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 his horse finally, a gift from the town of Brunswick, a wonderful surprise. It was light gray, dappled with white spots, and he rode slowly, grandly, through the formations, watching the men of the regiment turning themselves into soldiers. And they had watched him as well, as he was taught and drilled night after night by Ames. Now, as they rode the long rails south, there was a feeling, shared by all of them, that they were ready for the only real test. Ames still pushed them, rode them hard, drilled them so often that they began to curse him, hate him, but they continued to learn, and if Ames was despised, they also knew he was a good soldier.

  In Washington they continued to drill, lines and formations, columns of march and lines of battle, the bugle commands and the hand signals of the officers. Then they were issued muskets and ammunition, backpacks and blankets and canteens. Around them, in camps spread throughout the city and well beyond, great fields of blue troops and white tents, horses and wagons, began to move together, toward and across the river, lining up and flowing out along the narrow, hard roads. The men knew it was their turn, fresh troops for a battered army, and they began the march, not to the south, as they had thought, but northwest, toward a far corner of Maryland.

  CHAMBERLAIN HEARD the reports, the rumors and gossip, and sorted through it all, began to feel an instinct for what was accurate and what was absurd. Then there was the official announcement, passed along formally to each regiment: General Pope was gone, relieved. The reckless and pompous fool had been replaced, after he had led his army to a bloody disaster, another costly and painful embarrassment on the same ground that they knew as Bull Run, and it was the beloved McClellan who was getting his second chance.

  What his troops, and General Lee, did not know was that an extraordinary piece of good fortune had fallen upon McClellan. Lee’s Special Order 191, which detailed to his generals their movements and objectives, had been issued to all his commanders, and when they began to move away, units of the Federal Army had felt their way cautiously out, moving slowly over the ground the Confederates had left. It was here that a pair of soldiers, walking the abandoned camps, found a prize, three precious cigars, rolled up inside a piece of paper. They may have considered the cigars more valuable than the paper, but had the good sense to turn it over to an officer, who quickly took it to McClellan’s headquarters. It was a copy of Special Order 191. So now there were no more ghosts, no great, unseen obstacles to McClellan’s mission. He knew Lee’s plan, his troop strengths, and their positions: that his army had been divided, Jackson to Harper’s Ferry, and Longstreet moving north into Maryland.

  Now they were marching in a great blue line, and Chamberlain rode the grand horse, crested the small rolling mounds, could see the vast army in a long curving line in front of him, the dark blue snake spotted by patches of white and brown, clusters of wagons and cannon. Behind him he saw more, much more of the same, his own troops, and behind them, a long cloud of thick dust, the rest of the great army.

  They marched through farmlands, fields of corn, some just picked. The farmers, anticipating the destruction from a hundred thousand marching troops, had made a frantic effort to save what they could, because they did not believe the army’s assurances.

  Maryland was a neutral state, and though most were against the cause of the rebels, they did not welcome the blue-coated troops as their own. They did not want this war fought on their lands. But if they protested and anguished over the presence of the great blue masses, they regarded the move northward by Lee’s rebel army as even worse, a hostile invasion, a violation. The warm welcome from the liberated people of the state that Lee had so expected was nowhere in evidence. And so both armies were now on neutral ground.

  McClellan was moving with unusual speed, to avoid panic in the North, a speed that Lee did not anticipate, and when the armies began to find each other, Lee spread his greatly outnumbered troops along a small tributary of the Potomac, Antietam Creek, and waited for the assault McClellan was pushing toward him.

  In Maryland, September is still summer, and there had been no break from the heat. Chamberlain rode in a thick daze, his body moving with a slow rhythm with the steps of his horse. There was no breeze, and he felt as if there was no air at all, just a thin mist of dry dust. He could see down to the surface of the road, saw the moving feet of the men in front of him, saw little puffs kick up from each foot, the tiny clouds rising slowly, coming together into one continuous line of hot, dry, choking dirt. Most of the cloud did not quite reach him, as it did the men on the ground, he was just high enough to escape most of it, but he knew the men behind him were breathing nothing but, and he felt guilty, avoided looking down at the hoofprints of his own horse, knew he was helping to choke his own men.

