The Burden of Command

The Twentieth Maine Volunteer Infantry had nearly mastered the simplest moves in company formation when training at Camp Monroe on the outskirts of Washington came to an abrupt end. Word came down that Lee had crossed the Potomac into Maryland. The bugles in camp sounded "The General" on September 12, the signal for soldiers to strike tents and prepare to march.

The weather had turned hot and oppressive. Hardly a breeze stirred. It was early in the morning when an orderly led Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain's dappled gray stallion, Prince, over to him. At thirty-four, with a flowing mustache and light brown hair just starting to go gray at the temples, he was not yet used to this harsh new world so far removed from a college campus. Yet, it was a world he had willingly embraced. He was a man of deep convictions and love of country was one of them. He would not let the minor inconvenience of weather discourage him, though he already felt sweat running down his back, under his shirt and the wool frock coat of his uniform. He knew it was going to be a brutal day for the regiment before it really began. Maine men were just not used to this kind of heat.

He mounted the stallion and looked around for Colonel Ames. He spotted the familiar, tall, twenty-six year old officer with the full mustache and sharp eyes riding slowly over to the color guard at the head of the regiment. He found Ames a lively young man with an extremely short temper, easily provoked. So far, they had both gotten along, though he did not particularly like Ames' style of training. The colonel always met error with rage. He crushed stupidity with brutal ridicule. Good performance he acknowledged with a mere nod. And, being a graduate of West Point, Ames, of course, was always right.

Lawrence headed Prince toward Ames and took his place beside him. The colonel was strangely quiet except for passing necessary marching orders to Major Gilmore. They moved out at a route step, where marching time does not have to be kept, their new uniforms and accouterments contrasting with the varied and worn apparel of the veteran regiments in the brigade. Lawrence looked out from Arlington Heights at the blue columns of troops that preceded them across the Potomac. The relentless sun sparkled off the water, burnished rifle barrels and artillery. Cavalry, supply and ambulance wagons moved in countless numbers with bands playing stirring marches to lighten the mood in the growing heat of the day.

As they pushed forward away from Washington, dust rose up to hang over the country road in thick, suffocating clouds. It got in the hair, ears, nose, mouth and eyes; drifted up pants legs and sleeves and down necks. It mixed with sweat. Where it mixed with sweat against leather in boots and shoes, it rubbed raw the soles of feet -- and the souls of dreamers -- into painful blisters. Officers on horseback were above the worst of it. That made him feel guilty, especially when he looked back to check their progress and saw the dust Prince was rising with each fall of a hoof. From his vantage point on his horse, he could see that columns of dust traced the roadways from horizon to horizon as the army pressed toward the northwest like a great, slow-moving beast.

Mile after sweltering dusty mile went by as the hours passed. Lawrence began to feel hot, blood rising in the back of his neck. Soon he became drowsy from the steady rocking of the horse, and he caught himself starting to lean forward, dozing off. Straightening in the saddle, the dusty sweat burning his eyes, he took off his cap and wiped his eyes and forehead with his sleeve. He put his cap back on, noting that his legs felt stiff and numb. To get the feeling back into them, he decided to walk with his horse for a while. He hauled Prince to a stop on the side of the road and dismounted awkwardly, finding he had hardly any feeling in his legs. He staggered along next to the regiment. In an attempt to cool off, he opened the first three buttons of his coat and the first two on his shirt, but it didn't make much difference.

The heat radiated up off the road bed and he was closer to it. Ames was nowhere in sight. He figured Ames probably had ridden on ahead to visit with old friends or check things out. The colonel had a lot of nervous energy and was not the kind of man who liked to stay put for long, even in all this heat. He looked back at the regiment. The columns were beginning to spread out. Men were straggling, suffering, choking in the heat and dust. They began to discard their excess equipment, items bought from the peddlers back at Camp Mason. He noticed some were throwing away blankets. He knew they could not comprehend how a man would ever need a wool blanket in this heat .

