Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  “Gentlemen, as you were. Sorry to call you out like this, evening meal and all, I know . . . but we have received some orders, a rather important assignment. Allow me to read it.”

  He reached into his vest pocket, drew out a folded paper, opened it, and Jackson could see a ribbon, the seal of some importance.

  From: The Honorable Henry A. Wise, Governor, the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  To: Colonel Francis H. Smith, Commandant, Virginia Military Institute.

  By Special Order, the Of cers and Corps of Cadets, Virginia Military Institute, shall report to Charlestown, Virginia, on the twenty-eighth day of November, 1859, for the purpose of maintaining the general security, for the protection of the town and its inhabitants, and for the prevention of any violent uprising from interfering with the execution by hanging of Mr. John Brown.

  Jackson felt a sudden lump in his stomach. The insurrection that John Brown had attempted was a hot topic, and reckless rumors had flooded over the countryside after his capture. But he had believed the Federal Army would handle the matter. Someone spoke, Jackson turned and saw Major Gilham.

  “Colonel, are we to be the only security?”

  “Let’s just say, Major, we’re the only organized security. The governor has already issued a call for militia, and units from all over the state have been assembled, but I would not place much stock in their ability to do anything more than cause trouble. Oh, and there’s one more thing.” Smith looked back to the paper, found his place, stopped.

  “Well, no need to read it all, point is, not only are we to provide security, but it appears the good governor has decided that I am to be the executioner in charge. I don’t have to tell you that, in fact, our Corps of Cadets, with you gentlemen in command, may find itself up against . . . well, God knows what.”

  Jackson felt a low fire deep in his gut, thought of his guns, the artillery crews. They were very young, and some of them were not very good, but he began to run the faces through his mind, assess the skills.

  “Gentlemen,” Smith continued, “your commands will cover your areas of expertise, of course. In the morning, we will issue the order to the corps to move out. Major Jackson . . .”

  Jackson’s thoughts scrambled, he snapped to attention and stared straight, past the colonel.

  “Major, you will bring a two-piece battery of your cannon. Pick some good boys, Major. This could be a difficult assignment.”

  “Yes, sir. Already working on it, sir.”

  Smith spoke to the other officers individually, and Jackson did not hear, had his orders. Then they were dismissed, and he moved back outside, felt the cold chill of the night, looked across the parade grounds, the wide space guarded by his guns. He looked at them, each one, and nodded, a brief greeting to the heavy brass, then he graded, appraised, silently chose the two he would take, and smiled, a quick, cold clench of his mouth. Then he turned and marched home through a starless night.

  ON THEIR fifth day camped around Charlestown, the cadets woke to an early breakfast and new orders. Then there were drums, a slow cadence, giving a rhythm to the troops, who marched in line, filed into a large field, and formed their units. The artillery were first, had set up on the high ground, and Jackson stood by one of his cannon and faced the tall wooden scaffold, looking across to his other gun, pointing out, away from the forming troops. The units of cadet infantry filed in behind the scaffold, a vast rolling field, neat blocks of bright red, new field uniforms the cadets were wearing for the first time. Jackson’s handpicked gun crew stood at rigid attention, and there was no talking, no looking about. From the vantage point of the rise, Jackson could see all the others, the ragged formation of volunteer troops, and beyond, the buildings of the town. A crowd of people filled the road with the temper and bluster of a careless mob, following a wagon, and Jackson knew the cadets could not control a riot, that they had to depend on these people to control themselves.

  The wagon climbed the rise, rolled closer. Jackson could see a soldier on horseback leading the way, and then the wagon itself, carrying several officials and the local sheriff. High up above the rest, the figure of John Brown sat on the head of his coal-black coffin.

  The wagon rolled on slowly, approaching the scaffold, and Jackson watched with a tense gripping in his gut. The first chilling days of December had arrived without incident, but to the experienced officers, the wild rumors had become troublesome; the cadets could be easily spooked. There was talk of a vast number of Negroes, arming, heading in a crazed mass toward the town to free their leader. It was said that the Federal Army had abandoned the area, had assumed the worst and fled, leaving these boys to fight off a revolution.

  Jackson knew of rumors, had heard a continuous stream of them in Mexico, knew they followed an army like flies. He did not believe there was a revolution, that there would be a fight here. But if there was . . . he glanced at the polished brass of his big gun. The townspeople spread out, people scrambling for the good view. Then they began to quiet, a great weight pressing down upon them all, any sense of celebration pushed away by the presence of the troops, these quiet boys with guns.

  The wagon passed close to Jackson, turned, and stopped at the scaffold. He tried to see Brown’s face, to get a close look at the eyes. How different this was from war, he thought, to wait for death slowly, to know with total certainty it was coming, would not catch you in the heat of action, snatching you suddenly from your duty, but was there in front of you, and you approached it with slow, steady steps. He felt an odd respect for that, watched Brown move deliberately from the wagon up the wooden stairs. As he reached the platform, Brown smiled, made a comment to the sheriff, and said something to Colonel Smith, who stood somberly to one side. Jackson looked up at the few men now on the platform, saw no minister, no man of God, and he was surprised, could not understand that, the rejection of God. Jackson thought, He seems . . . cheerful, does not show any sign of fear, is not appealing for mercy. . . .