  He looked out across a cornfield, wondered, Why don’t we just . . . move over there, no dust? But he knew there was a reason, some reason, and thought, Of course, fences, and ditches, and we do not march for the convenience of the men.

  Ames rode beside him, had said nothing for a long hour or more. Chamberlain wanted to look at him, wondered if Ames was sweating as much as he was, but thought, No, keep it to the front. So he drifted off again, now began to think of Maine, knew it was a bad idea, could not help it. September . . . the cool streams, the cool shade, his mother’s cool apple cider . . . He sat up straight. Stop that!

  Behind him the heat was pressing his men down hard, and men were falling out on the side of the road, lagging behind. This was their first real march, and if they were sturdy and fit and strong, they were not ready for this heat. The officers behind had tried to keep them in line, and there were shouts and cursing, but it had stopped now. The veterans knew this was the way it went, and tonight most would catch up and find their camps. By tomorrow they would begin it all again. They would be lighter as well—all day Chamberlain had stared at a continuous stream of discarded equipment lining the edge of the road, backpacks and blankets, small cloth sacks, boxes and pouches. Some of it was personal, the treasured memories of home, but most was army issue. New soldiers did not yet understand . . . they would issue you as much as you could carry, and the more you marched, the less you would carry, for even the precious gifts and memories lost meaning in the heat.

  Chamberlain could see wider, fatter hills now, deep green mounds, and they began to climb, a slight incline. Down the road, coming toward him, was a line of men, walking slowly, with heads down, kicking through the dust, and he saw: prisoners.

  The men were mostly barefoot, torn and ragged clothes hung loosely from thin bodies. There were pieces of an identifiable uniform. He saw one man who seemed to be an officer, and the man looked up at him as they passed by, glanced at the fine fat horse, and Chamberlain wanted to stop, talk to the man, but they were gone. Then there were more, thirty, forty, and they did not look up, moved steadily, their guards walking alongside with long bayonets they did not need. Chamberlain wondered, Are they still at war? Am I the enemy, even now? Their war is over . . . maybe. Or maybe it will never be over.

  In front of him the line of troops began to climb the larger hill. He could see the blue moving up, toward a small pass, a slight break between two taller mounds. Please, he thought, let us reach those hills, let us stop up there, it would be cooler, it has to be. The sun hung just above a long line of low mountains that stretched far away, to the left. His mind drifted again. He began to focus on the sun now, talking to it: go on, move . . . down . . . He closed his eyes, willing it lower.

  The climb became steeper. He had to lean forward now, and Ames suddenly pointed, stuck an arm out in front of him. Chamberlain focused, saw a tree split and shredded into a great pile of white splinters, and now there were more, and the smell of fresh earth, scattered sprays of dirt, small holes, then larger ones, and now beside the road there were broken and crushed wagons, pushed aside by the lead troops, pieces of lumber and metal, and some twisted forms that Chamberlain eyed with fascination.

  Ames said, “A good fight here yesterday . . . Turner
’s Gap, they held us up for a while. Gibbon’s ‘Black Hats’ pushed them back.”

  Chamberlain saw more evidence of the fight now, a small farm, the house burned, a thin line of black smoke still rising, drifting away finally, high above. Beyond, there was a shattered barn, torn into pieces, great rips in the thin walls. He saw men out in a field, working . . . a burial detail, a long line of fresh, open dirt, and he looked for the bodies, the dead, saw some blue and white and brown . . . things—they were too far away to see clearly. Now they were inside the gap, cresting the wide mountain, high hills rising on both sides of them.

  He had seen a tornado once, just for a few brief moments, a hard storm of wind and rain, and a thick black funnel dropping down like some great evil claw. It had touched down only for a minute, had torn through the fields near his family’s farm. He had stayed out in the fields, watched it through stinging bites of cold rain, until it lifted again, pulled back up into the blackness. He never forgot that, had followed with pure amazement the clean path it had cut, the total destruction weaving through the fields and woods and then suddenly stopping. Now, here, he saw it again, the total obliteration of trees and bushes and wagons and cannon, torn and ragged pieces of raw death alongside the untouched, the perfect.

