Griffin stayed close to him, and men were now standing as they moved past. There were salutes from low-ranking officers, a few voices. Griffin was not often among the men, was rarely sociable, except around his staff and other officers of high rank. Chamberlain had first met him at Fredericksburg, after the long and horrible night on the cold ground, the night spent close to the enemy. Chamberlain would always recall that meeting, Griffin holding out his hand to him, a ragged, exhausted man who had slept behind the cover of the bodies of his own men. Griffin had simply told him, “Good work.”
Chamberlain had not understood that, had not thought there was any good work in that horrible assault, the pure stupidity of marching up against the stone wall, straight into the massed fire of Lee’s strength. It had been his first real fight, leading his men forward into the smoke, the first time he heard the screams and the sickening sound of the lead ball cracking the skull of the man beside you. All of that was a fog, a cold blur. He did not try to remember, did not pick out the details. But he did remember Griffin, and his words.
Chamberlain had always heard that Charles Griffin was not anyone’s friend, but a man of great temper, quick to bring down his wrath on the man, private or colonel, who did not do his job. And Griffin demanded more than a good job. Chamberlain did not mind that, had been taught and trained by another manic disciplinarian, Adelbert Ames, knew that no matter how much the men grumbled, the low curses behind the commander’s back, the training would save their lives. The men knew it too, were veterans now, had marched into the deafening roar of the fire, felt the lightning flash of fear, that small edge of panic, and they understood that it was that cursed discipline, inside each of them now, that kept the panic away.
Chamberlain saw his own regimental colors, changed course slightly, pointed. “The Twentieth Maine … my unit.”
They walked closer to the fires, and now more men rose, and the salutes gave way to shouts, the men gathering, emerging from tents, all moving toward Chamberlain. Chamberlain smiled at the familiar faces, then saw Tom.
The young man jumped up, ran forward. “Lawrence … Colonel! You’re back!” Tom moved close, put his hands on Chamberlain’s arms, a wide boyish grin on his face. “We been waiting for you … we knew we weren’t going nowhere till you got back!”
Chamberlain had shut off his own smile, stared at his brother with a silent scolding, motioned with his eyes toward Griffin and said stiffly, “Lieutenant Chamberlain, thank you. General Griffin, this is Lieutenant Tom Chamberlain … my brother, sir.”
Tom’s smile vanished and his mouth opened as he looked at Griffin with wide startled eyes. He remembered to salute now, stepped back, snapped his arm in place. “Sir!”
Griffin returned the salute, did not focus on Tom, said aloud, to the gathering crowd, “Gentlemen, I share your enthusiasm for the return of your colonel. And I am sure he is equally anxious to see you. However, if you will excuse us, we have a matter to discuss. He won’t be long.”
There were small murmurs from the men, quiet questions. They rarely saw the division commander, knew something was up. Even the officers traded glances. Chamberlain looked at Griffin, surprised, and suddenly nervous, said, “Certainly, General. Always at your disposal, sir.”
Griffin turned, moved away from the light of the fires, and Chamberlain followed. They moved down a long hill, a clearing between short pines. Griffin stopped, stared out into the darkening woods. “Did you hear about Colonel Rice?”
Chamberlain had a sudden dark dread; his stomach turned. Jim Rice had replaced Strong Vincent as brigade commander, Chamberlain’s immediate superior. Vincent was a popular commander and a very good soldier, the man who had seen the value of the ground and so placed the Twentieth Maine on Little Round Top. Vincent had been badly wounded on that same day, and died a few days later, and it had deeply affected the men. Chamberlain thought, What has happened now, to Rice? “Is he … all right?”
Griffin heard the hesitation, looked at Chamberlain, laughed. “Oh, yes, Colonel, he’s quite all right. He’s been promoted to brigadier general, they moved him to the First Corps.”
Chamberlain let out a breath. “Thank God. That’s wonderful … well deserved.”
“Well deserved.” Griffin shook his head. “The ways of the army … promote a man after you arrest him.”
