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

by Jeff Shaara

  As this balance shifted, Virginians whom Lee had appointed, men who filled necessary commands in the Virginia forces, began to make the transfer, accepting equivalent rank and positions in the Confederate Army. While politically minded men jockeyed for positions of command, Lee spent his days with the vast mundane details of building an army, and while the growing corps of officers began to make grandiose plans for the quick defeat of their enemy, Lee was struggling with finding enough flour, blankets, and cartridges for the men.

  By early May, Lee had reached a point of near exhaustion and a sense of growing frustration with his own duties. There was simply too much to do.

  On the floor beside his desk was an old brown cardboard box, and Lee tossed another pile of letters down, watched them bounce and flood over the sides. He thought, I will need another box. He began to sort another stack, separating the official messages from the governor and President Davis from troops reports and other military matters. Into the box had gone the private letters, the flowery recommendations, the long insistent lessons on warfare from people who had read about Napoleon, or who had their own theories for whipping these soft soldiers to the north. Occasionally there was the simple prayer, the sincere hope for peace, for a bloodless struggle, but those were rare. Across the office, Lee saw another bag on the one chair, a pile of mail he had not yet sorted, but all addressed to him.

  He stood, stretched, loosened stiff bones, said aloud, “Enough.”

  He went to the door, pulled his coat from a hook, and walked out through the hallway, past offices of noisy officers. He avoided the faces, thought, Please, allow me to get away, just for a while. And then he was safe, outside, walking down the hill away from the building, from the government. He took deep breaths, walked under the full green canopies of the trees, opened up the dark creases of his mind to the warming spring breeze.

  He walked to the Spottswood, still his home, thought of something cool to drink, just for a moment, a guilty pleasure. He reached the grand dining room and was relieved to find it nearly empty. He saw the perfect spot, a delightful corner table, and hurried, as though racing against unseen competitors vying for the same chair, then sat down, the victor. A waiter approached; no, not a waiter, a soldier, a tall, thin boy in an officer’s uniform, the uniform of Virginia.

  “Sir . . . you are General Lee, are you not, sir?”

  Lee knew the escape was over, felt his duty creep back out, pushing away the sunlight. “Yes, Lieutenant, I am.”

  “Oh, sir, it is a great pleasure to meet you, sir. I am at your service.”

  “Service?” Lee thought of the waiter again, looked past the boy, trying to find someone to bring him . . . something.

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Walter Taylor, sir. I have been assigned to your staff. My orders, sir.”

  Taylor pulled an envelope from his pocket, held it out, and Lee saw the governor’s seal, looked at the boy’s face, handsome, the eagerness of the young.

  “My . . . staff. Yes, it appears the governor is providing for my assistance . . . hmmm.” Lee finished reading the orders, returned them to the waiting hand.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant Taylor, do you know how to write?”

  “Write? You mean, can I read? Well, yes sir, certainly, sir.”

  “No, I mean, write letters. Capture a good phrase, the gracious message.”

  Taylor was puzzled, thought, then said, “Well, yes sir, I believe I can. I write home . . . as often as I can.”

  “Good. Then by all means let’s get started.” Lee stood, put aside the thoughts of a cool drink, and Taylor backed up a step, not sure what was happening. Lee put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, turned him around gently, said, “Follow me.”

  Taylor glanced over to his own table, his food untouched on a plate, just delivered the moment he saw the general enter the room. He made a quick sidestep, grabbed a piece of bread, stuffed it into his pocket, then galloped after his new commander, who was already outside, returning to his work.

  By June, Lee had assisted in the transfer of all the Virginia forces into the Confederate Army. While he assumed there would be a place for him in that army, once again he did not have the political outspokenness to grab a choice position for himself. As he entered the new offices of the Confederate government for a meeting with President Davis, Lee knew he was now in command of a nonexistent army.