  Now Colonel Smith gave a quiet order to the sheriff, who said something to Brown, then placed a white cap over Brown’s head, covering the smiling face. The crowd now began to move, the slow pulse of expectation, and Jackson heard the anxious muffled voices. It would be very soon.

  Colonel Smith then read from a document, and Jackson could not hear the words, knew it was the death warrant, the governor’s order. Then Smith motioned to the sheriff, a brief nod, and the sheriff leaned toward the colonel, made certain, and Jackson saw the sheriff’s hand, the simple instrument of death, saw the blade flash, cutting the rope. The trapdoor, the floor beneath Brown’s feet, opened with a clatter that startled the crowd, made them all jump in one sharp beat. Brown’s body dropped down quickly, then caught, and Jackson heard the small sound, the rope tightening, and Brown’s arms jerked up, bending at the elbows, small twitches in the stillness, and then down again, and then no motion. The body hung with a stillness that froze all who saw it. There was a light breeze, and the body began slowly to turn, to spin, and Jackson looked down and said a prayer. Dear God, let this man pass over and be with You, even if he did not ask . . . did not understand . . . he is Your own.

  Then he heard a voice, a mad scream from the crowd, “Burn in Hell!” and others followed, hard shouts and small cries for damnation.

  He looked back to Brown’s lifeless body, thought, Perhaps it is meant for him to pass below, into the fires of Hell. Jackson clenched his fists. He could not bear that, could not believe that men could be judged to be so wicked, and that others would be so eager to condemn their brothers to a flaming eternal death.

  6. HANCOCK

  September 1860

  THEY RODE in single file, twelve of them, dressed in the bright colors of the Spanish army, or what they knew of that army, so far away. Wide red sashes were wrapped around their waists, and their hats sprouted long thick plumes, plucked long ago from birds no one here had ever seen. They rode slowly, deliberately, on horses that had been decorated with as much care as their riders. As the
men passed the front of Hancock’s house, they turned their heads, faced the house, a fixed stare, fierce and defiant.

  “This is very odd.”

  Hancock reached out an arm, and Mira moved closer. He pulled her to him, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They watched from inside, through the wide front window of the house, as the procession moved past. Hancock watched each man carefully, looked for weapons, any sign the display would turn into something else, something more aggressive.

  “I’ve been expecting this, actually. General Banning told me about this—this custom.”

  “What does it mean? Is it a threat?” She turned, looked instinctively toward the small cradle where the baby lay sleeping.

  “Probably not, but it could be the first step. They’re showing their displeasure against the authority of the government, and . . . I guess that’s me.”

  He had been here only a few months, ordered to the new post from up north, Benicia, near San Francisco, the headquarters of the California command. It was a promotion, if not in rank, at least some prestige, a reward to a man who had demonstrated great skill in managing property, a flair for the paperwork of equipping an army.

  They had come to California nearly by accident. The Sixth Infantry had moved west from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, a long march to the Utah Territory, to confront the rebellious Mormons, who were threatening to reject the authority of the federally appointed governor. But with the show of force closing in, the Mormons had avoided the fight, had finally agreed to accept the government’s authority, and so the Sixth Infantry, under the new command of General Albert Sidney Johnston, had been ordered to keep going, farther west, and provide manpower for the new Department of California.

  The march had taken many months, and in all had covered over two thousand miles, the longest overland march by infantry in military history, and it was the job of this young quartermaster, Captain Winfield Scott Hancock, to supply the troops. And, as he had done from his first days of service, he had exceeded the army’s expectations, had arrived at Benicia better equipped than when they left Kansas. It was an extraordinary accomplishment, and so Hancock had been appointed to command the new Department of Southern California, which consisted of . . . him.

  His first concern had been the Indians, the Mojaves, but there had been no trouble, and Hancock had even become acquainted with some of the tribal chieftains. But the Spanish residents had deep loyalties to the old territorial government, a government that had been forced to surrender control to these new Americans, one great price for the defeat of Santa Anna in Mexico, and it was a control that most in Southern California never recognized, because little around them had changed.

  The protesters had completed their ride past his house, sped up their horses and disappeared down the street, toward the older buildings of Los Angeles. Hancock turned from the window, went into his small office, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small pistol.

  Mira came in behind him, saw the dull metal of the old gun. “Win, are we in danger?”

  He didn’t answer, was thinking about the warehouse, the piles of government stores, weapons and powder, as well as the various hardware, tents, and blankets. He always thought it foolish of the army to store these supplies in Los Angeles, with only one man, one quartermaster, as the military presence in the area. The Quartermaster’s Depot was a simple storage building, a barnlike warehouse with a wide door, secured by crude strap hinges and one old lock, and the nearest military unit was over a hundred miles away, the cavalry detachment at Fort Tejon.

  He held the pistol, felt the solid power, ran his fingers over the oily surface, then turned and handed it to Mira.

  “How long has it been since you fired this?”

  She pointed it down to the floor, turned her hand sideways, then back.

