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

by Jeff Shaara

  “Sergeant, I have no idea. But it appears my services here are . . . concluded.”

  He looked at the order, and saw there were no added remarks from Twiggs, he had simply passed it along, and Lee thought, probably with pleasure. He stood, pulled his blue coat from a hook on the wall, put it on.

  “Sergeant, thank you. That will be all.”

  Morgan saluted, said, “Colonel, I’m . . . I have enjoyed serving in your command. You will be missed, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You are dismissed.”

  The man left the office, closed the door gently behind him. Lee smiled, thought, I should have told him to keep this quiet.

  He went to the window, bent over, put his hands on the dirty sill, looked out, saw nothing moving, no troops. He straightened, pulled down on his coat.

  “I don’t suppose it makes much difference anymore.”

  AS HIS coach entered San Antonio, Lee knew immediately there were changes. The streets were filled, people carrying all manner of weapons, a ragged army caught up in the passions he had feared.

  The coach approached the hotel, his stopover for the night. He planned to leave the city the next day, making the roundabout trip back home, to Washington, and to Arlington. There was a late winter chill, a cold wind that washed down the streets, and as Lee stepped from the carriage, he drew attention. Several armed men approached, and Lee saw they were all wearing red armbands.

  “Whoa, there, we got an officer here!” Lee looked at the man, saw a rough face, ragged clothes, and a rusty rifle. The man stepped closer, looked Lee over, did not point the rifle, but held it high, ready.

  Lee saw others, more rough faces, and he thought, Get inside the hotel, now. Then another man moved up and onto the steps, blocking his way, and Lee turned to the first man, said, “Who is in charge here? Do you have a . . . commander?”

  “Yep, reckon we do. Ben McCulloch. Now, soldier, if I was you, I’d be a-moving on out of here real soon.”

  Lee knew the name. McCulloch was commander of the Texas Rangers, a man who certainly would side with his home state.

  “Gentlemen, I have no intention of staying here any longer than it may take me to arrange transportation.”

  He looked across the wide street, toward the buildings that belonged to the army and the one building that had briefly been his office. On top he saw a new flag, moving slowly in the cold breeze, the Lone Star.

  Up on the wagon his driver, a corporal, waited for his instructions, and Lee saw the young man’s growing fear, knew that could be bad. He nodded silently to him in an attempt to reassure, then turned back to the man closest to him.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, polite, respectful. “May my aide and I be allowed into the hotel?”

  The man moved closer. His face hardened as he stared at Lee. He took another step closer, put his hands on his hips and leaned forward, his face close to Lee’s. It was a taunt, bait for a hotheaded soldier, a clear clean shot at the man’s chin.

  Lee knew the man wanted him to swing, to take a shot, and he stood still, said quietly, “Sir, may we pass?”

  The man straightened up, looked at Lee with disappointment, then backed away. The others stood aside, and Lee sensed the mood clearly, the itch for a confrontation, and knew he must not give them one. The young corporal jumped down from the wagon, did not bring his rifle, and Lee nodded again to him, thinking, Good, good, leave it there, let them have it, the spoils of the fight. The corporal picked up his bags, and they moved with deliberate steps up into the hotel.

  LEE WALKED back down into the busy street. He had changed, now wore civilian clothes. He moved quickly across, did not look into faces. He climbed the steps into his old headquarters, saw three men, civilians with red armbands, and no other men, no blue uniforms anywhere.

  “Well, howdy, here’s another dandy! Something we can do for you, mister?”

  “I was wondering if you men could tell me where I might find General Twiggs?”

  The men laughed, short and without humor, and Lee suddenly felt very alone.

  “Twiggs is gone, friend. He packed up and flew out of here this morning, he and his flock of blue birds.” The man made a raw laugh, and the others, enjoying the moment, joined in, one man slapping the other’s shoulder.

  Lee had to know more, to find out, but knew these men would not show much patience.

  “Is the army . . . gone? I have been away, just come from Fort Mason. May I be told what is happening?”

