The Captain stared at him grimly, insolently, showing what he thought of Maine men.
Chamberlain did not answer for a long moment, looking into the man’s eyes until the eyes suddenly blinked and dropped, and then Chamberlain said softly, “Colonel Chamberlain to you.”
The Captain stood still for a moment, then slowly came to attention, slowly saluted. Chamberlain did not return it. He looked past the Captain at the men, most of whom had their heads down. But there were eyes on him. He looked back and forth down the line, looking for a familiar face.
That would help. But there was no one he knew.
”Captain Brewer, sir. Ah. One-eighteen Pennsylvania.”
The Captain tugged in his coat front, produced a sheaf of papers. “If you’re the commanding officer, sir, then I present you with these here prisoners.” He handed the papers. Chamberlain took them, glanced down, handed them back to Tom. The Captain said, “You’re welcome to ‘em. God knows. Had to use the bayonet to get ‘ em moving. You got to sign for ‘em. Colonel.”
Chamberlain said over his shoulder, “Sign it, Tom.” To the Captain he said, “You’re relieved. Captain.” The Captain nodded, pulling on the dirty gloves. “You’re authorized to use whatever force necessary. Colonel.” He said that loudly, for effect. “If you have to shoot ‘em, why, you go right ahead. Won’t nobody say nothin’.”
”You’re relieved, Captain,” Chamberlain said. He walked past the Captain, closer to the men, who did not move, who did not seem to notice him. One of the guards stiffened as Chamberlain approached, looked past him to his captain. Chamberlain said, “You men can leave now. We don’t need any guards.”
He stood in front of the men, ignoring the guards. They began to move off. Chamberlain stood for a moment looking down. Some of the faces turned up. There was hunger and exhaustion and occasional hatred. Chamberlain said, “My name is Chamberlain. I’m Colonel, Twentieth Maine.”
Some of them did not even raise their heads. He waited another moment. Then he said, “When did you eat last?”
More heads came up. There was no answer. Then a man in the front row said huskily, in a whiskey voice, “We’re hungry, Colonel.”
Another man said, “They been tryin’ to break us by not feedin’ us.” Chamberlain looked: a scarred man, hatless, hair plastered thinly on the scalp like strands of black seaweed. The man said, “We ain’t broke yet.”
Chamberlain nodded. A hard case. But we’ll begin with food. He said, “They just told us you were coming a little while ago. I’ve told the cook to butcher a steer. Hope you like it near to raw; not much time to cook.” Eyes opened wide. He could begin to see the hunger on the faces, like the yellow shine of sickness. He said, “We’ve got a ways to go today and you’ll be coming with us, so you better eat hearty. We’re all set for you back in the trees.” He saw Glazier Estabrook standing huge-armed and peaceful in the shade of a nearby tree. “Glazier,” Chamberlain said, “you show these men where to go. You fellas eat up and then I’ll come over and hear what you have to say.” No man moved. Chamberlain turned away. He did not know what he would do if they did not choose to move. He heard a voice: “Colonel?”
He turned. The scarred man was standing.
”Colonel, we got grievances. The men elected me to talk for ‘em.”
”Right.” Chamberlain nodded. “You come on with me and talk. The rest of you fellas go eat.” He beckoned to the scarred man and waved to Glazier Estabrook. He turned again, not waiting for the men to move off, not sure they would go, began to walk purposefully toward the blessed dark, wondering again how big a guard detail it would take, thinking he might wind up with more men out of action than in, and also: what are you going to say? Good big boys they are. Seen their share of action.
”Gosh, Lawrence,” Tom Chamberlain said.
”Smile,” Chamberlain said cheerily, “and don’t call me Lawrence. Are they moving?” He stopped and glanced pleasantly backward, saw with delight that the men were up and moving toward the trees, toward food. He grinned, plucked a book from his jacket, handed it to Tom.
”Here. This is Casey’s Manual of Infantry Tactics. You study it, maybe someday you’ll make a soldier.” He smiled at the scarred man, extended a hand. “What’s your name?”
The man stopped, looked at him for a long cold second.
The hand seemed to come up against gravity, against his will. Automatic courtesy: Chamberlain was relying on it.
”I’m not usually that informal,” Chamberlain said with the same light, calm, pleasant manner that he had developed when talking to particularly rebellious students who had come in with a grievance and who hadn’t yet learned that the soft answer turneth away wrath. Some wrath. “But I suppose somebody ought to welcome you to the Regiment.”
The man said, “I don’t feel too kindly. Colonel.”
Chamberlain nodded. He went on inside the tent, the scarred man following, and sat down on a camp stool, letting the man stand. He invited the man to have coffee, which the man declined, and then listened silently to the man’s story.
The scarred man spoke calmly and coldly, looking straight into Chamberlain’s eyes. A good stubborn man.
There was a bit of the lawyer about him: he used chunky phrases about law and justice. But he had heavy hands with thick muscular fingers and black fingernails and there was a look of power to him, a coiled tight set to the way he stood, balanced, ugly, slightly contemptuous, but watchful, trying to gauge Chamberlain’s strength.
Chamberlain said, “I see.”
”I been in eleven different engagements. Colonel. How many you been in?”
”Not that many,” Chamberlain said.
”I done my share. We all have. Most of us-“ he gestured out the tent flap into the morning glare-“there’s some of them no damn good but most of them been all the way there and back. Damn good men. Shouldn’t ought to use them this way. Looky here.” He pulled up a pants leg.
Chamberlain saw a purple gash, white scar tissue. The man let the pants leg fall. Chamberlain said nothing. The man looked at his face, seemed suddenly embarrassed, realized he had gone too far. For the first time he was uncertain. But he repeated, “I done my share.”
Chamberlain nodded. The man was relaxing slowly.’ It was warm in the tent; he opened his shirt. Chamberlain said, “What’s your name?”