Leading his horse, he moved along with them, coughing on the dust and trying to work the stiffness out of his legs. Pins and needles shot through his calves as sensation returned. Desperate for some relief, Lawrence let his thoughts drift to something cool: the trout stream in which he liked to fish. His mind dove into a vision of light sparkling on clear, cold, rushing water; the dark shadows of trout stalking the small grasshopper he used as bait; the final lunge and explosion of cool spray with the sleek, dripping trout breaking the surface trying to throw the hook.

A sudden clatter of equipment and a heavy musket hitting the ground close by startled him out of his reverie. Poor Lewis, one of his former students, had collapsed in a cloud of dust not a yard from him. He rushed over as young corporal, Burk, another former student , got under the boy's arms and carried him off the road to lay him in the shade of a tree. The corporal grabbed the rifle Lewis dropped. Lawrence took his canteen off the saddle.
"See if you can get some water into him."
"Thank you, sir," Burk said as he took the offered canteen. Forced to drink, Lewis sputtered, opened his eyes and waved the canteen away. Burk closed the canteen and handed it back. Lewis looked up miserably from where he lay, dust streaking his sweaty face.
"Sir, I ain't gonna make this march. You might as well bury me here by this tree and write my parents I got roasted to death on the road to find the Rebs."
"Don't talk nonsense, Lewis," Lawrence said gently. He glanced back along the road to find more men down on the sides and the regiment more strung out than ever.
"We're all feeling the heat. I think half the regiment is down and the rest are not going to be taking much more of this without a rest halt. Colonel Ames is the only one who can call for one and I don't know where he's gone to."

He was seriously considering risking arrest and calling one himself even if it piled up the whole army. There was another crash of equipment ahead of them as another man went down hard.
"Damn," the corporal said. "We're all goin? to end up fried before we see a Reb."
"Corporal, go pass the word on down the line and forward for any man who feels he can not continue to pull out and rest on the side of the road. They can continue when they feel able. My guess is we will be camping somewhere up ahead, right off this same road and they can catch up this evening when its cooler. We can't be the only ones suffering in this heat."
"Yes, sir," the corporal said and left, slinging his own rifle over his shoulder.
"You have water in your canteen, Lewis?"
"Yes, sir."
"Try to drink some more in a little while." Lewis nodded, took his cap off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"You'll be all right, Jer. You just need to rest a spell, like the colonel said," Burk said as he patted his friend on the shoulder. Lawrence mounted his horse and turned toward the head of the regiment.

He had not gone far when he spotted Ames coming toward him on his dust-stained, sweating bay. As soon as the colonel was within hearing distance, he called out,
"Sir, is there any way you can call a rest halt. The men are dropping from the heat and ..." Annoyed, Ames pulled his horse around next to him and cut him off.
"No. We will continue, Colonel. You will learn this always happens. Remember what Colonel Stockton said back at Fort Craig. They will catch up during the night."
"But, sir, it makes sense to me. A well rested soldier will fight better and if ..."
"Colonel, try to remember this is not your college class. This is the army. We will be bivouacking up ahead when a halt is called and not until then. End of discussion."
"Yes, sir." He knew not to push the issue further. He rode with Ames at the head of the regiment in silence, occasionally looking back.

Men behind him continued to stagger or limp to the side of the road. By the end of the day they had gone sixteen miles. Even stripped down, the 20th Maine did not make it. By nightfall, only Ames, Gilmore, Adjutant Brown, himself and hardly a corporal's guard was left to make camp. When they pulled off the road into a field, and he dismounted, his left leg buckled under him and he had to grab the saddle to keep from going down. His shirt was soaked with sweat, he smelled like a goat and he could taste the road in the back of his mouth. Exhausted, he rested a moment leaning against Prince waiting for the feeling to return to his legs.

Everything was happening so fast. It seemed as if only yesterday they were at Camp Mason. He could not shake the feeling things would soon be changing a lot faster, sending more and greater challenges, both physical and mental. A small voice, deep inside, demanded to be heard. Patriotism and love of country were one thing, but wasn't part of his joining the army a need to prove himself? To prove himself not only to his wife, Fannie, but to everyone back home who saw him only as a quiet, passive man? Was he acting upon some deep-seeded childhood insecurities he had never truly faced? Perhaps he had taken on more than he could handle this time. He squelched the thoughts before they went further. Sometimes he found himself thinking too much. He took the canteen off the saddle and took a long drink of warm water and mumbled to himself,
"You might feel like an old man, but God willing, you will get used to this."

