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

by Jeff Shaara

  Kilrain grunted. Chamberlain said, “I remember him sitting there, sipping tea. I tried to point out that a man is not a horse, and he replied, very patiently, that that was the thing I did not understand, that a Negro was not a man. Then I left the room.”

  Kilrain smiled. Chamberlain said slowly, “I don’t really understand it. Never have. The more I think on it the more it horrifies me. How can they look in the eyes of a man and make a slave of him and then quote the Bible? But then right after that, after I left the room, the other one came to see me, the professor. I could see he was concerned, and I respected him, and he apologized for having offended me in my own home.”

  “Oh yes.” Kilrain nodded. “He would definitely do that.”

  “But then he pointed out that he could not apologize for his views, because they were honestly held. And I had to see he was right there. Then he talked to me for a while, and he was trying to get through to me, just as I had tried with the minister. The difference was that this was a brilliant man. He explained that the minister was a moral man, kind to his children, and that the minister believed every word he said, just as I did, and then he said, ‘My young friend, what if it is you who are wrong?’ I had one of those moments when you feel that if the rest of the world is right, then you yourself have gone mad. Because I was really thinking of killing him, wiping him off the earth, and it was then I realized for the first time that if it was necessary to kill them, then I would kill them, and something at the time said: You cannot be utterly right. And there is still something every now and then which says, ‘Yes, but what if you are wrong?’ ” Chamberlain stopped. A shell burst dimly a long way off, a dull and distant thumping.

  They sat for a long while in silence. Then Kilrain said, softly smiling, “Colonel, you’re a lovely man.” He shook his head. “I see at last a great difference between us, and yet I admire ye, lad. You’re an idealist, praise be.”

  Kilrain rubbed his nose, brooding. Then he said, “The truth is, Colonel, that there’s no divine spark, bless you. There’s many a man alive no more value than a dead dog. Believe me, when you’ve seen them hang each other … Equality? Christ in Heaven. What I’m fighting for is the right to prove I’m a better man than many. Where have you seen this divine spark in operation, Colonel? Where have you noted this magnificent equality? The Great White Joker in the Sky dooms us all to stupidity or poverty from birth. No two things on earth are equal or have an equal chance, not a leaf nor a tree. There’s many a man worse than me, and some better, but I don’t think race or country matters a damn. What matters is justice. ’Tis why I’m here. I’ll be treated as I deserve, not as my father deserved. I’m Kilrain, and I God damn all gentlemen. I don’t know who me father was and I don’t give a damn. There’s only one aristocracy, and that’s right here—” he tapped his white skull with a thick finger “—and you, Colonel laddie, are a member of it and don’t even know it. You are damned good at everything I’ve seen you do, a lovely soldier, an honest man, and you got a good heart on you too, which is rare in clever men. Strange thing, I’m not a clever man meself, but I know it when I run across it. The strange and marvelous thing about you, Colonel darlin’, is that you believe in mankind, even preachers, whereas when you’ve got my great experience of the world you will have learned that good men are rare, much rarer than you think. Ah—” he raised his hands, smiling “—don’t you worry about ministers. The more you kill, the more you do the world a service.” He chuckled, rubbing his face. His nose was fat and soft, rippling under his fingers.

  Chamberlain said, “What has been done to the black is a terrible thing.”

  “True. From any point of view. But your freed black will turn out no better than many the white that’s fighting to free him. The point is that we have a country here where the past cannot keep a good man in chains, and that’s the nature of the war. It’s the aristocracy I’m after. All that lovely, plumed, stinking chivalry. The people who look at you like a piece of filth, a cockroach, ah.” His face twitched to stark bitterness. “I tell you, Colonel, we got to win this war.” He brooded. “What will happen, do you think, if we lose? Do you think the country will ever get back together again?”

  “Doubt it. Wound is too deep. The differences … If they win there’ll be two countries, like France and Germany in Europe, and the border will be armed. Then there’ll be a third country in the West, and that one will be the balance of power.”

