The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

  The old man laughed, shook his head. “Yep, old Jasper brought all those Indians home with him from Texas. Brought a good love of the strong spirits too. There’s a lot of that around here. If these people ain’t shootin’ at their neighbors, they’re drinking themselves crazy. We had to take his gun away, his old musket. He was prone to takin’ a pot-shot over that countertop every now and again. Doubt he’d ever hit anything, but it weren’t good for the mood of the town.”

  The man began to laugh, stopped, eyed Jackson again. “We don’t see many newcomers around here. Not a place many people happen on . . . visitors usually stay to the east of here, on the big road.”

  Jackson began to feel the frustration, wondered if everyone here did nothing but talk, felt a warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

  “Sir, if you please, I am looking for the grave of my mother. Julia Neale Jackson Woodson, died near here many years ago.”

  The smile slowly left the old face, and Jackson saw clear eyes looking him over, studying him.

  “Julia was your mother?”

  “Yes, sir. My name—”

  “You’re Tom. Her youngest boy. I remember you, see it in your eyes.”

  Jackson felt a rush of relief. “Yes, yes, did you know her? Do you know where she is buried? I’m here to see her . . . to see her grave. I haven’t been back here since . . . since then.”

  “I reckon I oughta know. I helped dig the grave.” The old man turned, pointed his cane down a rough trail. “Down this way, a mile or so, by the river.”

  “The river?” Jackson didn’t recall water.

  The old man turned, looked at him. “I reckon it has been a while since you been here, eh, son? The New River, at the end of this road here. Not much of a river actually. Dries up now and again. But a nice spot for a grave. As I recall, she picked it out herself.”

  Jackson looked down the dim road, branches hung low across, barely room for a carriage to pass.

  “Would you mind showing me . . . taking me there?”

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t mind. Wouldn’t mind a’tall.”

  Jackson led him toward the carriage, and the old man walked around to the far side, warily eyed the climb up.

  Jackson mounted, reached out a hand to the old man, who struggled, grunted, then, with Jackson’s help, reached the seat. He looked at Jackson and studied him, but Jackson was looking toward the small road, the high grass. He slapped the horse with the leather straps.

  The old man steadied himself against Jackson’s arm as the carriage rolled onto the old road, then said, “You don’t live around here . . . I’d know it. What you doing here, son? Why you come back here after so long? This is not a place people just happen by.”

  Jackson drove the carriage, didn’t speak. They bumped along past thick clumps of bushes and tall trees, and Jackson felt the delicious coolness of the thick woods, realized he was sweating, anxious. He felt the old man’s hand, holding on to his arm, could not think of the right thing to say, the answer to the old man’s question.

  “I came back here to see her. I miss her.”

  The old man nodded, said, “I reckon we all miss somebody.”

  The road became muddy, and Jackson knew the river was close. The old man put up a hand. Jackson stopped the horse.

  “I believe . . . wait, no . . . there, over this way.” The old man pointed the way, and Jackson steered the carriage through the woods.

  The carriage splashed through a thick muddy bog, the horse kicking black mud in the air, and then the road appeared again, a slight rise. They entered a clearing and Jackson could see flat ground, the edge of a small river, a small meadow of green grass, a huge oak tree, and across the meadow, on the far side, before the old man could point to it, the depression in the earth, the unmarked resting place of his mother.

  Jackson reined the horse and stepped off the carriage, jumping down onto soft ground. His hands were sweating and he felt his heart pound.

  The old man said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit here. I ’spect you want to be alone anyhow.”

  Jackson didn’t answer, walked softly, silently, toward the sunken grave. At the lower end, away from the river, he stopped, knelt, reached out a hand and touched the grassy ground. He ran his hand along the edge of the depression, felt the lush grass between his fingers, the cool moisture wetting his hands, and put a hand to his face, touched the wetness to his cheek. He sat now, closed his eyes. He thought of Dr. White, tried to pray, not to God, to her, but it would not come, he could not talk to her. He sat quietly, thought back, stared at the small sounds of flowing water, began to remember her, the strong arms, the soft voice.

