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

by Jeff Shaara

  The decision was clear. It had been there in the back of his mind all that night, as he worked, remembering every moment the sight of his blue Virginia flags going up that long slope to the top, almost to victory, so close he could feel the world over there beginning to give like a rotten brick wall. He could not retreat now. It might be the clever thing to do, but cleverness did not win victories; the bright combinations rarely worked. You won because the men thought they would win, attacked with courage, attacked with faith, and it was the faith more than anything else you had to protect; that was one thing that was in your hands, and so you could not ask them to leave the field to the enemy. And even if you could do that, cleverly, there was no certainty they would find better ground anywhere else, not even any certainty that they could extricate themselves without trouble, and so he had known all along that retreat was simply no longer an alternative, the way a man of honor knows that when he has faced an enemy and exchanged one round of blows and stands there bleeding, and sees the blood of the enemy, a man of honor can no longer turn away.

  So he would stay. And therefore, he would attack. The rest was clear as an engraving, so natural there seemed no alternative. There would be no surprise now; speed no longer mattered. So motion meant nothing. The enemy had been attacked on both wings; he had reinforced there and would be strongest there. So the weak point was the center.

  The enemy had high ground on each wing, but in the center there was a long slope. So he would be softest there, and if you hit him there with everything you had, all the artillery firing to prepare the way in a pont au feu, if you sent Pickett’s fresh Virginians straight up the center with Longstreet’s hand the guiding force, the dominant force, you would drive a split in the center and cut Meade’s army in two, break the rotten wall and send the broken pieces flying in all directions, so that if you sent Stuart’s cavalry around to the rear he could complete the rout, in among the wagons to finish the wreckage, yes, Stuart raw with wounded pride and so anxious to redeem himself that he would let nothing stop him, and neither would Pickett, who had come in that day so desperately eager for battle.

  Lee knelt and began to pray. His engineer’s mind went on thinking while he prayed. He could find no flaw: we will go up the center and split them in two, on the defense no longer, attacking at last, Pickett and Hood and McLaws. By the end of the prayer he was certain: he felt a releasing thrill. This was the way, as God would have it. Face to face with the enemy, on grounds of his own choosing. End with honor.

  The weight of it was gone. He felt a grave drowsiness. The horse nuzzled his ear; he smiled and rubbed the delicate nostrils. Then he began to drift off. He should go in to bed now, but he was not comfortable lying down; he could not breathe. It was far better to sit in the night alone with the beautiful horse standing guard above him. It was not so bad to be an old man, drifting. Soon to see the Light. He wondered what it would be like to enter the Presence. They said there would be a fierce blinding light. How could they know, any of them? He wondered: Do you see all the old friends? At what age will they be? Will I see my father?

  But it was all beyond him, and he accepted it. He had done his best: the Lord knew it. The heart thumped twice, a grave reminder. Lee nodded, as if at a summons, and prayed to the Lord for a little more time. After a while, he slept. He dreamed of little girls, dancing a cotillion. Then he dreamed of horses, herds of great horses, thundering by through black canyons of cloud. Beyond his tree, as he slept, the first blood light of dawn was rising up the sky.

  FRIDAY,

  JULY 3, 1863

  Of His terrible swift sword …

  1.

  CHAMBERLAIN

  At dawn he climbed a tree and watched the day come. He was high on the summit of Round Top, higher than any man in either army. The sky was thick and gray, smelling of heat and rain; long mists drifted down between the ridges, lay in pools in the woods, rose toward the sun like white steam. He could see campfires burning in groups and clusters, like little cities sparkling in the mist, far, far off toward the blue hills to the east. He could look directly down on the gray crest of Little Round Top, saw the gunners there rising and stretching and heating coffee near black cannon. There were lights all down the Union line, a few horses moving, here and there a bugle, lights in the cemetery, a spattering of lights in Gettysburg. Here at the summit of Round Top the air was cool, there was no wind, the odor of death was very slight, just that one pale yellow scent, a memory in the silent air. The odor of coffee was stronger. Chamberlain sniffed and hoped, but he had none. All rations were gone. He lay back and watched the morning come.

