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

by Michael Shaara

  He moved close behind her, wrapped his arms around hers, held her against him. They stood quietly together for a long moment, then she said, “What of us, the children? Are we to stay here?”

  “Well, yes . . . I suppose so. I will be able to send money home, my salary. We’ll have to see . . . it’s up to you, really.”

  “Up to me?” He heard the anger again, her voice cutting through him. “How much of anything is up to me? You have made a decision that will change all our lives. A soldier . . . my God, you may be injured . . . you . . . might never . . .” And now she began to cry, shook against him softly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, held it out to her, and she wiped her eyes.

  “No, no . . . don’t think on that. I will probably be sent to some office somewhere, writing speeches for some general.”

  He tried to sound convincing, but she turned in his arms, faced him now, said, “No, Lawrence, that is not what you will do. That is not why you volunteered.” She had stopped crying, stared at him hard in the dark. “Go, do this thing . . . but be honest about it. Do not tell yourself that everyone here is happy for you, that you are doing something wonderful for us all. I will not spend my nights happily thinking about what could be happening to you. I will not send you away from here with a lie. If you are not happy, then change that, but remember that what you are doing may have a price for the rest of us . . . for me. . . .” She began to cry again, sobbed hard against him.

  He held her, put his head down gently against hers and said, “I will try to be careful . . . I will be careful. I will come home to you. I will miss you . . . I will miss the children.”

  She grew quiet, still leaned tightly to him, then he felt her stiffen, pull away slightly, and she said calmly, “I know you will. And I know you will write us, and I know we will be all right. There is my father, and your family too.” She moved away from his arms, along the porch, turned back and said, “Lawrence, when you come home, you will be a different person. I am afraid for . . . what that will be like. I don’t want you to change. But if you must do this, then go do it, and we will pray for you, and when it is over, your family will be here.”

  He nodded quietly, knew it was all she could give him, that he had done something for himself, and that not all of them could understand, not even she.

  To the east, out toward the vast open water, the moon began to climb above the treetops and the peaks of the houses, and he could see her face reflected in the faint light, said in a whisper, “I will come home . . . and I will make you proud.”

  He went to her then, pulled her up to him, and she softened against him, and he kissed her, a soft and long caress. Far off, beyond the town, the hollow wail of a great long train cut through the night, the cars heavy with men in rich blue uniforms, sharp creases and polished buttons, rocking in a steady rhythm down the southbound tracks.

  22. LEE

  August 1862

  “SIR, IT appears that things are a bit more quiet. Do you have any orders?”

  Taylor stood in the small doorway, and Lee turned away from the window, studied the young man for a moment, said, “No, Major . . . actually, I don’t. We seem to have . . . a pause. It’s been a long time. I’m waiting to hear more of Pope. Have we heard from General Stuart today?”

  “No, sir. I will inform you when he arrives. Sir . . . might I suggest . . . begging your pardon, sir.”

  Lee waited, knew Taylor was still slow to speak frankly, often treated him as he would an overly stern father who would lash out angrily if the words did not come out just right. Lee did not understand that, had never been angry or harsh with him.

  “Please, Major, you have something to say?”

  “Sir, we feel it might be a good opportunity for you . . . to visit your wife, sir. It’s a short ride . . . and you could be back by dark. We can handle anything that comes up today. You said yourself . . . it’s pretty quiet, sir.”

  Lee looked at him, saw a slight smile, knew the young man was trying to be helpful, and he thought of Mary, living now at the Spottswood. Taylor was right, it was a short ride into Richmond.

  “Thank you for your suggestion, Major. However, we are in the midst of organizing a new army . . . new commanders, a new way of doing things. It is not appropriate for me to suddenly leave . . . make a journey to Richmond for my personal benefit.”

  “Sir, only for the day—”

  “Major, thank you for your concern. You are dismissed.”

  Taylor looked hurt, like a scolded pet, and Lee watched him turn, disappear from the doorway. He does not understand, Lee thought.

