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

by Jeff Shaara

  Hill lifted his field glasses, was watching the river. “They’re on this side,” he said. “They’re coming across.”

  “No, not yet. Too few of them, maybe a skirmish line. They will cross tomorrow.”

  Hill put down the glasses, looked at Jackson, said, “Do you think it’s a feint? Maybe they’re still going to move downriver. We have pulled out of Port Royal. I could turn the men around. . . .”

  “No. Once they began building the bridges it was settled. How could they go anywhere else? It is too easy here, they control the open ground with their guns. We cannot even slow them down from back here. How soon will your men be up, be ready to deploy?”

  “By morning, first light.”

  “Good. It will happen tomorrow. They will do nothing more tonight.”

  Jackson pulled at his horse, and Hill followed. They rode back up toward the trees, quietly, and Jackson thought of Lexington, of Hill the professor, and he turned, smiled at Hill. Hill did not understand, and did not ask, and saw Jackson pull something yellow from his pocket.

  33. LEE

  December 13, 1862. Dawn.

  IT DID not happen as Jackson had hoped. A full day passed, and the attack did not come. The Federal troops had finally crossed the bridges, slow, thick lines marching on fragile ribbons of wood, finally gathering on Lee’s side of the river, but they did not advance, stayed close to the water, spreading out on the plain in a huge sea of blue. The fog had shielded them at first, then lifted late in the morning, and by then the spectacle of it was immense, and Lee had sat on the top of his hill and watched with barely concealed excitement. It was a grand show, and Burnside was doing exactly what Lee wanted him to do. The chess game was over, now it was straightforward and honest and brutal, and Lee would do no more now than watch and wait.

  In Fredericksburg the streets had filled with Federal troops, and Lee could see them crowding between the buildings and the houses, setting up their camps in the shattered ruins. He did not give the order to the artillery, would not do as Sumner had done—would not shell the town.

  The day had passed, and the armies watched each other, one growing, feeling its strength, while the other sat back firmly against its hills. Lee made no attempt to move forward, knew the guns on Stafford Heights were still there, would still control the open fields, and so he spent the day moving men about, small adjustments in a line that needed very little adjusting. When the darkness came, there had been nothing, only slight noises from the town, no campfires, Burnside making sure his men were not seen from Lee’s hills. Lee had thought, How foolish, depriving your men of the warmth of their fires, while bitter winds hurled down the valley. It was an order straight from some textbook, and Lee knew that in the morning, the Federal troops would be weary and stiff and grumbling.

  He awoke before the light, met Taylor beside the small fire, tried to see stars, and of course there would be none. The wide valley, the entire scene, was again bathed in thick fog. Taylor was holding a cup of something hot and steaming, offered it to Lee, knowing Lee did not often drink coffee, but it was very cold.

  Lee said, “Yes, thank you, Major. Have you sent for the commanders?”

  Taylor nodded. “Yes, sir, they should be here very soon.”

  Lee held the cup up to his lips, pulled it away, too hot, blew on it, tried again.

  Taylor said, “General, I do hope we have some activity today. It’s a mighty cold place to just sit.”

  Lee nodded, turned away from the fire, walked over to the horses. A groom was brushing Traveller. Lee raised a hand, and the groom backed away silently.

  Lee reached out to the horse, stroking his neck, still feeling the sore stiffness in his hands, and thought, Taylor was right, this cold . . . these old hands need to be warm. But it will happen today, and by tonight we will again sit before great fires and not care about the cold.

  He had not felt this way before, this sense of comfort, of confidence. He had eighty thousand men around him, more than the Confederate Army had ever put on one field. He had the ground, he had the commanders, and he was facing a man who was unsure and cautious. He said a small prayer, By Your mercy, we will not lose many, our friends . . . Please deliver us . . . and the prayer faded from his mind, he could not ask for more, realized he had already been given much.

  Traveller lowered his head, waiting, and Lee scratched him between the ears, was lost for a moment, saw Mary, the younger girl he had married, courted right over there, across the river in that great house, the beautiful gardens. It was so very long ago. . . .