  He passed through large double doors, and there was no one in the outer office, no voices, none of the manic activity that seemed to fill his own building. He slowed, eased toward Davis’s office, then knocked. There was a muffled sound from inside, a voice, and Lee turned the old brass handle, opened the door.

  “Yes? What is it? Oh, General, do come in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I didn’t see . . . there’s no one out here.”

  “Yes, I know. Sent them home.”

  Davis was a tall, angular man. His face carried a fierce expression that rarely softened. He sat behind an enormous desk, signing documents in steady succession.

  “Sir, do you have a moment? If this is not a good time—”

  “No, do come in, General. Just finishing up some orders here, you know how it is. There, that will hold those people for a while. Damned nuisance, these supply people.”

  “Sir, if I can assist—”

  “This is the Confederate Army supply, General. I would imagine your hands are full worrying about your own state.”

  “Well, sir, that is precisely why I came to see you. It seems that my duties in command of Virginia’s army are coming to a close. The army has been incorporated into the Confederate Army, and the strategic positions along the northern border have been secured by your generals. It has not been entirely smooth, but the job—”

  “The job has been handled, General, handled most efficiently. I thank you. So, you have a run-in with Joe Johnston, eh? I heard he took over your men in Harper’s Ferry, bit of a problem. He is not . . . well, he has his own way. Good man, though, good man.”

  Joseph Johnston had been the only high-ranking Virginia officer in the old army to sign up immediately with the new Confederate Army without first joining the Virginia forces. Lee knew Johnston always had a keen eye for politics, and so had secured himself a senior position immediately. Now, he commanded the newly promoted General Jackson and the other forces around Harper’s Ferry, and did not recognize Lee’s authority, would not even correspond with him.

  “Sir, permit me to . . . be direct.” Lee was growing more uncomfortable. There should not be this formality, he thought. We have a long history . . . I knew this man when we were at the Point. We were . . . well, not close, but . . . there should not be this wall, this political boundary. This was all too familiar to Lee, the coldness of politics, the lack of recognition, being ignored in favor of the men with louder voices. He felt very alone, very unsure. But as the responsibilities had gradually passed to the other commanders, he had stiffened, vowed to himself he would not allow this to simply slide by.

  Davis looked up at Lee, looked into his eyes for the first time. Davis had assumed the role of commander in chief with a fanatical attention to detail. He tried, often at great expense of energy, to control all aspects of his government, and often had no trust for subordinates, and so his aides were usually left with nothing to do, while Davis assumed command of even minute details. It was Lee who seemed to win his confidence, because Lee was the only commander who did not challenge Davis’s authority, who did not confront Davis with a great ego.

  “General, you have performed an admirable . . . well, you have proven to me anyway that you were just the man we needed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Patience, Lee thought, be careful.

  Davis continued, “Yes, of course. We’re old soldiers, you and me. I understand what you’ve done, what steps had to be taken. There has been some talk, talk that you have been too gentle on our enemy, talk that we should have launched a full-scale attack into Washington, stopped this thing in its tracks. There has been som
e criticism of your defensive strategy.”

  “Sir, do you believe we should have attacked?”

  “No, no, of course not. That’s the point. You can’t attack an enemy until you can take the fight to him. We weren’t ready for that, didn’t have the means. Now, however, I believe we do. That’s why I’m glad to have men like Joe Johnston and Beauregard up on those lines. They may not be exactly . . . thinkers. But they will fight.”

  “Sir, I do not have a position in the Confederate Army.”

  “What? Of course you do, here, wait.” Davis slid papers around on his desk, lifted one tall stack, shoved it aside, sent pieces fluttering away to the floor.

  “Yes, right here. Mr. Lee, you have been named one of five brigadier generals commanding Confederate forces. Your Governor Letcher was most insistent, helped me convince the convention. There, that what you wanted?”

  Lee thought, No one told me . . . I should feel honored. But he felt hollow, an emptiness.

  “Thank you, sir. May I ask, what are my orders? What troops do I command—where do I go?” He scolded himself for being too anxious.