Chamberlain was confused, did not know what Griffin was talking about. “Sir … I had not heard …”
“Right, you were on leave. When we were on the march chasing after Lee, Rice allowed his men to make camp bedding from a farmer’s haystack, let them sleep above the mud instead of in it. Probably saved half the brigade from drowning. But the corps heard about it, some staff officer dusted off the regulations, and General Sykes had him arrested … ‘molesting private property.’ ”
Griffin put his foot up on a stump, leaned on his knee, stared out into the trees. “It got straightened out pretty quick. Somebody at Meade’s headquarters heard about it, knew the newspapers would have a carnival. We let Lee escape, so we make up for it by arresting our best officers.”
Chamberlain stood, watched Griffin, the nervousness now replaced by something else—curiosity. “Well, sir … General Rice will surely make us proud.” He felt awkward again, did not enjoy formal small talk.
Griffin said, “There’s quite a few fellows who think they’re the one to fill his vacancy, some of ’em deserving. Tough choice. I picked you.” Chamberlain stared, waited for more. Griffin turned toward him, said, “You, Colonel. I want you to command the Third Brigade.”
Chamberlain smiled, tried to suppress it but could not, looked away, embarrassed.
Griffin did not seem to notice, said, “It’s not permanent, there’s no promotion in rank, not yet. I did send in my recommendation. That’s an issue for Washington. Doesn’t really matter anyway. You might run into a bit of resistance from your regimental commanders. Some of them been around a bit longer than you. I’ve made it clear … they do understand who’s in command. It’s your brigade, Colonel.”
Chamberlain saluted, still smiled. “Thank you, sir!”
Griffin was not smiling, returned the salute. “You earned it, Colonel. We still have a job to do, and we need the best men to do it.” Griffin looked up the hill, began to move away, glanced back at Chamberlain. “You need to pick a successor to take over the regiment. Make a recommendation pretty quick. You know your men. We’ll go with anybody you say, most likely. Enjoy your evening, Colonel.”
Griffin climbed the rise, and Chamberlain watched him crest the hill but did not follow. He felt like laughing, remembered a year ago, standing in front of the governor, hearing the words “lieutenant colonel,” the same feeling, like a small boy receiving a great Christmas present. Now he was to lead the brigade, the whole brigade. He thought of the men, above him on the hill, the men from Maine. I will have to tell them … something, he thought. He felt a sudden dread, choosing someone else to command them. Who? How would the men respond? It should be someone from within the regiment, of course. But he could not focus, the names did not come, it was too soon. He began to climb the hill, moved in long quick steps back to the fires, to the wonderful smells of the food.
SINCE THE LOSSES AT GETTYSBURG, WASHINGTON HAD MADE great efforts to rebuild the army, and reinforcements were coming in daily. But not all the new troops were men eager for a fight. With the draft now in full force, many of these recruits were men who had avoided the first calls for volunteers; some had even been a part of the violence, the draft riots. But now they faced the reality that they would serve whether they wanted to or not. Others were substitutes, men paid to take the place of those who could afford to buy their way out of the process. Often these men were motivated only by the gold they received, and when they first experienced the constraints of discipline, or the first brush with the horror of what a fight with the rebels might bring, many simply disappeared. To the fighting units who had won the great glory and honor on the field, these new numbers added little, except for new
problems, problems this army did not need. Meade and his commanders could not afford to be tolerant of this threat to the morale of the men who were still willing to carry the fight, and so, when deserters were caught, the punishment was swift and certain.
HE STOOD IN A LINE, SURROUNDED BY THE ENTIRE FIFTH CORPS. They were lined up by division across a wide field, the men facing each other on three sides of a square. On the fourth side, the open end, he could see the short row of freshly dug graves, and beside each one a simple wooden coffin. Once the troops had completed the formation, the drums began, a slow steady roll, and finally there was motion, across the field. He could see the prisoners being brought forward, the men moving in slow, jerking motions, held to small steps by the chains around their legs. Now each man was placed into position, standing beside his own grave, and then they were sat down, each on the front of his own coffin.