  There were more noises, the army stirring, men joking and laughing in the cold mist. They understand, he thought, God is smiling on this army, and they feel it. All during the autumn, since the second battle at Manassas, there had been a growing revival of religious sentiment in the army. Tents had gone up at every camp, more preachers had begun traveling with the army, and Lee had felt the spirit, the growing sense of Providence filling the men, watching over them. It was comforting to him, because he still ordered them forward, still sent them to die, and this made it easier somehow, a balance—that God was there, understood their cause, would watch them, keeping them a little more safe.

  There were few trees on his hill, and the light began to find the ground. He could see movement, men walking about in the dull gray of the morning. He turned, looked for Taylor, saw the fire and walked over. Taylor was quickly there, chewing on something. He tried to swallow too quickly, and Lee raised his hand as if to say no, it’s all right, please continue eating. But he knew Taylor, was thankful for his pure devotion, and Taylor cleared his throat, was red-faced, embarrassed, caught his breath.

  “Sorry, General . . . I was just—”

  “Major, please, go and finish your breakfast. We have little to attend to until the others arrive.”

  Taylor saluted, still rubbed his throat, moved away to the wagon where the other staff had gathered. Lee thought, A biscuit would be good, maybe one more for his pocket, and he followed behind Taylor. Down the hill, from the south, came a horse, the first loud sound of the morning, the true beginning of the day. Lee watched, saw the figure approach in the fog, the wide black-plumed hat, the grand entrance of Stuart.

  Lee raised a hand, a quiet acknowledgment, moved quickly to the breakfast wagon and grabbed a pair of biscuits. Stuart waited close to the fire, warming gloved hands. Lee climbed back up the rise, said, “General Stuart, are you well this morning?”

  “Quite well, General, quite.” The voice was high, excited. “Sir, we are extending the far right flank of General Jackson’s line. I have scouted forward, determined that the Federal position rests along the river, then out toward General Jackson to a point near the Richmond Road. The way is open for the enemy to attempt to flank—”

  Lee held up his hand, said, “Wait for your report, please, General. I would like the others to be here, to hear what you have learned. It will be just a few minutes, I am certain.”

  Stuart stopped, began to look past Lee toward the food, the smell of coffee. “General, if you will permit? It was a rather chilly ride up this way.”

  “General, help yourself to some breakfast.”

  Stuart moved quickly toward the table, passed Taylor, who came up beside Lee, to the fire.

  “General Stuart is full of energy this morning. His cavalry will serve us well today.”

  Taylor tried to speak, his mouth distressingly full again, and he made a small grunt. Lee hid his smile as behind them another horse approached, at a slow deliberate trot, from the opposite direction. Lee knew without turning it was Longstreet.

  Longstreet dismounted, moved to the warmth, and now Lee could see the face clearly, the fog had a bright glow, and Longstreet saluted, removed the floppy-brimmed hat, was smoking a short cigar.

  “Any movement to your front, General?” Lee asked.

  “Nothing. Can’t see anything . . . just like up here . . . but there’s some sounds. The picket line sends back regular reports . . . they’r
e eating breakfast, most likely. Won’t do much until the fog clears. Nothing to shoot at yet.”

  Lee stared down at the fire, said, “They are all so . . . cautious. I often wonder if God has done that . . . made them slow. It evens up the fight a bit. They have the numbers . . . the guns.”

  Longstreet stared at Lee, put the hat back on, moved the cigar in his mouth. “Could be,” he said. “Could be they just don’t have the heart for this fight. The generals, I mean. The troops . . . they’re the same boys we served with before. I’ve talked to some of the prisoners. Not much different from these boys up here. They go where they’re told, shoot when they’re told to shoot. But they don’t have much respect for the officers. And the officers don’t have much respect for the generals. It’s not very . . . healthy.”

  Lee watched the fire, thought of the troops, said, “No, General, they are not the same. These men . . . our men are fighting for something that means more to them than obeying their orders. I feel sometimes like God is with us . . . God is protecting these men. He knows they are looking to Him.”

  Longstreet chewed on the cigar, said, “Maybe. I’m not sure if God is in all the places we want Him to be.”

