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

by Jeff Shaara

  Chamberlain had come into town to see the tailor. He now carried his package, a bundle of new shirts, all crisp and white and neatly folded, encased in a tight wrapping of brown paper. He tossed the parcel up onto the seat of the small carriage, began to pull himself up, and heard a drumbeat, a rhythmic pounding that surprised him. Then he saw the line of blue rounding the corner a block away. There was a flag, held up high by a boy in front of the line, and beside him was the drummer, who bounced the drum awkwardly in front of him, suspended by a thin strap around his neck, somehow maintaining the steady beat. Chamberlain climbed up into the carriage, sat sideways on the small seat and waited, saw the townspeople now, the small crowd gathering along the edge of the street. Then he saw the flag, a bright red A on a blank field of blue. They marched four abreast, and the line stretched back, still emerging from around the corner. He began to count, and made a quick guess, maybe two hundred. They reached him and passed at a deliberate march, the drummer setting the pace. He saw the faces, felt a cold thump in his chest; they were the faces of children.

  Chamberlain had built a reputation at Bowdoin for respecting his students as much as they respected him. He advocated less strict discipline, and more equal exchange of ideas, and this put him in conflict with the old professors, the men who treated the students with a mindless rigidity, an inflexible doctrine of study and examination. The attitude appalled him, and he did much to show the students that they not only had the right to question their instructors, but were obligated to do so. He taught them to accept the responsibility for their own education, because, sadly, many of the professors would not. Now he saw the same faces, the young men he had taught, several marching in line alongside the local boys, the farmers’ sons who did not go to school, who had been taught only that they would do as their fathers had done. But now there was a war.

  As the troops marched by him, some of the students saw him, turning discreetly, nodded in his direction. And he saw the looks, the pride, and he thought, No, they are too young. They are not old enough to become an army. But the uniforms were new, shining buttons and black leather belts, and he turned away, felt a sudden sickness, knew the image would be with him for a long time, boys and their uniforms, marching happily to war. He waited for the last of the troops to pass, slapped the horse with the leather straps, turned the carriage toward his home.

  There were empty chairs, gaps among the crowd of seated students. He walked to the front of the classroom, placed his notes down slowly, on the podium, and looked out at the young faces. They watched him as they always did, the talking stopped, and there was a moment when there was no noise at all.

  “Some of you are missing. I did not realize, until today, why attendance was falling off. Forgive me, I feel somewhat foolish.”

  There were a few giggles. He saw heads turning to look at empty chairs, and he lowered his eyes, stared down at the podium.

  “Some of you have decided to fight in this war. Some of your friends are on their way to join the army, have already joined. President Lincoln’s call for volunteers is being answered. To many of us, this is a surprise. Not because we did not believe people would join the fight, but because so many of them—so many of you—would do so with such . . . enthusiasm.

  “I am embarrassed to tell you that I am among those who never believed this country would fall into this situation. I always have felt that we are a nation that is very different . . . unique, perhaps. We were founded by thinking men, brilliant men, men who designed a system where conflicts were resolved in debate, where the decision of the majority would prevail. These men had confidence in that majority, they had faith that the design of the system would, by definition, ensure that reasonable men would reach reasonable conclusions, and so we would govern ourselves, all of us, by this new type of system, a system where our conflicts and differences would be resolved by civilized means. There is no other system like this, anywhere. And if this war is lost . . . if the rebellion is successful, it is possible there may never be another.”

  He paused, cleared his throat.

  “Forgive me, I did not intend to talk about this . . . I do have a lesson prepared here. But . . . and you may know of this, the new regiments are being formed, and they are marching off to war, and of course . . . I knew that, I have been reading the papers, just like you. But I watched them today. They marched right by me, and I saw . . . you. And I felt a sense of history, of familiarity . . . as though I have seen this before, great columns of troops, men with strong, proud hearts and polished weapons, marching . . . just the same as they have done for centuries, since the dawn of man. Some of us have been naive enough to believe it would not happen again, that we have gone beyond that. We were wrong.

  “I don’t mean to sound . . . political. I’ve never been one who gives much weight to the opinions of politicians, but we are living in a time when those opinions threaten the existence of this nation. That’s . . . extraordinary, but it is true. Those who lead the rebellion are trying to prove a point . . . a point that we are not one nation, that we are a group of separate countries, we are Maine, and Vermont, and Virginia and Georgia and Texas and New York . . . and that if any one of us disagrees with the policies of the Federal government, we have the right to erase whatever binds us together, disregard the existence—or the importance—of the Union. They have simply said, ‘We quit—and if you don’t approve of our right to quit, then you will have to send a great army down here and point your bayonets at us and maybe shoot us, and you may expect that we will do the same thing to you.’ If that seems a bit simplistic, forgive me. I know some of you are students of Dr. Coleman, who is imminently better qualified to explain political science.”

  There were giggles, a few heads were shaking no, and he paused, scanned their faces, wondered why he was doing this, but they still watched him, waited silently.

  He moved away from the podium, walked toward the tall window, looked out across the grounds of the college.