  Mary had come to Richmond, carried through Union lines by the generosity of McClellan. The plantations were under Federal control now, and months before, Arlington had been ransacked and vandalized, despite assurances from General McDowell that the historic home would be protected. Though McClellan had guaranteed she would be safe at her son’s home, it was risky, and McClellan was receiving criticism for providing a guard for the wife of the enemy commander. So, she had been granted safe passage. More fragile and crippled than ever, she made the journey to Richmond without incident. Lee met her there, saw her for the first time in months, and her condition was worse. The visit had not gone well, and seeing her had depressed him. His appearance had changed as well—he now was fully gray, and had grown a full, short beard. The change made him seem older, and she absorbed that reality poorly. Now, he was deep into his command, had buried himself totally in the running of this army, and could not bear to think of her . . . could not face what they had become, the permanent distance between them.

  Lee turned back to the window, stared out at the trees, watched the heavy branches sway slightly, the leaves flickering in a summer breeze. He thought of going out, walking down to the small grove of apple trees that stood at the end of a far field, a field that had once grown corn and wheat, but now, after the marching feet of his troops, was only patches of thick short grass, dotted with bare spots of dried mud. He tried to stand, felt suddenly weak, saw her face again, the younger face, the way it had been before. But it was not a clear memory, and the early years, when the children were small, the brief times together, did not seem real, did not even seem to be his. The only life that was real to him was this one, the army.

  He heard horses, several, riding hard up to the house, and he knew from the sound it was too fast and too much show: Stuart. He smiled, heard loud voices and took a last look out the window. How strange, he thought, I feel more like a father here than anywhere else. They are all my children: Taylor, Stuart, sometimes . . . even Jackson. Maybe this whole army . . .

  Is that not what a commander must do, earn respect, give them discipline and . . . love them? The thought jarred him. He felt suddenly guilty, thought, No, it’s all right, I do not love my own family any less. But I have not been a good father . . . and now God has placed me here, to redeem myself. And if my own children don’t know . . . then these men will. He turned back toward the doorway, waited for the inevitable burst of Stuart.

  But it was Taylor first. “Sir, General Stuart has returned, and has asked to see you.”

  Lee was still smiling, tried to hide it, said, “Of course, Major, send him in.”

  Stuart was instantly through the door, and Taylor backed out. Stuart had kept his hat on, rich gray felt and a long black plume, waited for the right moment, removed it with a flourish and made a deep bow to his commander. Lee let him go through the routine, could not hide the smile. Abruptly, Stuart came to attention, slapped his heels together sharply.

  “Sir, with your permission, may I present the latest newspapers from the North.” He reached into his coat, withdrew a handful of clippings, laid them carefully on Lee’s desk. Lee leaned forward, picked through them, all items about McClellan and Pope and the recent battles.

  “Good, General, thank you. I see there’s quite a bit about their new commander.”

  Stuart made a sound, a grunt, and Lee looked at him, questioning. “W
ith the general’s permission,” Stuart said, “I have heard of General Pope’s dispatches, sir. He has ordered his men to pursue a policy of barbarism, sir, pure barbarism. His army has been instructed to take whatever they can from our farms, from our stores. He has ordered anyone conversing with any of our people to be arrested as a spy.” Stuart began to move, pacing in the small space, obviously angry. Lee sat back in his chair, watching, surprised. “General Lee, this man is no gentleman. McClellan . . . at least you could depend on him to conduct himself like a civilized man . . . but this fellow Pope is . . . a barbarian!”

  Lee picked up one of the clippings, read briefly, My headquarters shall be in my saddle. Lee paused, knew there would be jokes about that. He read on, a message Pope had given to his troops, trumpeting his victories in the West, which Lee stopped to consider, some minor battles that had little influence on the war. He read on, I come from where . . . we have always seen our enemies from the rear . . . let us not talk of taking strong positions and holding them, lines of retreat, bases of supplies. The story quoted him further, bombastic statements about crushing the enemy with quick and direct blows, and Lee looked up at Stuart, who was still moving about.

