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a minority had uniforms which resembled those prescribed by regulation and
these were torn, stained and scuffed. Many of the others wore the
semi-official butternut crudely dyed homespun, streaked and muddy brown. Some
had ordinary clothes with military hats and buttons; a few were dressed in
federal blue pants with gray or butternut jackets.
Nor were their weapons uniform. There were long rifles, short carbines,
muskets of varying age, and I noticed one bearded soldier with a ponderous
shotgun. But whatever their dress or arms, their bearing was the bearing of
conquerors. If I alone on the field that day knew for sure the outcome of the
battle, these Confederate soldiers were close behind in sensing the future.
The straggling Northerners had passed me by with the clouded perception of the
retreating. These
Southrons, however, were steadfastly attentive to every sight and sound. Too
late I realized the difficulty of remaining unnoticed by such sharp,
experienced eyes. Even as I berated myself for my stupidity, a great, whiskery
fellow in what must once have been a stylish bottle-green coat pointed his gun
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at me.
Yank here boys! Then to me, What you doing here, fella?
Three or four came up and surrounded me curiously. Funniest lookin damyank I
ever did see.
Looks like he just fell out of a bathtub.
Since I had walked all night on dusty roads I could only think their standards
of cleanliness were not high. And, indeed, this was confirmed by the smell
coming from them: the stink of sweat, of clothes long slept in, of unwashed
feet and stale tobacco.
I m a noncombatant, I said foolishly.
Whazzat? asked the beard. Some kind of Baptist?
Let s see your boots, Yank. Mine s sure wore out.
What terrified me now was not the thought of my boots being stolen, or of
being treated as a prisoner, or even the remote chance I might be shot as a
spy. A greater, more indefinite catastrophe was threatened by my exposure.
These men were the advance company of a regiment due to sweep through the
orchard and the wheatfield, explore that bit of wild ground known as the
Devil s Den and climb up Little Round Top closely followed by an entire
Confederate brigade. This was the brigade which held the Round Tops for
several hours until artillery was brought up artillery which dominated the
entire field and gave the South its victory at Gettysburg.
There was no allowance for a pause, no matter how trifling, in the peach
orchard in any of the accounts I had ever read or heard of. The hazard Barbara
had warned so insistently against had happened. I had been discovered, and the
mere discovery had altered the course of history.
I tried to shrug it off. The delay of a few minutes could hardly make a
significant difference. All historians agreed the capture of the Round Tops
was an inevitability; the Confederates would have been foolish to overlook
them in fact, it was hardly possible they could, prominent as they were, both
on maps and in physical reality and they had occupied them hours before the
Federals made a belated attempt to take them. I had been unbelievably stupid
to expose myself, but I had created no repercussions likely to spread beyond
the next few minutes.
Said let s see them boots. Ain t got all day to wait.
A tall officer with a pointed imperial and a sandy, faintly reddish mustache
whose curling ends shone waxily came up, revolver in hand. What s going on
here?
Just a Yank, Cap n. Making a little change of footgear. The tone was surly,
almost insolent.
The galloons on the officer s sleeve told me the title was not honorary. I m
a civilian, Captain, I
protested. I realize I have no business here.
The captain looked at me coldly, with an expression of disdainful contempt.
Local man? he asked.
Not exactly. I m from York.
Too bad. Thought you could tell me about the Yanks up ahead. Jenks, leave the
civilian gentleman in full possession of his boots. There was rage behind
that sneer, a hateful anger apparently directed at me for being a civilian, at
his men for their obvious lack of respect, at the battle, the world. I
suddenly realized his face was intimately familiar. Irritatingly, because I
could connect it with no name, place or circumstance.
How long have you been in this orchard, Mister Civilian-From-York?
The effort to identify him nagged me, working in the depths of my mind,
obtruding even into that top layer which was concerned with what was going on.
What was going on?
Too bad. Thought you could tell me about the Yanks up ahead. How long have you
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