  “We are so far removed, and yet, it is right here, right out there. We are all a part of it.”

  He turned back to the faces. “Does this mean we are simply patriots? If we say you cannot destroy the Union, you cannot simply cut the ties that hold us together, is that a reason to pick up a rifle? Do any of you believe that President Lincoln has the right to ask you to . . . kill someone? I believe Dr. Coleman would agree that this nation was founded on the notion of self-determination, that we are all individuals with the right to choose, and so, how much responsibility do we have to politicians? But . . . look around you. It is more than that . . . more than politics, more than Mr. Lincoln, more than some vague principle that you might be required to recite for Dr. Coleman. A great army has come together, has volunteered to fight for this union. I have heard numbers . . . hundreds of thousands of men. It’s astonishing. And so, if you live up here in Maine, and you never go outside New England, and you have never seen a slave, or even read the Constitution . . . you must take notice. When you see the faces of these soldiers, in their new uniforms and their shining bayonets, try to understand why this is important. If you don’t feel it here, in your heart, then feel it here.” He tapped the side of his head with a finger.

  “If you believe something is truly important, you have an obligation to fight for it. How many times have we heard words like that, especially from great figures of authority, like . . . our parents?”

  There were nods, laughter.

  “And how many times have the words really meant anything? Well, my young friends, if it has never mattered before, it matters now. And if I did not believe that I would ever see young men—the men from the empty seats in this room—if I did not believe I would ever see any of you put on a uniform and pick up a musket, well, I saw it today. And . . . if there are more of you who plan on doing the same . . . God bless you.”

  HE STOPPED in the doorway of the small office, saw an older woman, a tight bun of silver hair, thick glasses, sitting behind a small desk. “Excuse me,” he
said. “Is the meeting . . . in here?”

  “What? The meeting? Yes, there, in Dr. Woods’s office. Are you a member of the faculty?”

  “Yes, madam, I am Professor Chamberlain. I am the—”

  “Can’t say I’m familiar with you, young man. No matter, I forget faces all the time. If you say so . . . go on in.”

  He moved warily through the small room, approached the old dark door to the president’s office, stood for a moment, reached slowly for the knob, turned it quietly, and behind him the woman startled him.

  “Go on in, son. They won’t bite you.”

  He had rarely been in the president’s office, had never had reason to call on Dr. Woods personally. There was a distance between them, mainly in age, but Chamberlain had respect for Woods, knew the president was at odds with most of the older faculty, men who rejected the modern notions of education. Woods had been gradually pushing through a policy of enlightenment with respect to the students’ off hours, their free time. Many had felt their behavior should be regulated around the clock, that students should be monitored closely, lest they succumb to the horrors of unspeakable temptations, most of which were not identified.

  “Ah, Mr. Chamberlain. Good, you made it.”

  Woods stood behind his desk, and there were a half-dozen men in the large office, men whom Chamberlain knew, some by reputation, others socially. There were always faculty meetings, mostly informal affairs, and Chamberlain had learned early on that attendance was rarely an issue, but this time there had been a memo directed to him, by name, a specific invitation.

  He saw the always grouchy Dr. Caldwell, who nodded without smiling, and Grodin, the philosophy professor, a tiny man with a high, nervous voice, a man not much older than himself. Grodin came forward, held out a small friendly hand, which Chamberlain shook.

  “I think we should begin,” the president said. “Gentlemen, if you can find a chair.” Woods sat down in his tall, cushioned chair, pulled himself forward, closer to the desk, leaned out toward the others, waiting for them to find seats. Chamberlain slid a straight-backed wooden chair out from the corner of the room, sat to the side of Woods’s desk.

  “Good, now gentlemen, let us begin.” He turned and looked at Chamberlain, and Chamberlain felt the sudden stares of the others, wilted slightly.

  “Professor Chamberlain, we have received some . . . somewhat disturbing reports. Please understand, this administration is not attempting to guide you in any direction. In fact, it is widely known here that your teaching is top of the line . . . first-rate. You are highly thought of . . . most highly.”

  Chamberlain waited, began to get impatient. “Sir, if you don’t mind, can you tell me the nature of these complaints?”

  Woods looked uncomfortable, glanced over to Caldwell, who said, “Professor Chamberlain, I have the highest regard for your abilities. But several of the faculty members have been hearing reports of some unusual discussions . . . unorthodox goings-on in your classroom. It is said that your views on this war—”

  “Your views on this war are causing some disruption in this school.” Chamberlain looked for the voice, saw a man lean forward from the far corner, Dr. Givins, the old mathematics professor, thin wisps of white hair scattered over a pale spotted scalp.

  “Professor Chamberlain?” Woods saw the need to speak up, and took charge. “Have you been advising your students to volunteer for the army?”

  Chamberlain looked around the room, saw the stern old faces, and the small smiling face of Grodin. He looked at Woods, saw the weary expression of a man who has better things to do.

  “President Woods, I have expressed to my students that there is a significance to the events down South . . . that it is quite likely our nation is in jeopardy. I have not had to recommend to anyone on what course they should follow, they are quite capable of deciding for themselves.”

