My dad was a Quaker pacifist who taught English at Cornell, Umass, and then Hampshire College. He read aloud to me, books on sports, whaling, and war. Of all the wars, the Civil War was his greatest fascination. And perhaps his greatest war hero was Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, a professor at Bowdoin College in Maine who became a Union Army general. Chamberlain, many argue, changed the course of American history by holding the line at Little Round Top with a handful of men who were massively outnumbered.
The following is an account of that battle from Michael Shaara’s novel THE KILLER ANGELS, winner of the 1975 Pulitzer Prize for fiction -TOM MATLACK
The Rebs were in plain view, moving, firing. Chamberlain saw clearly a tall man aiming a rifle at him. At me. Saw the smoke, the flash, but did not hear the bullet go by. Missed. Ha! He stepped out into the open, balanced on the gray rock. Tozier had lifted the colors into the clear. The Rebs were thirty yards off. Chamberlain raised his saber, let loose the shout that was the greatest sound he could make, boiling the yell up from his chest: Fix bayonets! Charge! Fix bayonets! Charge! Fix bayonets! Charge! He leaped down from the boulder, still screaming, his voice beginning to crack and give, and all around him his men were roaring animal screams, and he saw the whole Regiment rising and pouring over the wall and beginning to bound down through the dark bushes, over the dead and dying and wounded, hats coming off, hair flying, mouths making sounds, one man firing as he ran, the last bullet, last round. Chamberlain saw gray men below stop, freeze, crouch, then quickly turn. The move was so quick he could not believe it. Men were turning and running. Some were stopping to fire. There was the yellow flash and then they turned. Chamberlain saw a man drop a rifle and run. Another. A bullet plucked at Chamberlain’s coat, a hard pluck so that he thought he had caught a thorn but looked down and saw the huge gash. But he was not hit. He saw an officer: handsome full-bearded man in gray, sword and revolver. Chamberlain ran toward him, stumbled, cursed the bad foot, looked up and aimed and fired and missed, then held aloft the saber. The officer turned, saw him coming, raised a pistol, and Chamberlain ran toward it downhill, unable to stop, stumbling downhill seeing the black hole of the pistol turning toward him, not anything but the small hole yards away, feet away, the officer’s face a blur behind it and no thought, a moment of gray suspension rushing silently, soundlessly toward the black hole . . . and the gun did not fire; the hammer clicked down on an empty shell, and Chamberlain was at the man’s throat with the saber and the man was handing him his sword, all in one motion, and Chamberlain stopped.
“The pistol too,” he said.
The officer handed him the gun: a cavalry revolver, Colt.
“Your prisoner, sir.” The face of the officer was very white, like old paper. Chamberlain nodded.
He looked up to see an open space. The Rebs had begun to fall back; now they were running. He had never seen them run; he stared, began limping forward to see. Great cries, incredible sounds, firing and yelling. The Regiment was driving in a line, swinging to the fight, into the dark valley. Men were surrendering. He saw masses of gray coats, a hundred or more, moving back up the slope to his front, in good order, the only ones not running, and thought: If they form again we’re in trouble, desperate trouble, and he began moving that way, ignoring the officer he had just captured.
MICHAEL SHAARA, The Killer Angels