  The men lay below him in a line below the crest, receding down into the trees, the dark. In the night they had built a stone wall, had set out pickets, had taken prisoners. They had been joined at last by the 83rd Pennsylvania and the 44th New York, but they were still the extreme end of the Union line, the highest point on the field. Chamberlain kept pickets out all night, changing them every two hours, making them report every half hour. He did not sleep. As long as he kept moving the pain in the leg did not trouble him, but the foot kept bleeding and annoying him. No one had any rations. They had left Union Mills with three days’ worth, but the troops had philosophically eaten most of that first chance they got. Chamberlain searched for coffee, which he badly needed. Just before sunup he began to get very, very tired, and so he climbed the tree and rested his legs. Dawn was always the worst time. Almost impossible to keep the eyes open. Close them and he thought of her, the red robe. This morning, oddly, he thought of her and of his two children. He could see them clearly, when he closed his eyes, playing at her feet like cubs, she looking up at him smiling calmly, waiting, pouting—but they would not even be up yet. Too early for them. They will sleep two more hours, at least. And here I sit on a hill in Pennsylvania. High on a hill, perched in a tree, watching the dawn come. A year ago I was in Maine, a teacher of languages. Amazing. The ways of God. Who would have thought? Well. It will be hard to go home again after this. Yesterday was … he closed his eyes. Saw the men behind the rocks, Tozier with the flag, the smoke, white faces, a scream for bayonets. Yesterday was … a dream.

  He almost dozed. Came awake. Need someone to talk to. Sky all thick and gray. Rain? I hope so. But no, another scorcher. They don’t even know about this kind of weather back in Maine.

  “Colonel?” At the foot of the tree: Tom. Chamberlain smiled.

  “Hey, Colonel, I got you some coffee.”

  He held aloft a steaming cup. Chamberlain’s stomach twinged in anticipation. Tom clambered up, reaching.

  Chamberlain took the hot cup, held it lovingly. “Oh, that’s fine. Where did you find that?”

  “Well …” Tom grinned. “Gee, you sure can see a ways from up here.” He squinted. “Golly, that’s the whole damn Reb army.”

  “Don’t swear,” Chamberlain said automatically. He thought of yesterday. I used him to plug a hole. My brother. Did it automatically, as if he was expendable. Reached out and put him there, as you move a chess piece.

  “We sent out a detail,” Tom said cheerily, yawning, “and found some poor departed souls down there and they were carrying coffee for which they had no more use, so we took it.”

  Chamberlain grimaced. “Ghoul,” he said. But he drank, and the coffee was sweet with brown sugar, and strength boiled into him.

  “How you feel, Colonel, sir? You notice I don’t say ‘Lawrence.’ ”

  “I feel fine.”

  “You know, I bet we’re higher than anybody in the whole army. In both blame armies.” Tom was pleased. “Now there’s a thing to tell your children. My, what a view.”

  Chamberlain drank. After a moment he said, without thinking, “I miss old Buster.”

  “Kilrain? Yep. But he’ll be all right.”

  The vacancy was there, a hole in the air, a special kind of loneliness. You wanted to have Buster to talk to when it was all over, to go over it, to learn, to understand, to see what you should have done.

>   Tom said, “You know, Lawrence? I close my eyes, I fall asleep.”

  “Better get down off the tree.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like bayonets.” He squinted at Chamberlain, shrugged foolishly, blinked and yawned. “One thing about war I just don’t like. Different, you know? Not like guns and cannon. Other men feel same way. You know what I mean?”

  Chamberlain nodded.

  “I couldn’t use mine,” Tom said ashamedly. “Yesterday. Just couldn’t. Ran down the hill, yelling, screamed my head off. Hit one man with the rifle barrel. Bent the rifle all to hell, pardon me. But couldn’t stick nobody. Didn’t see much of that, either. Am glad to say. Most men won’t stick people. When I was going back and looking at the dead, weren’t many killed by bayonet.”

  Chamberlain said, “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Lawrence?”