  “Ridiculous!” It was Givens, and he stood up, a bent old man, pointed at Chamberlain and said, “Wars are not fought by children! Young man, if you care about the well-being of this institution, then your time could be better spent teaching these students to consider the greater good!”

  Chamberlain stared at the man, tried to understand what he was talking about. “The greater good?”

  “This college! The enrollment. What is going to happen to this fine institution if the students rush off and join the army? It’s madness! What of their futures? You’re teaching them foolishness!”

  Woods raised his hands, leaned toward Givens, said, “Please, Doctor, we are all gentlemen here. Your point is understood—”

  “No, Dr. Woods, I’m afraid his point is not understood at all.” Chamberlain stood up, could see Givens now, small in his distant chair.

  “Wars are indeed fought by children, by young people who have little say in where they are sent to die. The greater good? These students may not have a greater good if this nation is dissolved. If this war goes on, we will all feel the consequences, whether we understand them or not. It is our job, our responsibility, to prepare these young people for life out there . . . outside these buildings. And right now that life is very uncertain. I’m sorry if you feel your responsibility ends in your classroom.”

  Caldwell stood, did not look at Chamberlain, spoke to Woods. “I’m sure that Professor Chamberlain will concede that there is not much that any of us can do that will affect the outcome of this war. The government’s problems go well beyond the needs and influences of one small college. Dr. Woods, we have made a great deal of progress in building the reputation of Bowdoin as a place where students may come to receive a modern and practical education. Professor Chamberlain has contributed greatly to that reputation, and will continue to do so. Certainly he can understand the benefits of not allowing himself to be sidetracked by issues that are so far removed from that goal.”

  “With all respect to you, Dr. Caldwell . . .” Chamberlain paused, spoke slowly. “If we attempt to teach these students that the most important lessons they will learn are the lessons to be found within these buildings, then we have done them a most serious injustice. And they will discover that quickly, once they leave here. You . . . some of you may be satisfied with the job you do, you may pat yourselves on the back after your daily lectures and sit back in your offices, confident that you have done some great service for our young people, but I am having an increasing difficulty with that. Right now . . . there are professors, men just like us, just as educated, and just as experienced, who are facing their students at the University of Georgia, or the University of Virginia, and telling them that the course their rebellious states are following is the right one, and that they are growing up into a world where the concepts of the United States and a Federal government, and the Constitution, and . . . even the concept of individual freedom for all men, will have no meaning, are obsolete. They will study the history of the United States of America just as we now study the history of England. I’m sorry, gentlemen, I cannot stay focused on my lectures on oratory, or my lessons in German semantics, and pretend that the outcome of this war has no significance.”

  Woods stood, said, “Gentlemen, let us adjourn. Mr. Chamberlain has made some valid points, and I believe little else can be served by debating these issues here. I, for one, do not believe that anything of Mr. Chamberlain’s ideas hold any threat to either this college or his students, and that accordingly, the matter is settled. This meeting is adjourned.”

  The others sat for a moment, surprised by the quick end to the meeting. Chamberlain continued to stand, thoughts pouring through his mind, a great tide of energy, and he felt he could have gone on, had a great deal more to say, and then realized Woods knew that as well. Gradually, the men rose, went to the door, and there were glances, small voices, and Givens moved by him with fragile old steps, did not look at him, and then Grodin, who held out the hand again, smiling again, and Chamberlain could not tell if he had even heard anything he’d said, wondered if any of them had.

  “Mr. Chamberlain, woul
d you remain? If it is not inconvenient . . .” Woods was motioning to the chair, and Chamberlain looked at him, saw kindness in the old face, something fatherly, and he sat down, waited. The last of the others filed out, and the door was closed behind them. Woods put his hands on his head, rubbed his temples, as though wiping away a headache.

  “They probably haven’t been lectured to in a long time, Mr. Chamberlain. They’re not used to it.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was lecturing.”

  “No matter. They’ll recover. No doubt I’ll hear from one or two of them privately, the friendly advice of my colleagues, that maybe I should talk to you myself, set you straight.” He laughed, prodded the headache again.

  Chamberlain watched him, pulled his chair over toward the front of the desk, felt himself heating up again, said, “So, is that what this is? Are you going to tell me that I should watch what I say, that I should pay no attention to my instincts, my fears about the war? I should not disrupt the blind serenity of Bowdoin College?”

  “Certainly not. Mr. Chamberlain, I share many of your concerns. Unlike many of those distinguished men, I have traveled somewhat throughout the South, and I know that what you are saying is probably true. But I also know that these men are right, that there is very little that any of us can do to affect these matters, and that if we open up our worst fears, if we convince these students that our nation is in a deep crisis, it is possible, don’t you see . . . they may take that seriously. They may stop applying themselves, what’s the use, and so forth. Some of them will go off and be soldiers—young people are good at that sort of nonsense—but it’s the rest that concern me, the ones who stay, who look to us for a foundation, something they can build on. It is possible, Mr. Chamberlain, that what you are telling them is taking that foundation away.”