Around Chamberlain, men began to make small sounds, nervous, faces turning away, some looking down. Chamberlain did not turn away, stared at the five men, felt a low hot sickness in his gut.
Suddenly the drums were silent, and for a small moment there was no other sound. Now an officer began to read something, the orders, words Chamberlain could not hear. The man finished his duty, moved away, another officer shouted something, and from one side a row of riflemen stepped sharply into position. The officer shouted again, and Chamberlain could hear the metallic sound, the guns snapped to the chests. Then he heard the single word, the hard voice of the officer again: “Aim!” More of the men around Chamberlain turned away now, a small groan flowing through the lines. He blinked hard, felt the sickness again, rising slowly, and he clenched his fists, said to himself, No, do not turn away. Watch this. See it.
Now the officer raised his sword, and Chamberlain heard the word clearly, the only sound breaking through the deathly calm. “Fire!”
The sound startled them all, a sharp hard rattle, and all around him men shuddered, jumped. He had jumped as well, blind reflex, but he did not turn away, could see the impact of the lead balls in the men, the punch in their clothes, each man collapsing, falling into a grotesque heap. There was a long quiet moment, and he stared at the bodies, could see the blood now, a dark stain spreading out on the dusty ground. All around him the men began to look at the scene, the horror, and suddenly the drums began, startling them all again. There were new orders, close by, and Chamberlain focused, heard the call to march. The great example was over.
FEW OF THE MEN, EVEN THE VETERANS FROM THE OLD ARMY, HAD ever watched a firing squad, but today they had seen one, the shocking spectacle of five men shot down by their own.
Chamberlain drank a cup of coffee, poured it from reflex, did not taste the awful burn of a pot that had sat on the fire all day, left behind in the haste to fall into line. He put the cup down, looked around the camp, saw men moving slowly, some sitting now, many just standing alone. It was late in the day, and the food would come soon, but no one spoke of it, no one gathered at the fires. He thought of Ames, of Griffin, the discipline. That was what today was about, of course. They all know that, he thought. But this was something new. Occasionally this had happened before, men were shot or hanged, usually for some hateful crime, murder, the rape of a citizen. But today men were killed because they would not fight. And it had never been made into something so … public. He thought of the pronouncement, the Official Word, read before the executions. Of course, it was official. The army, he knew, was not like any other organization, any business. If you are here, he thought, you fight for your country, and possibly die for your country, and you are not allowed to change your mind. How odd … We are fighting—some of us, anyway—for … freedom? And soldiers are not free.
He watched his men, thought, Stop this, you’re thinking too much again. Those five men … ran away. If they did that in a fight, it could cause a disaster. If the man standing right next to you ran away, it could cost you your own life. I just didn’t think … we would have to be reminded of that.
He was still with the regiment, it had been just three days since Griffin had given him the change of command. He’d given much thought to who would replace him, had made a choice in his mind only this morning, and then the news had come to the camp, Ellis Spear had received a promotion to major. Before the war, Spear had been a schoolteacher, and it was rare for anyone to have something in common with Chamberlain. From the beginning there had been friendship, and Chamberlain discovered that Spear was not only there for good conversation, but had proven himself a good soldier, and a good commander as well. That made it simpler still, for Spear was to be his recommendation to General Griffin.
The men began to relax now, more were moving about. He heard small voices, conversations. A few were looking at him, and he saw sadness in some, sharp anger in others. He was suddenly very weary, thought, Maybe a short nap, turned for his tent. Then he saw Spear walking toward him and said, “This was not a pleasant day, Major.”
Spear clenched down hard on a small pipe, seemed deep in thought. “Colonel, if you don’t mind? A word?”
Chamberlain pointed toward his tent, moved that way, and Spear followed. They ducked inside. Chamberlain sat on the cot, pointed at the small wooden stool. Spear sat down slowly, held the pipe in his hand, stared at it.
“What is it, Ellis?”
Spear thought, looked at the ground. “Colonel … I’m not sure. This was a difficult day.”
“You’re not sure of what?”