  From behind, Lee saw another man, coming out of the office in the back, Twiggs’s old office. The man walked up beside the others, looked Lee over carefully, and Lee saw familiarity, recognition.

  “You are Colonel Lee, are you not?”

  Lee was relieved. The man seemed reasonable, he sensed some authority. “Yes, I am Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, formerly commanding the Second Regiment of Cavalry, Fort Mason. I would like to speak to General Twiggs, if that—”

  “Colonel Lee, I am pleased to tell you that your kind General Twiggs has surrendered to the authority of the state of Texas. The state of Texas now controls all property formerly held by the United States Army. Including, I might add . . . you.”

  So it was done. Lee felt a rising anger, felt his hands shake, and he clenched his fists. “Sir, I am not a participant in this . . . madness. The War Department has ordered me back. . . to leave here, to leave Texas. With your . . . permission, I will arrange for transport and be on my way. I am trusting in your good judgment, and your courtesy, not to prevent my leaving.”

  “Colonel, the services of the United States Army are no longer required in Texas. You will leave immediately. However, your equipment, your weapons, your possessions, will remain the property of the state of Texas.”

  Lee’s fists clenched harder, his nails dug into his palms. He spoke in a slow hiss, fought the urge to explode at this man. “I have no equipment. I have only my personal belongings, my clothes, books. Surely, you will—”

  “Colonel, I have made myself clear. You will leave Texas immediately. You may keep the clothes you are wearing. There is nothing else to discuss.”

  Lee looked at the others, who stood leaning against the desk, watching his moves. He thought, I have been given a chance to leave, to get out. They are in control, can do anything they want. Thank God for this one reasonable man.

  He looked back to the man in charge, nodded, and backed slowly toward the door. As he turned toward the street, he felt the tightness in his fists and slowly spread them, loosening the clench. It was beyond his control, beyond sanity. There was nothing he could do but go home.

  March 1861

  HE STOPPED briefly in the hallway, waited, took a breath, then opened the heavy door and stepped into the dark outer office, meeting the gaze of Colonel Keyes. “Well, Colonel Lee, we have been expecting you. Tell me, how

  was your experience in Texas? I understand you and General Twiggs performed an admirable job, a flawless surrender.”

  Lee took another breath, did not speak, looked at the sharp eyes of Keyes, a man named to a position Lee had turned down years ago, secretary to Commanding General Scott.

  Lee understood, he was back in Washington. All the reasons he had for not settling into a position here were more plain than ever. Opinions rattled through these offices like dried bones, and facts were often disregarded if they caused a conflict with rumor.

  “I have an appointment with the commanding general. Will you kindly inform him I am here?”

  Keyes stood, could not hide a sneer, retreated behind a door and then returned, saying, “Colonel, the general has decided to see you now.”

  Lee did not answer, walked past Keyes’s desk and into the bright, sunlit office of General Winfield Scott.

  Scott sat in a huge leather chair, watched Lee with a slight tilt of his head, then stood with a painful effort. Lee saw the stiff movement, the slow struggle. Scott held out a huge, worn hand, smiled with a warmth Lee remembered well, and the two m
en sat, facing each other across the shiny plane of Scott’s oak desk.

  “I see that look, Colonel. It’s the same look I get from the President. I’m what is referred to around Washington as an old soldier. There is no kindness in the description. Most of these fools have no idea what old means to a real soldier. They assume it means it’s time to retire. I rather take it as an accomplishment, a mark of survival. There are a lot of young soldiers.”

  Lee studied the old red face, the deep lines, the gray hair now thinner, and realized that he had never seen Scott so fragile . . . so unkempt.

  “Sir, it is good to see you again. I must say, things are . . . difficult . . . in the field. I hope the general is maintaining his command—”

  “Enough, Colonel. I’d prefer it if you didn’t speak to me like you’re speaking to Davy Twiggs. Yes, we have some problems. Big problems. But we have good men in this army, men who are used to solving big problems. Men like you, Mr. Lee. That’s why you’re here.”