Only the coolness of the night revived him. It revived many of the fallen, too. Taking off only his sword, cap and coat, he bedded down on his blanket under a tree with his saddle for a pillow and Prince tethered nearby to graze. As he dozed he was awakened often by the wanderers of the night calling out:
"Hey, soldier, what outfit is this?"
Then, he fell into a deep sleep.

Something velvety and damp woke him with a start moments before reveille was blown. He opened his eyes to find Prince's gray muzzle in his face.
"Well, good morning to you, too," he croaked hoarsely. Prince pulled up his magnificent head, nickered and moved off to graze. Lawrence rose slowly, stretched, then put on his cap, coat and sword belt. He rolled up his blanket, strapped it behind his saddle and saddled his horse. The tantalizing smell of coffee and bacon reached him. He was just buckling the bridle throat strap when an orderly appeared with a steaming tin cup of black coffee.
"Sir, I was supposed to do all that for you," said the young man, sheepishly handing him the cup.
"You brought part of breakfast, Private," he said as he took the coffee. "So don't worry."
"Sir, I'm glad you're taking it so well. Colonel Ames would have had my head on a platter."
"Well, I'm not Ames," he said, smiling, and took a sip. He looked quickly beyond the orderly to find the 20th Maine had collected itself during the night.

They began the march early that morning, as soon as breakfast was over, moving out in a column of fours with nearly full ranks. He and Ames rode quietly in the lead. They were in the fertile countryside now, passing farms and orchards. It seemed cooler. The mellow September sunlight drenched a landscape rich and colorful with the first splashes of autumn. Staring at the distant misty blue mountains, he was his mind began to drift when Ames finally spoke.
"Colonel, you will be glad to know your brother arrived last night on one of the supply wagons. You were dead to the world and I did not want to wake you," Ames flashed the briefest of smiles at him. "I thought you'd want to know."
"Thank you, sir," he said, smiling broadly. "Would you mind if I rode back to check on him?"
"No, go right ahead, Colonel." Lawrence pulled Prince around and trotted back toward Tom's company. Tom had been left behind in Maine with several of the men who had a problem with the food at Camp Mason before shipping out. An enthusiastic twenty-one year old with a wreath of whiskers, he was not one to let a little explosive diarrhea keep him down for long.

Tom saw him as he approached. No one could miss him on Prince. The young sergeant couldn't contain himself. He waved and shouted,
"Lawrence ... er Colonel!"
He cringed inside at the informal use of his name, but was glad Tom had corrected himself so quickly. He decided to let a reprimand pass since Ames was well out of hearing range. He pulled Prince next to Tom's line in the company.
"Sergeant, I'm glad to see you have fully recovered."
"Thank you, sir. Was the food at camp that turned my guts inside out. But, this heat certainly ain't doin? me any good." A companion next to him piped up,
"Tom, this heat ain't doin? any of us any good. I got blisters on my blisters and fainted like a school girl yesterday." The men around them laughed. Tom went on.
"The boys tell me you did sixteen miles yesterday and hardly a corporal's guard was left by the time you made camp. You got any idea, sir, how far they're going to push us today?"
"No, but I suspect they will push us as far as they can with the Rebel army in Maryland. At least it's a little cooler and the country's pretty to look at."
"More than the country's pretty to look at, sir," Tom said, pointing up ahead.

They were marching into a small village that hugged both sides of the road. In front of a clapboard house on the side of the road were two pretty girls of about eighteen waving handkerchiefs. Older women and a few men were near them offering the soldiers fresh-baked bread, fruit and cool well water.
"I'd sure like to get some of that . . .", one man started, nodding toward the girls. He was promptly elbowed hard in the ribs by the man next to him.
"Officer's present, ya idiot, even if he is Tom's brother."
"Sorry, sir."
"You will all behave like gentlemen," Lawrence warned in a loud voice.
"Sir," Tom broke in. "You're a married man. You don't understand the yearnings."
"Just because I'm married, doesn't mean I'm dead." He tried to keep from smiling. Almost everyone who heard the conversation broke into laughter. An older woman joined the girls as the regiment passed. He smiled pleasantly at them and touched the visor of his cap. "Ladies." The girls tittered and waved. With more laughter, many of the men followed his lead with polite nods and smiles. Still, the older woman suddenly frowned, took each girl by an arm and pulled them back from the road.