  It was an odd statement, and Lee still looked down, thought, No, He is with you too, General. He thought of Longstreet’s children, how Longstreet could not even plan the funeral. It was George Pickett, his old friend, who had made the arrangements, and Longstreet had not even attended, could not watch his children laid in the ground, and so did not hear the words of the minister, the comforting blessings, the lesson of God’s will. Lee thought, It was a mistake, he should have been there, God would have given him peace.

  Lee also thought that Longstreet had come back too soon, returned to duty too quickly. But Longstreet would not speak of it, would not talk of his wife, of the experience. Instead he pulled himself into a quiet darkness. Lee felt pain for him, wanted to give him something . . . some comfort from God, show him that God would help him, but there was no opening, and so Lee knew there would always be that difference between them, a different way of seeing . . . everything, the enemy, the war.

  Jackson appeared now, at a quick gallop from the same direction as Stuart. Lee thought, No, it can’t be. Then he saw the face, the sharp nose and glaring blue eyes from under a wide black hat, and yes, it was him, but . . . he was dressed in a new uniform, gold buttons shining down the front of his coat, crisp gold braiding on his sleeves, a gold braid around the wide black hat. Lee did not know what to say, thought, This is very strange.

  Stuart was back, held a heaping plate of food, said loudly, “Well, General Jackson, you are a beautiful and most gallant sight this morning. Von Borcke told me it was a fine fit, but I had no idea . . . the uniform suits you most elegantly.”

  Jackson did not speak, seemed embarrassed, moved toward the fire and removed his hat, saluted Lee. “Thank you, General Stuart. Your gift was appreciated. Very kind.”

  Longstreet had said nothing, began to laugh, said, “General Jackson, this was a gift? Well now, was there some special occasion? I apologize for not being better informed.”

  Stuart began to move about, excitedly, spilling food from the plate. “No, General, it was just . . . something I felt this army could use. We have a quite famous man in our midst. It seemed appropriate for him to dress the part.”

  Jackson frowned, and Longstreet said, “Well, yes, I understand that. The papers up North are giving our good Stonewall here credit for bad weather in New England and a poor harvest in Illinois. Certainly, he should dress the part.”

  Jackson put the hat back on, stared down, hiding his face, which was bright red. Lee was still speechless, had never known Jackson to look like anything other than a rugged mess.

  “I must say, General,” Lee began, “the change is . . . a positive one. Yes, General Stuart, you are to be commended for your good taste. It puts the rest of us . . .” He looked down to his own simple gray coat. “Well, let us say that we had best be careful walking among the troops . . . there will be confusion as to who is in command.” It was a rare joke from Lee.

  Jackson looked up, concerned, said, “Oh, certainly not, sir. Forgive me, General Stuart, but perhaps this was a mistake. I did not mean to suggest anything of my own . . . I did not wish to appear grandiose. . . .”

  Longstreet was still laughing, said, “Nonsense, General. I feel today that you are the new symbol of this army—gold braid and all. You have truly inspired us. Perhaps I will go and polish my boots.”

  This was very good, Lee thought, they are all in good spirits. But he knew this would go on until he stopped it, and he said, “Gentlemen, we must address the matter at hand. Please join me.” He motioned, and they moved toward a small table.

  Taylor jumped ahead of them, unrolled a map, and Lee said, “General Longstreet, please show us where your troops are positioned.”

  Taylor held a small piece of pencil, laid it on the map. Longstreet tossed the cigar aside and began to make short straight lines with the pencil.

  “We are anchored on the north by Anderson’s division, up on the bend in the river, then General Ransom’s division is in several lines along and below the ridge of Marye’s Heights, with Cobb’s brigade dug in down on the road, behind that stone wall. To their right is General McLaws, and farther down, in the woods to the right, are Pickett and Hood. General Hood is my right flank, and is connected in those heavy trees with General Jackson’s left. Up here, on the heights, are the Washington Artillery, with Colonel Alexander’s batteries in support. It is a very strong line, General.”

  “Very well, General. General Jackson, would you please extend the line for us?”