  Davis looked through papers again, began to read, absently, and Lee saw distraction.

  “Sir, do you have duty for me?”

  “What? Duty? Of course, General, right here, with me.”

  “Here . . . ?”

  “You’re too valuable to the operation of this army—the supplies, the detailed work. Can’t have you up there, in the middle of the fighting.”

  Lee sank into his chair, felt a great weight press him down.

  Davis shoved papers aside again, looked at Lee. “Invaluable, General. You are what we need here. Behind the scenes, running the show. No one better at it, no one at all.”

  Lee stood, pulled himself slowly from the chair. “Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President. I have to get back to my office . . . a great deal to do.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, General. Busy times, busy indeed. Keep me informed.”

  Davis turned back to his work, and Lee moved slowly out through the quiet offices, back to his own vast piles of paper.

  14. HANCOCK

  June 1861

  “NOTHING. NOT a word, not a damned word!” He sat on the floor, shuffled again through the mail pouch, scattered the letters around him.

  Mira stood over him, put a hand on his shoulder. “It takes time. They haven’t forgotten you.”

  “Are you sure? We’re a long way from Washington, a long way from the war. I’m just another officer who happens to be far enough away that he can be overlooked. What do I have to offer? Right now they’re looking for fighters, company commanders, brigade commanders. I’m a supply officer. They’ve probably got men lined up in the street for the field positions. Damn!”

  He gathered the mail, straightened the bundles, put them back into the pouch, and she knelt down, picked up a handful of letters, mail for the soldiers of the Sixth, Armistead’s men, helped him put them in order.

  “Is there anyone else you can contact?”

  “I’ve written General Scott, the War Department, the Quartermaster General’s Office. I suppose I could try Governor Curtin. He knows my father well, might be able to find me something in the Pennsylvania volunteers.”

  “When will the next mail run be?”

  “Hard to say. They’re a bit quicker now, maybe three, four days. All we can do is wait.”

  He got up off the floor, lifted the pouch over his shoulder, reached for his hat.

  “I’ll be back soon. Once I deliver this, I’ll come help you get the house ready. Anything you need?”

  “No, I have it all. It should be a nice dinner, we’ll try to make it a fun evening. The piano should be here soon; the church is sending it over in a wagon.”

  “The piano?”

  “I thought it might be nice, some music . . . this doesn’t have to be a sad evening.”

  “But it will be. This whole thing is sad. But yes, music will be nice. You’ve been practicing?”

  “Win, if you came to church more regularly, you would hear quite an improvement in my playing. If I know soldiers, and my playing is not satisfactory, there will be at least one of you who will show me how it’s done.”

  He laughed, pulled open the door. “Soon.”

  She pushed the door closed behind him and locked it, her habit now. Her mind began to work, to plan. She mentally counted heads, went back to the kitchen, the pantry, lifted a small sack of flour, put it down heavily on the thick wood table. She reached up to a high shelf, brought down a large clay bowl, set it by the flour, then paused and thought of Armistead, waiting with a bright smile, the eagerness of a child, as she kept him waiting, waiting for the cookies to cool. He would eat an entire sheet full if she let him, and so she would make him wait, torture him playfully with the smell, until he begged, please. Then finally she would produce the flat pan, and he would gobble the first one in one bite, then savor the rest, slowly. Win would have to wait until Lewis picked out the ones he wanted, the big ones, before he could get to them. She smiled, thought, yes, I’ll make those too. It would be good to see him smile again.

  THEY BEGAN to arrive about six. Hancock answered the door, opened to see officers in civilian clothes.

  “Mr. Garnett, Mr. Wiggins, welcome, come in.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Mighty fine of you to do this. Most kind.” The men entered the house.

  Hancock pointed to a small table, bottles and glasses, said, “Wine, gentlemen? Help yourself. Mrs. Hancock will be bringing out some trays of food . . . ahh, here.”