  Kilrain sat moodily munching on a blade of grass. More cannon thumped; the dull sound rolled among the hills. Kilrain said, “They used to have signs on tavern doors: Dogs and Irishmen keep out. You ever see them signs, Colonel?”

  Chamberlain nodded.

  “They burned a Catholic church up your way not long ago. With some nuns in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a divine spark.”

  Chamberlain grinned, shook his head. Kilrain turned away. Chamberlain sat for a while silently and then took out a copy of Harper’s Weekly he’d carried up with him and began to look through it. There was an article by a general from Argentina concerning the use of Negro troops. He said that they fought very well, with training.

  Chamberlain’s nose wrinkled. The world around him grew silent; there was something in the air. The odor of dead meat came down on the wind, drifting through the trees. Soft and sour, the smell of distant death. It passed like an invisible cloud. Kilrain said, “Make you a little wager, Colonel. We’ll sit here all day and in the evening we’ll march away again.” He lay back. “So I might’s well get some rest.”

  Chamberlain moved back against a tree. He was not tired. He closed his eyes, saw a sudden shocking memory of death, torn flaps of skin, the black rotted meat of muscle.

  Kilrain said sleepily, “I bet nothing happens today.”

  But Chamberlain knew. He was certain. He looked toward the odor of death. Still early in the day. Long time until nightfall. They’ll come. He could not relax. But what if it is you who are wrong? But I am not wrong. Thank God for that. If I were an officer for them, on the other side, what would I be feeling now?

  The cannon had stilled. The old soldier was popping corn: pop pop poppity pop.

  Chamberlain put down the paper, folded his arms. Waited.

  3.

  LONGSTREET

  They had taken a door from its hinges at the Thompson house and placed it across fence rails to serve as a map table. Lee stood above it with his arms folded behind him, staring down. Although the morning was warm and humid his coat was buttoned at the throat, his face pale. He put one hand down, drummed on the map, shook his head, then turned abruptly and walked off to the edge of the trees to look toward Cemetery Hill.

  Longstreet sat gazing at the map, fixing it in his mind. Johnston and Clarke had scouted the Union position and it was drawn now on the map in blue ink. Longstreet looked down at the map and then up at the hazy blue ridge in the east, trying to orient himself.

  There were two hills beyond Gettysburg: first Cemetery Hill and beyond that Culp’s Hill. The Union Army had dug in along the crest of both hills, in a crescent. From the two hills ran a long ridge, like the shaft of a fishhook, Cemetery Ridge, sloping gradually down to the south to two more hills, one rocky and bare, the other high and thickly wooded. Meade had put troops along the ridge so that his position was shaped like the fishhook, but there were no troops yet on the rocky hills.

  Longstreet sat alone, a forbidding figure. He was thinking: Lee has made up his mind; there’s nothing you can do. Well. Then there will be a scrap. He took a deep breath. Ought to get something to eat.

  “General?”

  He looked down, saw the handsome face of Taylor, Lee’s aide.

  “General Lee wishes to speak to you, sir.”

  Lee was up on the rise by the seminary, walking back and forth under the shade trees. Officers sat quietly by, joking softly, respectfully with each other, keeping an eye on the old man walking back and forth, back and forth, stopping to stare at the eastern
hills, the eastern haze. Longstreet came up.

  “General,” Lee said.

  Longstreet grunted. There was bright heat in Lee’s eyes, like fever. Longstreet felt a shudder of alarm.

  Lee said, “I like to go into battle with the agreement of my commanders, as far as possible, as you know. We are all members of this army, in a common cause.”

  Longstreet waited.

  “I understand your position,” Lee said. “I did not want this fight, but I think it was forced upon us. As the war was.” He added, “As the war was.” He stopped and frowned, put up his fingers and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said. He gestured toward the north, toward Ewell. “General Ewell has changed his mind about attacking to the left. He insists the enemy is too firmly entrenched and has been heavily reinforced in the night. I’ve been over there personally. I tend to agree with him. There are elements of at least three Union corps occupying those hills.”