He put his heels to Prince and trotted to the front of the regiment. Ames looked up at him. He knew how debilitating the "Old Soldier's Disease", as the men called it, could be.
"He is doing well, I trust."
"Yes, sir, he looks fit. Complaining about the heat though."
"At least it is not as bad as yesterday."
"No, sir, it is not." The two fell silent watching the fields, woods and distant mountains and the dust clouds rising from the road ahead.

They arrived at the Monocacy River about twenty- four miles from where they had started, exhausted and missing a number of stragglers. There they bivouacked, falling asleep to the songs of the crickets and katydids. They were on the road again on September 14 - but with a difference. The dull thunder of distant cannon haunted them, thumping against the horizon. All soon heard the news that the Army of the Potomac had found the Army of Northern Virginia somewhere ahead in the passes of a low mountain range known as South Mountain. The 20th Maine marched with the division through Frederick. The Maryland city held mostly Union sympathizers. Again, Lawrence found enthusiastic citizens greeting the army. Flags and handkerchiefs were waving. Ladies at their front gates were giving out water and loaves of soft bread to grateful soldiers. None of the officers stopped anyone from breaking ranks to mingle with the civilians, but the sergeants were kept busy rounding up any man who lagged behind too long, trying to keep the provost guards from getting them.

The scene somewhat reminded him of the Fourth of July celebration at home after the militia broke ranks to join in the festivities. Ames stayed at the head of the regiment through town, quiet and sullen. He was consumed by the constant worry over their lack of training. Lawrence left Ames alone with his thoughts and fell back to ride along the left side of the road next to the regiment about half way back. The heat was getting to him so he decided to take a glass of cold water offered by a kind woman in her middle twenties. She was standing outside a picket fence by a brick house, a bucket of well water at her feet. Sad-eyed with dark hair pulled back in a bun, she was dressed in blue gingham. He reined Prince to a halt beside her and she held the glass up to him.
"Colonel, you look like you could use this," she said, smiling sympathetically up at him. "We sure appreciate you coming to our rescue here in Maryland."
"Ma'am, I appreciate your kindness. Thank you." Shifting the reins to his right hand he took the glass in his left. He held it against his sweaty temple for a moment, feeling some relief. Then, he took a swallow, finding it so cold it hurt his teeth. It felt good going down. She noticed his wedding ring and said,
" You miss your wife, don't you?" He paused in drinking.
"Yes, I do, very much."
"I have a husband out there among your troops somewhere with the 1st Maryland. I miss him, too, so much that it hurts to think about him sometimes. I know your wife must miss you at least as much." He felt his throat go tight at the thought of Fanny anxiously waiting for the mail and took another deep swallow of water.
"Yes, I know she does."
"Do you have any children?"
"Yes, two, a little girl almost six and a boy of three that I miss very much, too."
"I have a son of six months. My name is Katherine Birch. You can call me Kate. And you are?"
"Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, Lieutenant Colonel of the 20th Maine." He finished the rest of the water.
"Well, Colonel Chamberlain, I want to thank you again for coming to rescue us. You will be in my prayers."
"Thank you, Kate." He smiled and handed back the glass. "I shall keep you and your family in mine." He touched the visor of his cap and urged Prince on after the regiment. The conversation with the pleasant young woman raised painful issues of home.

Heading west, they left the city behind. The land rose and they marched through the cool, gold-dusted greenness of Catoctin Mountain. From the heights, they could see across a green and gold patchwork of fertile valley and beyond another stretch of long blue-shadowed mountains. They were soon approached by guards on the side of the road pushing a line of Rebel prisoners to the rear at bayonet point. Ames took little notice of them. It was never a good idea to look too closely at one's enemy. One might start seeing similarities and fall into the trap of sympathy.
"I'm going to ride on to see if I can learn any more about the situation up ahead." He trotted his horse past the line of prisoners, his eyes on the road ahead. For Lawrence and the rest of the Twentieth, it was their first look at the enemy. The prisoners were tall and lanky fellows with stubbly beards, clad in dirty, ragged gray uniforms. One man was barefoot.