  It was cooler now. The sun had dropped behind the big hill, and he turned around in the saddle, looked back down the line of men, saw fewer than he had expected. The line seemed stretched out, pulled from the rear, and the faces of the men were down, the steps heavy and automatic. Soon, he thought, just a bit more.

  They were moving downhill now, and he saw the sun again, the last piece of orange over far hills, and then there was a bugle, from far up ahead, and the lines in front of him began to slow. He pulled his horse up, saw a flood of blue spreading in both directions away from the road, filling small open spaces under great wide trees. The bugles became louder now, came down the line, closer, and the sound filled him with a vast joy, soothing notes. His own men had stopped, began to bunch up again. Ames said something to the color bearers, and a bugle rose up, blew loud and clear, the call to fall out, stack arms. They were done for the day.

  September 17, 1862

  THE BUGLES began early, before dawn. He rolled off the cot, stared ahead into black nothing, tried to focus his brain. Ames was already gone, up before the bugle, and Chamberlain could make out the empty cot, thought, Is that what it takes to be a commander? He reached for his uniform, laid carefully at the end of his own cot, struggled with the brass buttons, his clumsy fingers not yet awake. He tried to stretch, reached his arms out wide, could not raise them up, so he moved out of the tent, and heard the sounds of men moving, the slow hum of the army coming alive.

  “A good mornin’ to ye, Colonel.”

  “Huh?” He tried to see the face, a short man, thick, built like a bull, and the man held out a tin cup, steaming hot.

  “Colonel Ames sent me to get you, Colonel. Says you might be needin’ a touch of the elixir.”

  Chamberlain stared at the man, heard the accent, the hint of the Irish.

  “Thank you . . . uh . . .”

  “Kilrain, sir. Sergeant Kilrain. Glad to be of service, sir. The boys—we been a-watchin’ you with some interest, that we have. You come a long way. Becomin’ a pleasure to serve under you.”

  Chamberlain took the hot cup, drank a painful gulp, could see the face now, faintly in the first light, broad, round, familiar, maybe. There were so many.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Do I know you? You say you’ve been watching me?”

  “Aye, Colonel. We ain’t properly met, but bein’ you’re the second in command and all, and not long of this army, we have been takin’ an interest, don’t you see? Fact is, Colonel, when we go into line against those rebels up there, we need to know who’s up front. We was a bit leery of you, some of us older gents. I been tellin’ em you’ll be turnin’ out all right.”

  “You a veteran, Sergeant?” He realized from the gravelly voice, the heavy face, Kilrain was older, maybe near the limit, forty-five.

  “Aye, Colonel, I suppose you could say that. Did me duty in the regular army for a while—made the great long walk with General Scott, down South. Not very many of us back then, and we did a mighty fine job, if I do say. A great many more of us now, and we’re not doin’ such good work.”

  Chamberlain could see now, across the sea of tents and men and wagons, and he felt clearer, not sure if it was the dawn or the coffee. He wanted to ask this sturdy little man some questions, felt something . . . some curiosity, as though this man had something he could use, some knowledge.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. Perhaps we can talk later.” Chamberlain held out a hand, an old instinct.

  Kilrain saluted, said, “Best be gettin’ back, Colonel. We be movin’ shortly. There’s a mess of rebs up there, just a ways. Enjoy your coffee, Colonel.”

  Chamberlain watched him leave, then turned and began to look for Ames, thought, Maybe I should tell him what Kilrain said, about the rebs . . . the Confederate Army. But Ames would know, of course, and Chamberlain was still feeling slightly left out of things, too high above the flow of rumors and gossip of the men, too far below the official reports. But if Kilrain were right . . . it could be their first fight.