  Chamberlain turned. Tom was gazing at him, owl-eyed.

  “You weren’t afraid, much, yesterday.”

  “Too busy,” Chamberlain said.

  “No.” Tom shook his head. “I shoot and run around and all the time I’m scared green. But you weren’t scared at all. Not at all. But at Fredericksburg you were scared.”

  Chamberlain said, “I was too busy. Had things to do. Couldn’t think about getting hurt.” But he remembered: There was more to it than that. There was an exultation, a huge delight: I was alive.

  “Well,” Tom said stubbornly, “you did real good.” It was the old family expression, used by one brother to another, down the years. Did I do good? You did real good. Chamberlain grinned.

  “You know what?” Tom said. He grabbed a branch, swung himself into a better position. “I think we’re going to win this war.” He looked to Chamberlain for confirmation. Chamberlain nodded, but he was too tired to think about it, all those noble ideals, all true, all high and golden in the mind, but he was just too tired, and he had no need to talk about it. He would hang onto these rocks, all right, of that he was certain. But he didn’t know about another charge. He looked down on the men, the line running down the hill. A little ammunition, a little food. We’ll hang onto these rocks, all right. Now if I could just get a little sleep …

  “Lawrence? The way them Rebs kept coming yesterday … You got to admire ’em.”

  “Um,” Chamberlain said.

  “You think they’ll come again today?”

  Chamberlain looked out across the open air, gazed at the miles of campfires.

  “Doesn’t look like they’re planning to depart.”

  “You think they’ll come again.”

  “They’ll come again,” he said. He stirred himself on the branch. They’ll come again, for sure. Must get more ammunition up here. What in God’s name is keeping Rice?

  “We only got about two hundred men,” Tom said thoughtfully. Not with worry but with calculation, a new realist, assessing the cold truth.

  “But the position is very good,” Chamberlain said.

  “I guess so,” Tom admitted. Rumble of cannon. At first he thought it was thunder, out of the dark sky to the north. But he saw the flashes sparkle on Cemetery Hill and knew it was too early for thunder, and as he looked northward he could see sunlight breaking through the overcast, to the north and west, and shells falling on the far side of the cemetery. He put his glasses to his eyes and looked, but all he could see was smoke and mist, an occasional yellow flash. Below him, on the hilltop, the heads of the men turned north. Chamberlain thought: diversion. To Tom he said, “You go down and alert the pickets. May be a diversion on that flank. They may be coming this way again. Send Ruel Thomas to me, tell him to send another call to Rice for ammunition.”

  Tom started down the tree. He scratched himself, swore feebly.

  “Lawrence, we’re going to need another runner, sir, old brother. I go up and down this hill much more my legs going to fall off.”

  Chamberlain said, “Yes. Tell Ellis Spear to pick a man, send him to me.”

  Tom moved down into the dark. Chamberlain waited in the tree. It was a very good position. The hill was flat across the top, about thirty yards of flat rock, an occasional tree, but the ascent on all sides was steep. The ground facing the enemy was rocky and steep and heavy with trees, and the ground behind him fell away abruptly, a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet, no worry about assault from that side. The men had built another rock wall, and now, with enough ammunition, he could hold here for a long time. The end of the line. Overlooking all the world. They’ll come again. Let ’em come.

  He half expected another assault. But there was no sound from below. The sky was brighter now, breaks in the overcast; light streamed down in blinding rays. He shaded sleep-filled eyes, gazed out across the Southern lines to the blue hills to the east. Lovely country. If I close my eyes, you know, I’ll go to sleep. If they come again, could use some rest first.

  He heard a man snoring loudly just below his tree. He saw a round face, bearded, mouth open, flat on his back on a rock ledge, hands folded on his chest. Chamberlain smiled in envy. He thought: guess I better get down from here, look around.

  But now he had sat for a long time and his leg had stiffened, there was a brutal pain in his foot. He limped along the rock, trying to work out the stiffness. Thirty-four years old, laddie, not the man you used to be. He walked painfully past the sleeping man. A tall thin boy grinned happily upward, touched his cap. Chamberlain said, “Good morning.”