“I’m not sure I could do that to my own men. If that’s what it takes to command … I have to tell you that, Colonel.” He paused. “I don’t know if I could order a man to stand there and shoot one of his own. How do you do that?”
“We have done it before, Ellis. We do it every time we fight.”
“But that’s the enemy … it’s different.”
“Is it? I was raised to believe that men aren’t supposed to kill each other at all. Yet, somehow, we have accepted doing exactly that. We have learned to kill men who we have been taught are our enemy. Men are dying around us in greater numbers and in ways more horrible than anything mankind has ever experienced. This war has inspired the creative minds of brilliant men to invent extraordinary weapons, new and incredibly efficient killing machines, canister, torpedoes, mines. It’s a part of everything around us. The disturbing thing about today … what shocks us is not that we killed men in blue uniforms, but that it was so … easy. The order is given, the muskets are fired, and the army has made its point. If we do not do our duty, it could happen to us.”
“Is that how you saw this today? Was it our duty to shoot those men?”
Chamberlain looked up, glanced at the dull light of the sunset reflecting through the walls of the tent. “Yes, Major. And God help us.”
4. CHAMBERLAIN
OCTOBER 1863
THEY MARCHED IN THE DARK, THROUGH THE SAME FAMILIAR MUD, the thick glue of the Virginia roads, the brown sludge that had paralyzed this army once before, nine months earlier. It had been late January, and General Burnside, tempted by a brief taste of spring weather, quickly moved the army up along the Rappahannock, away from the great bloody disaster of Fredericksburg. It was a good plan, move up and around Lee’s flank, and even Washington had approved. But it had still been winter, and the weather turned, the hard and angry howl of wind and rain softening the roads, swallowing the wagons and the guns. The miserable army had finally been halted, then returned to the camps they never should have left. They now called it the “Mud March,” and it had been the last command decision for Ambrose Burnside.
Chamberlain felt the horse lifting its legs, the effort of each step on the thickness of the road. He shifted in the saddle, straightened his back. There was no rhythm, no gentle rocking of the horse; instead, each step was deliberate and tiring. Behind him he heard low curses, small jokes about generals and mud, one man trying to start a song, drowned out by jeers. He stared out ahead, saw the light of a lantern, men pulling at a wagon, one man with a long pole, pryi
ng at a buried wheel, lifting it from the thick ooze. His men began to call out, teasing, and he heard one man say, close behind him, “Just shoot it and put it out of its misery.”
He smiled, turned, could not see the man in the darkness, thought, Yes, even tonight … they are in good spirits, the morale is as high as it has ever been. They want a fight. We need a fight.
There had not been much fighting since Gettysburg, at least not for these men. The action was in the West, at a place Chamberlain had never heard of. He rolled the word around in his mind: Chickamauga. The Federal army was being commanded there by William Rosecrans, and all Chamberlain knew was that the rebels had driven “Old Rosy” from the field, the papers calling it a bloody disaster, a panicked rout. That Rosecrans’s army was not totally destroyed was credited to General George Thomas, who held his ground while the rest of the Federal army escaped into the city of Chattanooga. Now Washington had pulled two corps away from Meade’s army, sending them to strengthen Rosecrans.
Chamberlain began to think about numbers: How many are we now? Eighty thousand? Does it matter? Does it mean we are not as strong? He thought of all the fights, the reports he’d seen. The numbers were always on their side, Lee was always outnumbered. And until Gettysburg, Lee nearly always won. So, it wasn’t just numbers. Then … what? Luck? No, he thought, we needed more than luck at Fredericksburg. It was something else, intangible. Commanders.… He pictured Meade in his mind, had seen him several times, mostly before Gettysburg. The army respected him; no one ever said he wasn’t a good soldier. But whether he was the right commander …
Some had said the job should have gone to Reynolds, but Reynolds was dead. Many wanted Hancock, some wanted Sickles, but both had taken bad wounds at Gettysburg, and neither had yet returned to the army. No, he thought, we will follow George Meade until he either wins the war or makes some awful mistake.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 96