  He tossed the last bit of coffee out of the cup, began to walk. Off to the west, down the hard, dry road they would march again, came a rumble, a brief burst of distant thunder, and he thought of rain, an early morning storm, but the men around him stopped moving and the faces turned, and he knew that it was not thunder, it was guns, the big long-range cannon. The sounds came again, more this time, some closer, the answering rounds, and the men began to move again, quicker now. He saw Ames talking to the company commanders, and he cursed quietly, trotted over, embarrassed for not being there sooner.

  “. . . and we will remain near this road . . . staying in reserve of the rest of the corps until needed. Tell your men . . . be ready, stay in formation.” Ames turned, saw Chamberlain, said, “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, I woke with the bugle—”

  “If I had needed you, Colonel, I would have awakened you. I have just informed the officers that we have been instructed to remain in place, in our position in line of march. The army is spreading out in front of us, a couple miles up. The enemy is dug in behind a small creek, Antietam Creek, just this side of Sharpsburg. We may be put into the attack at any time. For now, get the men to step it up, finish their breakfasts, then wait for the orders to move. Got that?”

  “Certainly, Colonel.” He paused, listened again. The rumbling had stopped. “Colonel, whose guns are those? Is the attack begun?”

  “Likely it’s the first feeling out, probing, testing the strength. It’s like a game to the artillery boys, letting you know they can hit you when the time comes. Let’s grab some breakfast, Colonel.”

  Ames moved away, and Chamberlain followed, toward the wagons and the plates of food. The fare was much simpler now, hardtack, the thin bread with the consistency and flavor of old bricks, and bacon, nearly raw. He caught the smell: a steaming pot of thick coffee. He felt his stomach turn slightly, did not feel hungry, but he saw Ames putting hardtack in his pocket, thought, If today is the day . . . there might not be a mess wagon later. He grabbed a handful of thick, greasy bacon, stuffed it in his mouth, then the hardtack, and he followed Ames’s lead, put a few pieces in his pocket, kept one out to eat now. He held out the tin cup Kilrain had given him, the mess orderly filled it, and suddenly there was a bugle, their own, and the men began to flow away from the tents and the wagons, and his stomach turned again. He looked at the coffee, tossed it out, and ran toward the front of the gathering troops.

  THEY REACHED a small village, Porterstown, and marched through wide streets, the townspeople standing in doorways, leaning out windows, some waving, others just staring. Farther ahead, on the creek itself, was the Middle Bridge, held by the Confederate division of Daniel Harvey Hill. The rebel fo
rces were dug in, back, away from the creek, and to their front the Federal Army was spreading out, into lines of attack, were crossing the creek and preparing for the assault. The battle had begun on the far right, just after dawn, and now, as the sun began to rise up behind them, Chamberlain could hear the steady rumble, and as they moved closer, the sharp sounds of single cannon. He sat high on his horse, moving along with the same slow rhythm of the march, but now the men did not fall out, did not feel the weight of the hot September morning, but stared to the front, marching steadily, closer to the sound of the guns.

  He heard the steady clatter of muskets now, still off to the right of the road, to the northwest. The battle is not in front of us, he thought. Strange that we should move this way . . . not up there.

  In front of them Chamberlain saw a rise, a long, wide hill, and as they began to move up, he saw guns, rows of black cannon set into shallow, round depressions before the crest of the hill. Just then they began to fire, quick bursts of gray smoke, and a sudden shocking boom that startled him and his horse. He bounced around on the road, had to grab the horse hard to calm him. From over the hill he saw Ames, riding hard, past lines of troops that were moving away now, to the right, toward the sounds of the battle.

  Ames reined up his horse, and Chamberlain saw he was sweating. “Colonel, we’re here, right here. Keep the men in column lines. Let’s move them out into this field. Wait for further orders. We are part of the reserve.”

  Chamberlain turned, and Ames rode past him, into the columns of men, and gave the command to the bugler. With the signal, the men moved quickly off the road. Then Ames rode up again, toward the front of the column, slowed his horse as he reached Chamberlain, said, “Colonel, keep them tight, keep them ready. I am to survey the field to our front.”

  Chamberlain watched him ride away, up the long hill, turning his horse to the side behind the rows of black cannon. The guns began to fire again, a loud and thunderous volley, and the hill became a great, thick fog bank.