  “Colonel, sir.”

  “How you getting along?”

  “Hungry, sir.” The boy started to get up. Chamberlain held out a hand.

  “Never mind that. Take it easy.” He looked down on the round-faced sleeper, smiled.

  “Jonas can sleep anywhere,” the boy said proudly.

  Chamberlain moved on down the line. The battle in the north was growing. No diversion. Well. He felt oddly disappointed. Then a trace of pride. They tried this flank yesterday and couldn’t move us. Now they’re trying the other flank. He wondered who his opposite number was, the colonel on the far right, the last man on the right of the Union line. What troops did he lead? What was he thinking now? Good luck to you, Colonel, Chamberlain said silently, saluting in his mind. But you don’t have soldiers like these.

  He limped among the men, passing each one like a warming fire. He shared with them all the memory of yesterday. He had been with them to that other world; they were in it now, the high clear world of the last man in line, and all the enemy coming, Tozier on the rock with the flag in his hand, Tom plugging the gap, bayonets lifted, that last wild charge. He looked down smiling as he passed, patting shoulders, concerned with small wounds. One boy lay behind a rock. He had been shot through the cheek yesterday but had not gone to the rear, had charged, had come all this way to the top of the hill. Now he was down with a fever, and the wound in the face was inflamed. Chamberlain ordered him to the field hospital. There were several signs of sickness, one possible case of typhoid. Nothing to do but detail the men down the hill. But none of them wanted to go, some deathly afraid of the hospital itself, some not wanting to be away from men they knew, men they could trust, the Regiment of Home.

  Chamberlain began to grow restless for food. He thought: we’re forgotten up here. Nobody knows what these men did yesterday. They saved the whole line, God knows, and now I can’t even feed them. He was becoming angry. He clambered back up the hill and tore open the wound inside his boot, which began again to bleed. He sat down at the top of the hill, listening to the cannon fire and musketry raging in the north, momentarily grateful that it was over there, and took off the boot, bound the foot, wished he could get something to wash it down with, but what water there was was dirty and bloody. There was a creek down below: Plum Run. Choked with yesterday’s dead. Good to be high, up here; the smells of death don’t seem to be rising. Wind still from the south, blowing it away. You know, the regiment is weary.

  That thought had taken a while to form, had formed
slowly as he moved up and down the line. Just so far you can push a man.

  He thought: a little food. A little rest. They’ll be right again in a bit. Fewer than two hundred now. And there on the rock, sitting staring down at the long line of dark men shapeless under dark trees, he felt for the first time the sense of the coming end. They were dwindling away like sands in a glass. How long does it go on? Each one becoming more precious. What’s left now is the best, each man a rock. But now there are so few. We began with a thousand and so whittled down, polishing, pruning, until what we had yesterday was superb, absolutely superb, and now only about two hundred, and, God, had it not been for those boys from the Second Maine … but the end is in sight. Another day like yesterday … and the regiment will be gone. In the Union Army that was the way it was: they fought a unit until it bled to death. There were no replacements.

  He shook his head, trying to shake away the thought. He could not imagine them gone. He would go with them. But if the war went on much longer … if there was one more fight like yesterday …

  The sound of the battle in the north grew steadily in intensity. Chamberlain, alone, wished he knew anything at all about what was happening. He could not even talk to Ellis Spear, who was down in the woods with the other flank of the regiment, where it joined the 83rd. He waited, alone, staying awake, listening. After a while there was a courier from Rice. He saw a puffing lieutenant staggering up among the rocks.

  “Colonel Chamberlain? Sir, that’s some climb.” The lieutenant paused to gasp for air, leaned upon a tree.

  “My men need rations, Lieutenant,” Chamberlain said. He stood up on his bloody foot, boot in hand.

  “Sir, Colonel Rice instructs me to tell you that you are relieved, sir.”

  “Relieved?” Men were gathering around him. Sergeant Tozier had come up, that big-nosed man, towered over the lieutenant, gloomed down at him.