  His mind began to carry him, drifting through the sweet smells of her kitchen, the clear summer days and the snows of the winter. He could see his sister, just a baby, and began to feel what it was like, being the great protector of her tender helplessness. He saw the small bedroom, saw himself, just a young boy, seven, and his sister, older now, holding on to him, reaching up to grip his hand, and they were very quiet, staring at her in the bed . . . and now he was there, and it was real, and he saw the pain, the awful hurt in his mother’s dying face, and he leaned over, touched her face, held her now, felt her breath fading away, and she reached for him, wrapped him in her arms, and spoke, soft words, but he could not hear and he tried to answer, and she spoke again, the words coming in clear, quiet sounds, and now he heard, understood, he felt her warmth, her love, and he knew that God was there, and it was all right. . . . He began to pull away, remembered it all now, gently closed the dark and silent place, felt the dampness of the grass again, knew now that she sat with God and loved her children still.

  3. CHAMBERLAIN

  November 1859

  IT WAS cold, very cold, and he felt the sting in his cheeks, a slight burning pain in the edges of his ears, the delicious feeling of being totally alive, every nerve, every part of you totally awake, every breath of the cold air filling you with the sharp and wonderful bite of the Maine winter. In front of him the hillside stretched far below, spread out in a deep white carpet broken by clusters of dark green, the tall fir and spruce trees, branches holding on to clumps of snow. He looked farther out, over to the next hill, saw more trees, a solid, thick mass, the snow hidden underneath.

  He had climbed the wide hill, moved slowly across the crest, resting between slow, deliberate steps, sinking into the deep powdery snow. He began to move downhill now, and stopped, stared at the tall ridges in the distance. How high are we, how far up? he wondered. He took a long, cold breath, thought, Easier going down, and . . . I am tired—Tom is so much younger.

  Chamberlain turned, looked sideways across the wide slope for the figure of his brother, knew the boy would be moving through the smaller trees to the left, the short, thick ones where a man could hide his movements, sneak through, then suddenly glimpse the far side without detection. He waited, heard nothing, and realized, Yes, you can hear nothing. He listened hard, focused on any sounds, and there were none, no birds, no breeze. Remarkable, he thought. How many places can you go where you hear nothing?

  He kept watching the cluster of small trees, suddenly saw movement, the trees first, a small shower of loose snow from the low branches, and then a quick brown flash, and a deer burst out, ran along the hillside toward him. He did not move, and the deer stopped, looked back to the trees, then raised its long, thick, white tail and began to make long prancing strides right toward him, still not seeing him. Chamberlain stood completely still, and the deer stopped again, now saw him, stared at him from a few yards away, and Chamberlain stared back, looked into the large round eyes, saw, not panic, but intense curiosity. They stood motionless for several seconds, and the deer suddenly raised its tail again, the thick flag, had seen enough of this unknown thing, and jumped quickly into motion, ran off, down the hill, away from him, and then darted below through the larger trees.

  He watched the animal, could still glimpse the high bounding tail, thought, How odd, they
hide so well, masters of camouflage, and then display their tail so everything in the woods can see them.

  “Lawrence . . . did you see him?”

  The boy emerged from the small trees, running now, fought his way through the deep snow, and he looked down, saw the tracks of the deer, then looked at Chamberlain, called out, “Lawrence, he ran right by you. Did you see him?”

  He watched the boy, plowing his way closer, and Tom looked again at the tracks punched through the snow, a solid line leading away down the hill.

  “Yes, Tom, I saw him. He went off, down there.” He pointed a gloved hand down the hill.

  “Well, yes, Lawrence, I can see where he went. Did you get a shot? I didn’t hear you shoot.”

  Chamberlain looked down at the musket, the long barrel of the old flintlock, had not even thought of using it. “No, I didn’t get a shot.”

  “Lawrence! You let him go. God in heaven, you did it again! I been trailing that fellow from clear across that last valley, and he flushed out right by you . . . and you let him go. I swear, Lawrence, you do cause me some aggravation.”