  Until this moment, Lee did not know why he had been recalled from Texas, had considered many alternatives: his own weak performance, Twiggs’s dislike of him, the shifting politics in Washington. It had not occurred to him that Scott had called him there for a specific duty.

  “General, I am happy to be at your service.”

  “Well, maybe so, maybe not. Tell me, Colonel, what are your feelings about this rebellion? Your home is in the South. How do you feel about what is going on?”

  “Sir, forgive me, but I am curious why so many people assume that because Virginia sits below the Potomac, we are in a tight alliance with the cotton states. I do not see Virginians making speeches such as anything prevailing in South Carolina or Mississippi, or Texas. Since my return, I am relieved to see that Virginia does not have the secessionist passion that has infected the deep South.”

  “There is slavery in Virginia, Colonel. How do you feel about that?”

  “I believe in emancipation, but I believe it is ultimately in God’s hands. I do not agree with the radicals of the deep South. And, I must say, General, I also do not agree with the talk in the North, the calls for radical abolition, made by people who have no involvement with the situation, who propose no solution to the problem.”

  “Colonel, how did you feel about General Twiggs giving in so easily to the rebellion in Texas?”

  Lee looked down at his hands, turned his palms up, then over, said in a low voice, “I was outraged, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Colonel. You might be interested to know that General Twiggs has been relieved. Damned fool.”

  “I had not heard that, sir.”

  “Colonel, if you had been in command there, in Texas, what would you have done? Would you have held out, possibly confronted by an armed force? Would you have fired on civilians?”

  Lee absorbed the question. He had hoped he would never make that decision, had considered the utter lunacy of being placed in that position, had tried to maintain his faith that it would never happen.

  “I take it, Colonel, that by your hesitation in answering, it would have been a difficult decision.”

  “Yes, sir. Most difficult, sir.”

  “It should be. Damned difficult. These people are American citizens. Imagine, Colonel, what kind of courage it takes to make that decision. I happen to believe that you have that courage.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I have never—”

  “Colonel, they don’t believe I can run this department anymore, that my days are numbered. But—they don’t know how to run it either.”

  “They . . . ?”

  “The President. The new administration. Let me tell you, Colonel, they have their hands full of troubles. Full. This man Lincoln . . . good man, I think. If he gets the chance to . . . well, if the radicals don’t drown him out . . . There’s quite a few people around here that think old Davy Twiggs is a traitor, would have him shot. Would probably have had all of them shot. Probably wouldn’t have hesitated, like you just did.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Who knows, Colonel—moral outrage, the love of country, the damned flag? People like to be inflamed, get their dander up, and the problem is, it’s too easy. It’s too easy to make a speech up in New York and scream about killing the rebels when you don’t have to look ’em in the eye. Hell, Colonel, you’ve seen men die. It’s not something you get all fired up to enjoy.”

  “No, sir. But I believe there is some of that same . . . passion in the South. I saw it in Texas, men who just want to fight, to strike out at something, you can see it in the eyes.”

  “That’s what I like about Lincoln. He’s done his damnedest to keep all sides of this apart, find a solution, make everybody happy. Hell, he’s a politician, that’s what they’re supposed to do. The problem is, Colonel, it isn’t working. Not this time. And that too is why you’re here.”

  Lee sat up, straightened his back, looked at the hard old face.

  “I need some help, Colonel. I need a second in command. The President hasn’t told me directly, but he will. He will come to me and with that politician’s smoothness, that comforting look, he will say that I am too damned old to run this army, that things are likely to get out of hand faster than a feeble old soldier can handle. And, Colonel, he may be right.”

  “Sir, I know of no one in this army more qualified—”

  “Colonel, I’m seventy-five years old. I wake up each day with new pains, new weaknesses. I’ve got this great big office, with these damned great big windows, and you know what happens when the sun shines in here in the afternoons? I take a damned nap. Fall asleep, right here in this chair. Can’t help it. You should see your friend Keyes out there when somebody important calls. He peeks in first to make sure I’m awake.”