  Longstreet waited. Lee had been over to the left, through Gettysburg, to inspect Ewell’s position, but he had not been to the right to check on Longstreet. It was a measure of his trust, and Longstreet knew it.

  “I spoke to Ewell of your suggestion that he move around to the right. Both he and Early were opposed.”

  “Early.” Longstreet grimaced, spat.

  “Yes.” Lee nodded. “Both generals were of the opinion that an attack on the right would draw off Union forces and that they would then be able to take the hills. They insist that withdrawing from Gettysburg, giving it back to the enemy, would be bad for morale, is unnecessary, and might be dangerous.”

  Lee looked at him, the deep-set eyes still bright, still hot, still questing. Longstreet said nothing.

  “You disagree,” Lee said.

  Longstreet shrugged. He had disagreed last night, had argued all morning, but now he was setting his mind to it. The attack would come.

  “We must attack,” General Lee said forcefully. “We must attack. I would rather not have done it upon this ground, but every moment we delay the enemy uses to reinforce himself. We cannot support ourselves in this country. We cannot let him work around behind us and cut us off from home. We must hit him now. We pushed him yesterday; he will remember it. The men are ready. I see no alternative.”

  “Yes, sir,” Longstreet said. He wants me to agree. But I cannot agree. Let’s get on with it.

  Lee waited for a moment, but Longstreet said nothing, and the silence lengthened until at last Lee said, “You will attack on the right with the First Corps.”

  Longstreet nodded. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was beginning to relax inside, like an unclenching fist. Now that you knew for sure it was coming a man could rest a bit.

  “I want you to attack en echelon, to take Cemetery Hill in reverse. Hill will support you with Pender and Anderson. Heth’s division will be in reserve. It had a hard day yesterday. Ewell’s people will demonstrate, to keep them from reinforcing against you.”

  “All right,” Longstreet said. “But I don’t have Pickett. I have only Hood and McLaws.”

  Lee said, “You will have to go in without him.”

  Longstreet said stubbornly, “Law’s brigade is still coming up. I must have Law.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “At least another hour.”

  “All right.” Lee nodded. His head bobbed tightly; he was blinking.

  “It will take time to position the men, the artillery.”

  “At your discretion, General.”

  “Sir.” Longstreet bowed slightly.

  “Let us go to the map.” Lee turned back toward the table. “I am suspicious of written orders since that affair at Sharpsburg.”

  Back at the map table men waited for them expectantly. Someone told a joke; there was a ripple of laughter. Lee did not seem to notice.

  McLaws and Hood were at the table, along with A. P. Hill. Hill had looked well in the morning, but he did not look well now. Lee bent down over the map. He said, “You will attack up the Emmitsburg Road, up Cemetery Ridge, passing in front of the Rocky Hill. Your objective will be to get in the rear of the Union Army.”

  McLaws bent over the map. He was a patient man, stubborn and slow, not brilliant, but a dependable soldier. He had a deep streak of sloppy sentimentality to him and he loved to sit around fires singing sad songs of home. He tended to be a bit pompous at times, but he was reliable.

  Lee said to McLaws, “Well, General, do you think you can carry this line?”

  McLaws shrugged, glanced briefly at Longstreet. He was well aware of Longstreet’s theory of defensive tactics. He said pontifically, “Well, sir, I know of nothing to prevent my taking that line, but then, of course, I haven’t seen it myself. I wouldn’t mind taking out a line of skirmishers to reconnoiter the position.”

  “Unnecessary,” Longstreet said. “Waste of time. We’ve had scouts out all morning. Let’s get on with it, General. I don’t want you to leave your division.”

  McLaws looked to Lee. Lee nodded.

  “Yes. Well, we will step off in echelon, from right to left. Ewell will wait until he hears your artillery. The left of your advance will be on the Emmitsburg Road. Your right will sweep under those rocky heights.”

  “We’ll have enfilade fire coming down on us.”

  “Not for long,” Lee said. “You’ll be up over the ridge and take them in the rear. When you are heavily engaged, Ewell will take them in the front.”

  Longstreet nodded. It might work. Heavy loss, but it might work.