  “Well, it seems we have a new problem.”

  “Sir, I have learned that General Pope has taken command of the forces under Banks and Fremont, and has at his command, sir, something over fifty-five thousand men. General McClellan has not yet left his base on the James River, but according to . . . those reports, there, sir, in the Washington paper . . . the wounded from his forces have already been seen coming up the Potomac. If General Pope is planning a large-scale operation, he will need General McClellan’s forces. It’s only logical, sir. . . .”

  “Yes, General, I see that.” He pushed through more of the clippings. “It seems that McClellan is no longer a priority with Mr. Lincoln. Certainly, his troops will begin to move, to unite with Pope’s.”

  “Sir, they cannot be allowed to treat our civilians with such lack of respect.”

  “There’s more to it than that, General.” Lee felt something, an uneasiness in his stomach, thought, Pope is a dangerous man, a man who will say anything to create a name for himself, who will say and do anything to rally support from Washington.

  “General Stuart, please excuse me . . . you are dismissed.”

  “But sir, I have . . . I have other details . . . troop positions—”

  “It’s all right, General, we will talk in a little while. I just need a few moments.”

  Stuart snapped to attention again, saluted, and left the room. Lee turned back to the window, thoughts rolling through his mind in waves. He took a deep breath, began to sort out a plan, thought, This is a great opportunity. We can use Pope’s own ego to trap him.

  He pondered, watched the slow motion of the big trees, then turned, said in a loud voice, “Major Taylor,” and instantly Taylor was in the doorway. Lee looked at the bright face, said, “Major, send for General Jackson.”

  BY LATE August, Pope’s army was centered in the area between the Rappahannock and Rapidan Rivers, north of Fredericksburg. Lee ordered Jackson’s troops north, to move between Pope and Washington, which would have the easily predictable effect on Lincoln, who would see Jackson’s move as a direct threat to the capital. Pope would certainly be called upon to move back to the northeast, removing his pressure on central Virginia. Lee also suspected that Pope would convince himself he had been given a glorious opportunity, that Jackson’s army by itself was no match for his superior numbers. By assuming correctly that Pope would focus completely on Jackson, Lee knew he could maneuver the rest of his army, under Longstreet, and bring the attack to Pope while he was exposed.

  The move by Jackson’s troops also achieved a direct benefit for his own forces. Their sudden advance put them quickly at the Manassas Gap railroad junction, where Pope’s supplies were stored. The small number of troops guarding the depot were easily routed by Jackson’s surprise arrival, and so they not only disrupted the flow of material to Pope’s army, but found themselves awash in vast stores of food and equipment. Pope reacted as Lee had predicted, and began to move back up to crush the greatly outnumbered Jackson, with little regard for the rest of Lee’s army, which, unknown to Pope, had moved by a slightly different route, to unite with Jackson’s forces.

  McClellan’s troops were indeed being withdrawn from the Virginia peninsula, and were moving up the Potomac to join with Pope. Thus, Lee knew his opportunity for meeting Pope on more even terms was a brief one. But Pope was in a hurry as well, would not sit and wait for the rest of his army to arrive while the ripe target of Jackson sat alone.

  LEE AND Longstreet rode together, in front of the long columns, quietly, feeling the August heat. Out in front, nervous skirmishers, a handpicked squad of Texas sharpshooters, cleared the way of any Federal snipers and scouted the advance of the army for detachments of Federal troops who might have been sent to scout the Confederate positions. They were the only advance guard the two men had. Behind them, Hood’s division led the long column.

  Lee rested his head, his hat pulled low, and appeared to be sleeping, but he was very awake, his mind focused on what might be ahead of them and where Jackson might be. They had received no word since last night, knew only that Pope’s army was scattered, the result of a hasty march, and that somewhere, up ahead, Jackson was preparing for the assault.