  Lee could feel Scott’s mind moving away, drifting from the subject, and he saw the anger, Scott’s disgust for politics, for Washington. He remembered President Polk, the long arm of the administration reaching down to Mexico, trying to control Scott, to fight a politician’s war. It was no way to handle a good soldier, not then . . . not now.

  “General, you are offering me . . . a position as your second in command?”

  “What? Oh, yes, Colonel. There’s going to be a great deal more trouble with this rebellion before much longer. A great deal. You familiar with Fort Sumter? Charleston?”

  “Yes, sir. I spent some time in that area, before Mexico.”

  “Well, Mr. Lee, the President is going to use Fort Sumter as the justification, the spark that lights the powder.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

  “The army still controls the fort—Major Anderson there hasn’t been as gracious to the rebels as your General Twiggs. So far, it’s been a standoff. But they’re running out of supplies. I have advised the President to withdraw the men, pull out of the fort. It’s a regrettable move, another surrender, if you will, but for the time being it will preserve the peace. But the President is going to send down a ship, into the harbor, not to evacuate, but to resupply the troops. I can’t argue with the fact that it is Federal property, but, Colonel, there are a number of rebels in Charleston sitting on some very big guns who aren’t going to let that ship in, who aren’t going to allow the fort to be supplied. And there, Colonel, is your spark.”

  “The President knows this?”

  “Of course. This is his game: politics. The army can’t fire the first shot, and so far, nothing violent has happened.”

  “But General, if the fort is fired on, the army will respond. They will have to.”

  “You have the picture, Colonel. Now, think back to all that moral outrage that’s spreading like a plague in the North, and . . .” Scott raised his hands, a slow, rising motion, then spread them apart. “Boom.”

  “A war.”

  “Yes, Colonel, a war. But at least the President can say it’s a good war, a war for what is right. And so . . . we will need commanders who will accept that as the truth, commanders who will understand their
duty, their loyalties, who will not hesitate if ordered to fire on American citizens. What do you say, Mr. Lee?”

  “A war . . . will involve everyone. There will be no neutral ground. If Virginia sides with the southern states . . . General, I cannot fire upon my home.”

  Lee stood, walked to the window and looked out, across the Potomac.

  “General, my home is right there. My family is spread all over this part of Virginia.” He turned back, felt a shock, the clear vision. “If you . . . invade the South, this is where it will happen. Your enemy territory will be there . . . right across that river, and so, that is where it will begin. I would not . . . I could not accept that assignment, General.”

  “Colonel, you said yourself there is no great cry for secession in Virginia. I do not believe it is a foregone conclusion that Virginia, or Tennessee, or Arkansas, or Kentucky will join in the rebellion.”

  “I hope you’re right, General. I pray you are right. But if there is fighting, many things could change. I must request time to consider your offer. Please, allow me some time.”

  “All right, Colonel. Think about it. You know where to find me.”

  Lee sensed an abruptness, knew it was time to leave. He moved toward the door, then stopped. “General, please understand, I am honored you would consider me—”

  “Colonel Lee, there is a great deal more at stake here than honor.”

  April 1861

  ON APRIL 12, P.G.T. Beauregard, a man who had served with Lee as a fellow engineer in Mexico, commanded the Confederate troops who opened fire on Fort Sumter.

  Major Robert Anderson had held solidly to the fort for two days, with no loss of life, but ultimately had to concede to the hopelessness of his position.

  In Richmond, the state convention to debate the calls for secession met secretly. Lee heard that the voices of reason dominated the sessions, and he was confident Virginia would remain neutral. On April 17 he received an urgent request to come to the house of Francis P. Blair, father of an old friend from Lee’s days as an engineer in St. Louis, before the Mexican War. He was also a close acquaintance of President Lincoln.