All but the shortest one avoided eye contact. That one glared with a pure venomous hate at any man who stared at him. Lawrence watched them pass and met the prisoner's hard look unflinching. The defiant prisoner looked away as he passed. Then, a voice rasped behind him.
"You make a nice target on that fine, fat and sassy stallion." He turned in the saddle to see the defiant Rebel grinning savagely at him like a skull on a pirate flag. One of the guards poked at the prisoner with the point of his bayonet, forcing him to lurch out of the way. The guard called out,
"Don't pay him no mind, Colonel. Maybe they'll learn him some manners where he's going." One of the men from the company behind him called,
"We'd be obliged to learn him some manners right now!" Another called,
"You got that damn straight, Isaiah!" The prisoners were hustled along a little faster.

In a beautiful fertile valley near Middletown they made camp. As darkness fell, Lawrence took a walk alone with a tin cup of hot coffee in hand. He was in a maudlin mood. Wherever he looked, thousands of fires with groups of men around them flickered in the chilled darkness. As he sipped his coffee, he watched the moon rise over the dark silhouette of the mountain range, bright in a blue velvet sky. The moonlight glowed blue-white on the pale canvas tops of wagons and glinted off the barrels of stacked rifles. As he looked at the moon he wondered if Fannie was looking at it too, from the bedroom window of the little cape on Potter Street. That was another, more genteel, world far removed from this, he thought. So far removed it almost seemed a dream. Suddenly, he felt very alone among these thousands of men. He tossed what was left of the coffee on the ground and headed for his blanket roll under a wild cherry tree, feeling as if there was a hole where his heart once was.

First thing in the morning, the march resumed. The country was hilly and rolling, slowly rising to the mountains. Their division, commanded by General Morell, consisted of three brigades. Their brigade, still under the command of Colonel Stockton, headed out along the National Road. When they came around a bend in the road, signs of war suddenly appeared all around them. Wounded men lay at every barn and house and fresh mounds of dirt marked new graves in the green yards. Soon they entered a mountain pass. Lawrence turned to Ames and found him staring straight ahead with a somber expression.
"Sir, where are we?" Ames looked over at him.
"Turner's Gap, the main pass through South Mountain. This is the fight we heard yesterday." Ames turned his attention back to the road ahead.
"I'm afraid you and the men are about to look upon the true, ugly face of war, Colonel. It will knock whatever romantic notions you have about it right out of your heads."

The surrounding scene grew more grisly by the mile. Talking in the ranks died down. Debris cluttered the sides of the road; guns, knapsacks, hats, blankets. There was torn up earth and trees blasted by shells and scarred by bullets. Strewn near a stone wall, singly and in groups, lay the sun blackened, bloated bodies of Rebels who had made a last desperate stand. Some were crumpled over the wall; some lay on their backs in the grass; some still aimed rifles at non-existent enemies over the stone wall. More lay in a scattering of oak that crowned the crest of a hill. The slight breeze brought the rotten meat, visceral and black powder scents of death. From somewhere behind him came the sound of a man retching and vomiting. Lawrence began to feel queasy himself.

He spotted a Confederate soldier sitting with his back against a huge chestnut tree by the side of the road ahead. His hand still clasped a small Testament. His hat lay on the ground beside him. He looked as if he was asleep, and must have died long after his companions. As Prince drew closer, he saw it was a boy of no more than sixteen. He was startled by the realization. He muttered to himself,
"This is my enemy - this boy!" Then he breathed in a whisper, "Oh, God, forgive those who made us so!" Though it was pure torture, he could not take his eyes off the boy. Prince snorted and shied at the scent of death as they passed within a few yards. He tightened the reins and got the stallion under control while he continued to stare. He saw the red stain on the homespun shirt. The eyes on the young face were soft and dimmed by death. He was suddenly and deeply sick at heart. He would never forget this day on South Mountain and knew he would see the boy forever in every young man he met, no matter the color of the uniform.