  Mira entered from the kitchen, brought a large platter of bread and cheese, set it down on another table, and the men bowed to her, a short, formal greeting, and then reached for the wine.

  Hancock heard a carriage, looked out through the screen, saw Johnston climbing down with a large bundle of flowers wrapped in brightly colored paper. Hancock did not see the staff officers, and felt relief, for there would be plenty of food now, the house would not be so crowded. With generals, you never knew what they assumed. Johnston came to the door, Hancock stood back, and Johnston held out a large hand. Hancock took it, and both men knew they were not yet enemies.

  “Please, allow me to present these to our hostess.”

  “Certainly. She is back in the kitchen . . . come. . . .”

  “No, I’ll wait here. Don’t want to interfere.”

  Mira appeared again, brought another bottle of wine, and Johnston made a great show, a low sweeping bow. “On behalf of all the new civilians who have gathered here this evening, we offer you this gift, our warmest thanks for your fine hospitality.”

  “Well, goodness, Mr. Johnston, thank you, these are quite impressive.”

  She took the flowers, saw the variety, knew this had taken some time, and carried them back into the kitchen to find a vase.

  “Tell me, Captain, in all honesty. This party was her idea, was it not?”

  Hancock was still by the door, looking outside for one more guest.

  “Well, now that you mention it, yes, I must confess. I’m not a big party man myself.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Hancock. I don’t believe any of us have felt much like celebrating, certainly not now. I appreciate your wife’s sense of sentiment. It’s important we don’t forget . . . that we can do this . . . that we are all still friends.”

  Outside, horses rode up, two more officers in civilian clothes. Hancock tried to recall the names, men from Benicia. Johnston moved up closer, followed Hancock’s gaze, said, “Ah . . . Captain Douglas . . . that is, Mr. Douglas. Mr. Harrison. Good, good. Hope you don’t mind, Captain. They came down this morning, on the steamer. I asked them to join me here.”

  “Not at all, General.” Hancock laughed, and Johnston got the joke, nodded.

  “Yes, well, we do cut a wide swath, Captain.”

  Hancock welcomed the men, and after greetings were exchanged all around, Hancock said to Johnston, “Will there be more, sir?”

&
nbsp; “No, not tonight. There’s a few more arriving tomorrow, another boat.” Johnston seemed more serious now.

  Hancock said, “So, when do you leave?”

  Johnston looked at him, and the sound of voices behind him grew, the talk of soldiers, glasses of wine moving about. He said quietly, “How did you know I was leaving?”

  “I have many good friends here, Mr. Johnston.”

  “It’s not what I had hoped for. This place doesn’t offer what I had . . . well . . . it’s not important.”

  He turned, left Hancock at the door, went to the table where the half-empty wine bottle waited. He poured a glass, the others gathered around him, and Johnston joined the party. Hancock turned, looked outside again, the sun was on the far trees, and the light was slipping away.

  Mira appeared again, brought out more wine, to the great happiness of the men, and Hancock watched them toast her, a rowdy salute. She glanced at him, knew he did not share the mood, and he turned again and looked out, waiting.

  The horse came at a slow trot, and Hancock did not recognize him at first, had not seen him in civilian clothes for a long time. He pulled the horse into Hancock’s yard, dismounted by the others, unhooked a hanger, a thin bag, from the side of the saddle, carried it carefully above the ground, then saw Hancock standing, waiting at the door.

  “Good evening, Captain. Sorry to be late. I had to stand over my aide to get him to clean this just right. Couldn’t give it to you dirty.”

  Armistead passed through the door, did not look at Hancock’s face, and Hancock closed the door, followed him into the party.

  The men gathered around the new arrival. A glass was presented, and Mira came out of the back, the men parting. She hugged him, and the others began to make the sound, the rowdy hoots, then saw that she was crying and quickly stopped. The room was silent for a long pause.

  Mira stood back, smiled through red eyes, said, “Gentlemen, we have a great deal more wine.”