  They had climbed a long hill, had crested the top, surrounded by the familiar signs of a bloody fight. It was Thoroughfare Gap, where General John Buford’s Federal cavalry had slowed the march, holding the pass against a brigade of Georgians, commanded by George Anderson. Buford’s cavalry had been stubborn, had held up the march for nearly half a day, but finally General Hood had been sent over the mountain through another route, a nearby pass, and the flanking movement had worked. Buford’s men and a small detachment of supporting infantry finally gave way.

  Now, the Federal troops were gone, pulling back, to unite with Pope’s larger army, and so Longstreet’s men kept moving forward, up and over the mountain, toward their rendezvous with Jackson.

  They rode slowly, a steady rhythm, and behind them the officers were shouting now, for the hills were steep and the heat was draining the men. Lee could hear the commands, “Keep up,” “Stay together,” and he sat up straighter, crested the hill, saw shattered trees and broken wagons, noticed the fresh smell of yesterday’s fight. Along the wide ridge, in the rocks and beyond, the bodies of men still lay, exposed. Lee saw the uniforms, both sides, a vicious fight in a tight area, and the army was now pushing through, quickly, too soon for even the burial parties. They had marched nearly thirty miles in thirty hours, and so it was not just the heat that deadened their steps.

  Lee saw the Texans moving below, keeping a tight line, spread far to each side, and he smiled, thankful. Behind him, he heard voices, then one voice, the deep, booming sound of John Bell Hood.

  “Well, dammit, move them along! It’s just a hill!”

  Lee turned, saw Hood approach, a small staff following.

  “General Lee, forgive me, I had meant to ride with you earlier. We’re having a bit of trouble getting these men up this damned hill . . . begging your pardon, sir.”

  Lee nodded, and Longstreet turned in his saddle. Hood abruptly saluted, and it was an awkward moment. Longstreet was Hood’s commander, and Hood knew he should have spoken to Longstreet first. It was a small error, one of those annoying pieces of military etiquette that Hood had not yet mastered.

  “General Longstreet, I have ordered the company commanders to push the men hard, get them up this hill with all speed.”

  “That’s good, General.” Longstreet spoke from under a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low so his face was half hidden. Hood looked at Lee, and Lee saw the eyes, the wide, excited face, the thick blond beard, and he thought of Texas, knew Hood had not changed. He had performed brilliantly as a commander, had led his Texans with a fire that infected them all, and Lee knew that if it was critica
l, if one man could be sent into the furnace, could face the deadly hell and turn the tide, it would be Hood.

  Hood said, “I’d best get back down the line . . . see how we’re doing.” He saluted, Longstreet returned it, and Hood glanced at Lee with sharp, smiling eyes. Lee nodded, knew that Hood remembered Texas too, the shared experiences, unspoken feelings men have when they both know they are good soldiers.

  Lee turned to Longstreet, who was staring ahead, peeking out under the brim of his hat.

  “We shall need him, I believe, before this is through. Make good use of him, General.”

  Longstreet did not turn, kept staring to the front, said, “I’ve seen him work, General. He will have his chance again.”

  Lee followed Longstreet’s stare, tried to see what held his attention. He had seen the look before, as though Longstreet were seeing something far away, well beyond the horizon.

  Longstreet was partially deaf, and others who did not know him well often mistook it for aloofness or simple rudeness. He was not a man for fluent conversation, did not join in around the campfire, the jovial, drunken revelry that too often surrounded the headquarters. Lee had learned to respect him as a commander, knew Joe Johnston had relied on him often. He had not known Longstreet long, had not known him at all before the war.

  Longstreet came home from Mexico with a wound that hadn’t healed for a long time. He settled into a career as a paymaster in the old army, had spent most of the peacetime years out West, in El Paso and Albuquerque, and never had shown the ambition to press further. At the start of the war he was a major, and had come back to the South expecting nothing more, volunteering for a job as paymaster again. But President Davis knew him from Mexico, knew that Longstreet had led infantry, the great assault on the big fortress of Chapultepec, knew of his training at West Point and his abilities to command, and so Longstreet was surprised to be commissioned a brigadier general. Only a few weeks after his arrival in Virginia, he was leading troops at Manassas.