  Hood, who had been silent, said suddenly, softly, “General Lee?”

  They turned to face him. Lee considered him a fine tactician, and more than that, Hood was a man you listened to. He said, in that soft voice, “General, I’d like to send one brigade around those rocky heights. I think I can get into their wagon trains back there.”

  Lee shook his head quickly, raised a hand as if warding him off.

  “Let’s concentrate, General, concentrate. I can’t risk losing a brigade.”

  Hood said nothing, glanced at Longstreet. McLaws was not quite sure where to post his division. They discussed that for a while, and then explained it to Hill. Longstreet turned suddenly to Sorrel, who was standing by.

  “Major, I need something to eat.”

  “To eat, sir? Of course, sir. What would you like, sir?”

  “Marching food,” Longstreet said. “I don’t give a damn what.”

  Sorrel moved off. Longstreet looked up and saw Harry Heth, a white bandage on his head, standing weakly by a tree, looking down vacantly to the map table, trying to comprehend.

  “How are you, Harry?” Longstreet said.

  Heth turned, squinted, blinked. “I’m fine,” he said. “What’s happening? Are you going to attack? Where’s my division?”

  Lee said, “Your division will not fight today, General. I want you to rest.” There was that tone in his voice, that marvelous warmth, that made them all look not at Heth but at Lee, the graybeard, the dark-eyed, the old man, the fighter.

  “Sir, I’m fine,” Heth said. But he could not even stand without the hand on the tree.

  Lee smiled. “Of course, sir. But I would rather you rested. We will soon be needing you.” He turned back to the table. “Gentlemen?” he said.

  They moved out. Alexander was off to place the artillery. McLaws moved out to join his division. Hood walked for a moment at Longstreet’s side.

  “We marched all night,” Hood said. “Took a two-hour break, from two A.M. to four, then marched again to get here.”

  “I know,” Longstreet said.

  “Law’s people will come even farther, with no rest. It’s twenty-four miles to Guilford. He left at three A.M. When he gets here he’ll be pretty tired.” Hood squinted at the sun. “Not that it makes much difference, I guess. But one thing, General. Everybody here’s had first crack at the water. I want to round some up for Law’s boys when they arrive. They’ll be thirsty, wells may be dry.”


  “See to it,” Longstreet said. “Any way you can.” He paused, watched the men around him moving into motion, men mounting horses, cannon moving past and swinging into position, the artillery people beginning to dig trenches alongside the guns. He said, “Your idea of moving to the right was sound, but his mind was set. Well, we’ll do what we can.” He turned. At moments like this it was difficult to look a man in the eye. He put out his hand.

  “Well, Sam, let’s go to it. Take care of yourself.”

  Hood took the hand, held it for a moment. Sometimes you touched a man like this and it was the last time, and the next time you saw him he was cold and white and bloodless, and the warmth was gone forever.

  Hood said, “And you, Pete.” He walked away, thin, awkward, long bony strides. Longstreet thought: Best soldier in the army. If it can be done, he will do it. He and Pickett. My two. Oh God, there’s not enough of them. We have to spend them like gold, in single pieces. Once they’re gone, there will be no more.

  Sorrel appeared with a tin plate, a steaming slab of meat.

  “What’s that?” Longstreet sniffed.

  “Bit of steak, sir. Compliments of Major Moses.”

  Longstreet picked it up in his fingers, too hot, sucked the ends of his fingers: delicious.

  “Major Moses thought you wanted fighting food, sir.”

  Longstreet ate with slow delight. Hot food for a hot day. Will be much hotter later on.

  Longstreet moved toward his command. The corps was to be led into position by Lee’s engineer, Captain Johnston, who had scouted the area this morning. Lee had gone off to see Ewell, to explain the attack to him. Longstreet told Johnston, “Time doesn’t matter here. What matters is surprise. We must go on unobserved. We’re hitting them on the flank. If they see us coming they’ll have time to swing round their artillery and it’ll be a damn slaughter. So you take your time, Captain, but I don’t want us observed.”