  “Kansas. Mr. Benden took me out to the cornfields, set up a box. He was concerned that with you gone I might need it.”

  He watched her handle the gun, thought of the huge Irishman, the man he had hired to look after her. Kansas was a dangerous place, had become a war zone, the issue of slavery for the new state a source of growing conflict. Hot-tempered radicals on both sides of the issue were crowding in, hoping to vote the issue their way, whether the state would be free or slave. The conflicts had become vicious and bloody, and the army had been squarely in the middle. Hancock knew that an officer’s wife could be a vulnerable target, and he had hired Benden, a fierce giant whose fists had long ago earned him a reputation as a man you did not confront. Benden had taught Mira how to shoot, and she had a knack for it, a steadiness, could outshoot many of the officers. But she did not enjoy guns, saw them as the tools of the soldiers, did not understand the compliments the men gave her.

  “Maybe we can go out, the big field down the road, set up a target.”

  She looked at him. “You didn’t answer my question. Are we in danger?”

  “I’m not sure. We are certainly vulnerable. I need to learn more about these Spaniards, this . . . protest. In the meantime, it can’t hurt to be prepared.” He reached for his coat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see Banning. He deals with these people, maybe he’s heard something.”

  She put the gun down on his desk, reached up, and he caught her hands, pulled them into his chest, held them.

  “If there is any trouble, it will certainly be at the warehouse, not here. I won’t be long . . . don’t worry.”

  He lifted her hands up, kissed them, and then turned and went out through the front door. She followed him, leaned against the open doorway, watched him cross the hard dirt street, then closed and locked the door.

  General Phineas Banning was not a general at all, had not been a military man, but had come to Los Angeles some years earlier, recognized the great potential for shipping and commerce, and organized the first modern port facilities. His command of engineering projects, his natural ability to organize the local workers, had given him the military nickname. Banning had a strong appreciation for the army’s usefulness, as did most of the Americans in the area, and so the Hancocks had been warmly received. Hancock knew Banning better than most in the area, knew that his close involvement with the larger community, the Spanish-speaking community, could provide him with a clearer picture of what was going on with the protests.

  Hancock was well known now in the town, the only blue uniform that anyone saw walking the street. People smiled, polite, as he passed, though most did not speak English and there were few words of greeting. Banning’s office was a large adobe house, had been converted from an old Spanish villa, and sat on the main road that led out to the coast. He reached the open yard, saw several young men sitting on the steps. Hancock guessed them to be laborers, men waiting for their foreman, for instruction. They were short and brown, tough, hard-looking men, heavy arms and broad chests, and they watched Hancock with quiet black eyes. He climbed the stone stairway to the veranda, reached the door and turned to see a dark face watching him closely; there was no politeness, no smile.

  Inside, he heard voices, the first words of English since he had left his house. He called out, “Hello? Mr. Banning?”

  From a dark hallway he heard a sound, then a door opened and light filled the long space. He saw two men walking toward him, carrying papers, rolled-up drawings. One of them was Banning.

  “Well, Captain Hancock, a surprise! Come on back, please.” Banning waved the other man away, said something briefly in Spanish, and the man was out the door. Hancock heard commotion outside, the stirring of the men.

  “Forgive my visit, I’m sorry if I have interrupted your work. I do need to talk to you.”

  “Nonsense, always time for a few words.”

  Hancock followed Banning down the hall, turned into a large office containing a huge, heavy desk and windows filled with pots of flowering plants. Banning went around the desk, sat in a heavy leather chair, wheeled it closer, folded his hands in front of him in a gesture of attention.

 
; “Now, Captain, what’s on your mind?”

  Hancock sat in a wooden chair, saw reflected sunlight in a rich mahogany glare, did not put his hands on the desk.

  “We had a demonstration today, in front of my home. It was as you had described: men dressed as Spanish soldiers, formal uniforms, riding by and staring.”

  “Hmmm, so. It’s been coming. A lot of talk. Anything happen, any problem?”

  “No, they didn’t approach the house, just rode by, then took off.”

  “That’s the way it works. The key is, what happens next.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Captain, have you seen Hamilton’s newspaper this week? The Star?”

  “No, missed it.”

  “That damned idiot. He’s filling his paper with all kinds of stories about what’s happening back East, the election and all. I know him, he thinks he’s fair, I suppose. But he’s the only news these people have about Washington. I get letters, some correspondence from Delaware, friends in New York, a great deal of commotion about the election, none of it too positive, but then I read about the same events in Hamilton’s ‘news’ and I see his slant, his opinions coming through. And that, Captain, is where your trouble might come from.”

  “About the election? What kind of trouble?”

  “This fellow Lincoln, this Republican . . . he’s got a strong following in the North. Too strong, probably. The Democrats are splitting up, fighting it out with each other. From what I can gather, the Southern cause is hurting itself. But when you read Hamilton, you see Lincoln as the devil himself, and the election as a vote to preserve the American way of life. That kind of rhetoric talks to people’s passions, not their good sense. You a Democrat, Captain?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. My father had pretty strong views on politics, can’t say I ever disagreed with him much, but most soldiers I know are Democrats. What is so dangerous? It’s just an election.”