  The boy was out of breath, and Chamberlain swung the gun up, laid it backward on his shoulder, said, “We best be getting back. Over there, some clouds moving up. Could be more snow.”

  The boy looked toward the thickening sky, then stared back at Chamberlain, and suddenly kicked at the soft snow.

  “Phooo! I am never going hunting with you! Not ever again! If you wasn’t going to shoot the deer, why’d you come along anyway?”

  Chamberlain turned, began to walk, stepping slowly through the snow, up the broad hill. He looked back, saw his brother following, holding his musket firmly in both hands, ready, always ready. Chamberlain stopped, smiled at the boy, who puffed up the hill and moved up beside him, short bursts of steam from tired breathing.

  “Why do you come out here if you don’t want to shoot anything?”

  Chamberlain raised his free hand, waved it about, a grand sweeping turn, said, “I love it. I love hunting. The woods, all of this. I don’t need to shoot, it’s more than that . . . it’s just being here.”

  The boy let his gun drop into one hand, rested the butt in the snow. “I reckon I understand that, Lawrence. There’s something out here, something in these hills that makes everything else seem . . . all right, somehow.”

  Chamberlain looked at the boy, surprised. “It’s good you see that. You may need this someday. You may need to get away from . . . something. I hope you always have . . . all of this.”

  “Get away? What you getting away from, Lawrence? My God, you’ve got everything a man could want. You’re a teacher, a big-time college professor. You make good money, I bet. You got a wife . . . a real beauty too, and that baby, Lawrence, I swear . . . I only hope I can have what you have.”

  Chamberlain looked at the boy, saw red cheeks and wide eyes, saw a young piece of himself. “You’re only eighteen,” he said. “You’ve got plenty of time to make your own life. Just don’t forget about this place. No matter where you end up, and you may move very far away someday . . . come back here when you can. Climb up here, and listen to the silence.”

  Tom frowned, did not understand, saw something, a dark mood in his older brother he had not often seen. “Lawrence, you telling me you’re unhappy? I can’t hardly believe that.”

  “No, no, certainly not. Let’s go, those clouds are getting a bit darker.”

  They walked together, did not speak, followed their own tracks back through the soft snow, over the crest, began to move down, into the chilling shade of the taller trees, and Chamberlain suddenly felt a brief flash of depression—he was going back down, back to the real world.

  He knew that Tom was right, that there was much to be thankful for. He had been named to the prestigious Chair, vacated by the famous Calvin Stowe, with the title of Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory. It was a stunning accomplishment for a man in his mid-twenties, and the prestige focused even more attention on this brilliant young man with the certain future. He thought, Yes, I have so much . . . Fannie is so happy. And he thought of the baby, the precious little girl, and the tiny face gave way to images of classrooms and the pages of black writing, the lectures he had already prepared for next week.

  He kicked his boots through the snow and saw the dark hallways of Bowdoin, endless tunnels in gray buildings, and he felt something, a small twist in his stomach, and he did not understand: What is wrong with me?

  As he moved down the long hill, the trees became thicker, darker, and the walking was easier, the snow harder and thinner under the great pines. His brother moved ahead of him, darting between the trees along the familiar trail. Chamberlain watched him slide over the small slick patches, the glazed areas of ice, hardened by many footsteps. He began to pay more attention to his own feet, the treacherous footing, and he marveled at his brother’s recklessness, slipping, nearly falling, then upright again. Chamberlain moved carefully, feeling his way over the glassy ground, and soon Tom was gone, farther down the hill, and Chamberlain could hear him, faint whoops as he ran and slid, closer to the house of their parents. He’ll make it without a bruise, Chamberlain thought, and I’ll move slow and easy, and break my leg.

