A
confusing
long-range
fire,
heavy
enough
to
hurt,
kept coming
in
from
the
left,
and
smoke
fog
was
drifting
through woods
and
fields.
Warren
had
gone
riding
frantically
on
to try
to
find
Crawford
and
set
him
straight,
and
entire
brigades had
lost
touch
with
their
corps
and
division
commanders. One
of
these,
presently,
got
into
action,
led
by
one
of
the most
remarkable
soldiers
in
the
army,
the
hawk-nosed
theologian
turned
general,
Joshua
Chamberlain
of
Maine.
Before
the
war
Chamberlain
had
done
nothing
more
militant
than
teach
courses
in
natural
and
revealed
religion,
and later
on
in
romance
languages,
at
Bowdoin
College.
In
1862 he
had
been
given
a
two-year
leave
of
absence
to
study
in Europe.
Instead
of
going
to
Europe
he
had
joined
the
army, and
in
a
short
time
he
showed
up
at
Gettysburg
as
colonel
of the
20th
Maine
Infantry,
winning
the
Congressional
Medal
of Honor
for
his
defense
of
Little
Round
Top.
Since
then
he had
been
several
times
wounded—he
had
an
arm
in
a
sling today,
as
a
matter
of
fact,
from
a
wound
received
twenty-four hours
earlier
in
the
fight
near
Hatchers
Run—and
he
had twice
won
brevet
promotions
for
bravery
under
fire.
It
was occurring
to
him
now
that
since
bullets
were
coming
from the
left
there
must
be
Confederates
over
that
way,
so
he
took his
brigade
over
to
do
something
about
it.
Beyond
a
gully,
Chamberlain
could
at
last
see
a
Confederate
line
of
battle.
He
got
his
brigade
into
line,
took
it
down into
the
little
ravine,
came
out
on
the
far
side,
and
headed for
the
enemy.
The
fire
was
hot,
now—and
here,
in
the thickest
of
it,
came
Sheridan,
riding
up
at
top
speed
as
always,
his
mounted
color-bearer
riding
behind
him.
Sheridan pulled
up
facing
Chamberlain,
his
dark
face
glowing.
"By
God,
that's
what
I
want
to
see!
General
officers
at
the front!"
cried
Sheridan.
He
asked
where
Warren
and
the rest
of
the
corps
might
be,
and
Chamberlain
gestured
toward the
north,
trying
to
explain
what
had
happened.
Sheridan interrupted,
saying
that
Chamberlain
was
to
take
command of
everybody
he
saw
in
the
immediate
vicinity
and
press
the attack—and
then
Sheridan
rode
off
fast,
looking
for
Warren and
the
missing
infantry.
9
All
along
the
breastworks
on
the
White
Oak
Road
dismounted
Yankee
cavalrymen
were
attacking—looking,
as
a
man who
watched
them
said,
with
their
tightly
fitting
uniforms, natty
jackets,
and
short
carbines,
as
if
they
had
been
especially
designed
for
crawling
through
knotholes.
Many
of
the carbines
were
repeaters,
and
at
close
range
the
troopers
had terrific
fire
power,
and
a
deafening
racket
went
up
from
the narrow
aisle
in
the
woods.
Around
the
angle
Ayres's
division and
Chamberlain's
brigade
and
fragments
of
other
commands were
still
in
some
confusion,
but
they
were
beginning
to
get it
straightened
out
now,
and
they
were
hitting
the
Confederates
from
flank
and
rear.
Far
to
the
north,
the
troops that
had
gone
off
at
a
tangent
were
at
last
being
wheeled around
so
that
they
could
cut
across
the
Confederates'
rear.
10
Sheridan
was
all
over
the
field.
When
a
skirmish
line
met a
severe
fire,
wavered,
and
seemed
ready
to
fall
back,
up
came Sheridan
at
a
gallop,
shouting
to
the
men:
"Come
on—go
at 'em—move
on
with
a
clean
jump
or
you'll
not
catch
one
of 'em!
They're
all
getting
ready
to
run
now,
and
if
you
don't get
on
to
them
in
five
minutes
they'll
every
one
get
away
from you!"
An
infantryman
at
his
side
was
struck
in
the
throat and
fell,
blood
flowing
as
if
his
jugular
vein
had
been
cut. "You're
not
hurt
a
bit!"
cried
Sheridan.
"Pick
up
your
gun, man,
and
move
right
on!"
The
soldier
looked
up
at
him, then
obediently
took
his
musket,
got
to
his
feet,
and
staggered forward—to
drop
dead
after
half
a
dozen
steps.
Chamberlain came
up
to
Sheridan
once
and
begged
him
not
to
expose
himself
on
the
front
line,
promising
that
the
rest
of
them
would press
the
attack.
Sheridan
tossed
his
head
with
a
grin
which, Chamberlain
felt,
"seemed
to
say
that
he
didn't
care
much for
himself,
or
perhaps
for
me,"
and
promised
to
go
to
the rear—and
then
dashed
off
to
a
sector
where
the
fire
was even
hotter.