Lawrence was suddenly very aware of the weight of the pistol in the holster on his right hip; an 1860 Moore belt revolver he had purchased from the sutler back at Fort Mason. It made him begin to question if he had what it would take to be a soldier. How could he kill a child? How could he take a life held so dear, even if the owner of that life was bent on taking his? How could he? He closed his eyes against the destruction around him, letting the horse walk on by itself without guidance, but still he saw the boy, the red stain on the shirt, the sightless eyes. He opened his eyes to stare at the dusty troops marching ahead of him, unsure of his stomach and his heart.

Ames saw the pallid look on his lieutenant colonel's face and knew instantly the effect the devastation was having on him. For a fleeting moment, Ames feared the former theologian and academic might not make a good soldier after all. He was too damned empathic and that was a huge liability. Then, he thought back to his own first reaction to death on the battlefield. Though he had been better prepared for it than Chamberlain, still it had shocked him to see men who only hours or minutes before had been living, thinking human beings suddenly turned to so much carrion by the hands of their fellow men. Added to the shock was the burden of command that weighed heavily on all officers: the of guilt over ordering men into slaughter. He had rationalized it, then, by telling himself that a soldier, after all, was in the business of killing. He let discipline and concentration on the task at hand of saving his country crowd out his misgivings. As cold-blooded as it was, it worked for him. However, there was always that deep hurt that worked its way past the edges of his resolve when friends and acquaintances fell. Only time could heal that. One had to push that hurt away and not allow it to cloud one's judgment during a fight.

As he looked at Chamberlain, he knew the man was not the type to easily rationalize away the brutality of war. However, he did not intend to leave it to chance for the lieutenant colonel to get over this first dose of the inhumane reality of the business he had entered into in the service of his country.
"Colonel, are you all right?" When Chamberlain looked over at him, his blue-gray eyes betrayed a fathomless desolation. His manner was subdued and voice quiet.
"I'll be all right, sir." Ames sighed deeply.
"Colonel, you must learn to detach yourself or you won't survive. You must learn to walk away or you will lose your humanity. All that protects us in our grisly business is training. We must remember it at every instant without exception. The moment you stop thinking like a soldier, you lose the ability to fight and lead effectively. If we faced this brutality like normal men, we would lose ourselves to our own caring -- to our own pain. Such detachment is not easy, but you must learn to do it for the sake of your own sanity and the men you are responsible for. Their own morale depends on you being a cool, effective leader." Lawrence nodded and looked away, focusing ahead again at some point beyond his horse's ears at the dusty backs of the regiment marching in front of them. He did not want to think about ordering these men to die right now, yet he knew that reality was staring him in the face. Anything could happen at any moment. He prayed he would be ready, that he would remember his training and not disappoint Ames . . . or himself. Ames could not tell if his bit of advice had immediately registered in that quick mind of Chamberlain's. Knowing the lieutenant colonel, the man would probably be mulling it over for a while. Ames hoped he had things worked out before the bullets started flying. He focused on the troops marching ahead and tried not to contemplate too deeply what the next hours might bring.

Nick Korolev has been a serious student of the Civil War since age 12. He is a professional published writer and artist and his interest in the Civil War has provided many subjects for both. He is author of a Civil War novel entitled Silver Eagles, about Cols. Ames, Chamberlain and the 20th Maine from the formation of the regiment to Gettysburg. Silver Eagles was nominated for the 2003 Michael Shaara Award for Civil War Fiction. He is currently working on a novel about McClellan and Stanton titled The Sword and the Lightning and a screen play about Brig. Gen William Averell's Salem Raid in December of 1863 currently titled Averell and the Raiders of the North Wind. He is a member of the Civil War Heritage Foundation for whom he portrays Gen. George McClellan and the First Regiment of West Virginia Cavalry, for whom he portrays Gen. William Averell. Nick is Secretary for the local Sons Of Union Veterans of the Civil War and recently joined the Falling Waters Battlefield Association.