  He leaned against a thick fir tree, held on to low, stiff branches, steadied himself, listened, knew Tom was at the house by now, and he caught a faint smell, smoke, from the chimney. He looked back up the hill, through the dark trees, saw heavy clouds, there would be snow tonight, and he released the branches, slid a few inches, took a step down, tested the firmness, then thought, No, I’m not ready to leave, not yet. He turned, looked out through the trees, carefully took a long step up, out of the trail, climbed up to softer snow, began to move away from the trail, from tree to tree, felt better footing now, the snow not hardened by the constant travel.

  He walked along the dark slope, felt his way over fallen branches, old stumps. The weight of the gun was tiring him, and he thought of laying it down, leaning it against a tree. But no, not a good idea, he might not find it until spring, and his father would go through the roof, so he raised it up, rested it on his shoulder, and moved farther along, into the trees. He came to an old flat stump, capped with thick snow that he pushed away with a sweep of his arm, and sat down.

  He knew the house was just below, maybe a hundred yards, and he could see them, could imagine the scene: Fannie was there, with the baby, and his other brothers, Hod and John. His mother would be in sublime control, preparing the great dinner, and Fannie would offer to help, a polite and insincere gesture, and his mother would say, “No, it’s all done,” and the young men would sit impatiently in front of the fire, waiting for the feast, and make conversation about very little, and yet the whole house would be filled with a common feeling, a sense that they were all loved, all of them, by each other, and as one family. And by now Tom was there, shaking snow from his boots and excitedly telling them all about the deer and his older brother, the hunter who would not shoot, and Chamberlain knew that his father would say nothing, make some small gesture of unspoken hopelessness, another disappointment.

  He should have gone to West Point. That was the first disappointment. He had heard that now for years, especially after his graduation from Bowdoin, when he enrolled instead at the Theological Seminary. It had been the happiest day of his mother’s life, her dream that her oldest son would become a man of God, and his father had just turned away, did not share his wife’s closeness with the Almighty. But Chamberlain did not find the great spark, the powerful commitment to his faith, and so after his courses at the seminary, he had gone back to Bowdoin, and not to West Point, to teach the subjects he had so mastered; and so, to his father, there was another disappointment.

  He was named Lawrence Joshua Chamberlain, but had switched the two, thinking “Joshua Lawrence” had a more formal sound, a better rhythm, and yet in a stroke of illogic preferred to be called Lawrence. His father preferred it as well—he had named him to honor the famous military hero of 1812,
Commodore Lawrence, the man forever known for the quote, “Don’t give up the ship.” His mother would not relent, preferred the more biblical Joshua, and though both his father and grandfather had been named Joshua, his father had settled on calling him Lawrence, and Chamberlain had always wondered if it was because his mother did not.

  He stared down the hill, closed his eyes, felt a great weight of gloom.

  By now they would begin to wonder. Fannie would say something, ask Tom to go out and see what was keeping him, and he felt guilty, did not want them to worry, but knew they had no idea, could not understand why he sat alone on a cold stump in the thick, darkening woods.

  Everyone, he thought . . . all of them, even my father, they’re all happy for me, they see me now as a success. But he did not feel like a success. This should be the happiest time of my life, he thought, and he searched for it, tried to feel the self-satisfaction, the sense of standing at the entrance to a long and prestigious career, a doorway to great academic achievement, and he felt nothing, no sense of thrill, no anticipation. He thought of Tom’s comment, back on the hill, “You make good money,” and he smiled. Any salary would seem like good money to someone who had never had a job. But Chamberlain was not pleased with the meager living he was offered for his teaching, had even added to his own workload, was now teaching languages as well, anything he could do to supplement his income. He scolded himself: There is something foolish about all this, I am, after all, in the very position I had sought. This was what he was meant to do, clearly. He was a natural scholar, could master any discipline put before him, but when he thought of that, he felt it again, the twist in his stomach.

  I need to come up here more often, he thought, the hills, the great wide silence. Give it time.

  Fannie had been reluctant to marry him, had worried about his career, their ability to raise a family. But Fannie was already happier, and there would be more children. He smiled at that, thought, A son, I would truly love to have a son, to bring him up here, show him this world, maybe even teach him to hunt, if he wants to. He might be better at it than I am.