  Jackson took off the hat again, leaned forward slightly, said, “General Hill . . . A. P. Hill is on the left, adjoining General Hood. His position is supported . . . here . . . by General Taliaferro and General Early. To the right flank and behind is Daniel Hill. General Lee . . .” He paused, ran his finger along the map. “We have completed construction of a road, running behind the lines for our entire length. We can move troops as is necessary. If the enemy penetrates our line at any point, the reserves—Taliaferro and Early—can change their position rapidly. If the enemy makes an attempt to cut our center, or if General Pickett is pressed, we can move to his aid. Our right flank is anchored here.” He pointed to a straight line, a road that led away from the river, out to the west. “General Stuart has advised that the enemy has placed his flank on this road, and does not threaten farther southward. Daniel Hill is positioned to move farther down if the enemy changes his direction.”

  Lee stared at Jackson, and there was a brief silence. Jackson had not built his reputation by defensive tactics, and even Longstreet nodded, impressed, said quietly, “Good, very good.”

  Stuart was moving impatiently, and Lee said, “General Stuart, are you protecting General Jackson’s flank?”

  “Yes, sir. We are covering the enemy’s position from the river, as far out as General Daniel Hill’s position. If the enemy begins to threaten downriver, to turn General Jackson’s line, we can block his advance until the line is moved.”

  “Very well.” Lee leaned over the map, studied the positions, the ground. “General Jackson, there is a large area of trees extending out toward the enemy from the center of your line. That area could be vulnerable. There could be good cover there for the enemy’s advance.”

  Jackson leaned forward, squinted, said, “A. P. Hill is dug in along that position, sir. I will confirm that he is aware of that possibility.”

  Lee nodded. “Very well. I have confidence in General Hill. He will not leave himself at a disadvantage.”

  Behind the men, out toward the open field that stretched toward the town, the batteries of the Washington Artillery were set into shallow pits. The men were manning the guns, watching the fog slowly drifting in the growing breeze, a fine, cold mist. The sun was higher now, and across the river the far heights could be seen, the flags of the Federal headquarters, th
e closely spaced guns of the enemy. Now, the fog had settled downward, into the town, and rising above the dense gray were church spires, the only sign that there was a town there at all. The meeting was concluded and the four men walked out toward the guns, walked behind the crews, who stood stiffly, quietly, reverent respect for the four generals.

  Lee moved closer to one of the guns, placed his sore hand on a spoked wheel, said aloud, “How odd. The fog is lower. . . .”

  Now other pieces of the town began to appear, the rooftops of the taller buildings, and he began to see some of the destruction, the black skeletons of burnt-out houses. A breeze blew sharply up the hill, and below, the fog was moving, breaking into smaller layers. Thick puffs of white began to move past the town, clearing the plain, and suddenly they could see far below, down the river.

  Stuart said, “My God. They’re coming.”

  On the wide plain in front of Jackson’s woods, a vast checkerboard was taking shape. Neat formations were moving out slowly on the clean snow-covered field, the sharp squares of blue spreading out on the stark white, and Lee stared, amazed, had never seen anything like this. The troops had nothing to protect them, nothing to hide them except the fog, and now it was clearing rapidly.

  Longstreet moved up next to Lee. “Beautiful.”

  Lee said nothing, stared down from the hill, resting on the wheel of the big gun. The soldiers around them were still quiet, absorbed by the stunning sight, and he began to count, the regiments, the strength. From the river’s edge out into the plain he tried to estimate, could see . . . fifty . . . sixty thousand troops. They were not advancing yet, were not spread into battle line, and so it was like a grand review, some great blue parade.

  There were always trees, hills, obstructing the view. You saw them coming in pieces, sometimes wide lines, maybe a whole brigade. But the smoke would come, the battle would be on before the rest came forward, and so you knew the strength, knew the numbers in your head, would make a good guess where they would hit the hard-est, where the farthest units would be thrown in at your own lines, but you would never see all of them, the whole army. Not like this. He even saw the reserves, more blue masses across the river, crowding the bank. And he thought, Longstreet is right, God help us, but it is a beautiful sight.