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 felt the horse lifting its legs, the effort of each step on the thickness of the road. He shifted in the saddle, straightened his back. There was no rhythm, no gentle rocking of the horse; instead, each step was deliberate and tiring. Behind him he heard low curses, small jokes about generals and mud, one man trying to start a song, drowned out by jeers. He stared out ahead, saw the light of a lantern, men pulling at a wagon, one man with a long pole, prying at a buried wheel, lifting it from the thick ooze. His men began to call out, teasing, and he heard one man say, close behind him, “Just shoot it and put it out of its misery.”

  He smiled, turned, could not see the man in the darkness, thought, Yes, even tonight … they are in good spirits, the morale is as high as it has ever been. They want a fight. We need a fight.

  There had not been much fighting since Gettysburg, at least not for these men. The action was in the West, at a place Chamberlain had never heard of. He rolled the word around in his mind: Chickamauga. The Federal army was being commanded there by William Rosecrans, and all Chamberlain knew was that the rebels had driven “Old Rosy” from the field, the papers calling it a bloody disaster, a panicked rout. That Rosecrans’s army was not totally destroyed was credited to General George Thomas, who held his ground while the rest of the Federal army escaped into the city of Chattanooga. Now Washington had pulled two corps away from Meade’s army, sending them to strengthen Rosecrans.

  Chamberlain began to think about numbers: How many are we now? Eighty thousand? Does it matter? Does it mean we are not as strong? He thought of all the fights, the reports he’d seen. The numbers were always on their side, Lee was always outnumbered. And until Gettysburg, Lee nearly always won. So, it wasn’t just numbers. Then … what? Luck? No, he thought, we needed more than luck at Fredericksburg. It was something else, intangible. Commanders.… He pictured Meade in his mind, had seen him several times, mostly before Gettysburg. The army respected him; no one ever said he wasn’t a good soldier. But whether he was the right commander …

  Some had said the job should have gone to Reynolds, but Reynolds was dead. Many wanted Hancock, some wanted Sickles, but both had taken bad wounds at Gettysburg, and neither had yet returned to the army. No, he thought, we will follow George Meade until he either wins the war or makes some awful mistake.

  He moved closer to a cluster of lanterns, saw a row of cannon and men gathered around one broken gun, the barrel pointing up between two crooked wheels. Men were pulling it aside, and there was an officer. Chamberlain moved to the side of the road, halted the horse, said, “May we lend a hand?”

  The man did not look at him, and Chamberlain waited, watched the men straining in silence, lifting and pushing. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, the groan of splitting wood, and the gun carriage collapsed completely, the wheels folding in, the cannon barrel now pointing straight up at Chamberlain. He flinched, stared at the hole, the small round blackness in the dull lamplight, and ducked away, leaned back in the saddle, felt a cold twist in his stomach. The gun was pulled off the roadway, the men still silent, the officer now moving away.

  Chamberlain pulled his horse around, alongside the column, glanced back at the barrel of the big gun, felt embarrassed, thought, Well now, that wasn’t such bravery, was it? He still felt the jolt, wondered, How many men get that close, stare right into that hole before … Can you see it? Do you see the blast, the split-second image of death before it takes you away? He moved the horse to the head of the column, fell in alongside the color bearer, a quiet sergeant with a full black beard. Chamberlain nodded, was always polite, and the sergeant glanced at him, said nothing, had ridden beside many commanders. Chamberlain stared ahead, thought of the cannon: Maybe that’s the best way; if you have to go, go out in pieces, one big blast. He’d seen too many who went the other way, the men who cried and screamed, who felt every horrible moment of their own death, who fought to hang on.

  He shook his head, brushed away the image, scolded himself: Stop that.

  Focusing ahead, he saw more lanterns, the dark roadway speckled in dull spots of light. He was suddenly hungry. The march had begun before they could eat, and he felt his pockets, pulled out one old piece of hardtack, put it into his mouth without looking at it. It was always better that way. He knew not to chew, let the thing get soft first, but he was really hungry now, and so he bit down, felt his mouth fill with dry crumbs. He grabbed at his canteen, put it to his mouth, felt the blessed wetness, swallowed. Now his mouth felt like wet dough, and he drank some more, washed it down. He put the canteen aside, ran his tongue around the stale taste in his mouth, thought, Wonderful, that may be all for tonight. Remember it with a smile.

  It had been this way since Gettysburg, the orders coming down at odd times, a short march or a longer one. Then they would stop, there would be no orders for a while, and they’d spread out into barren fields. Always they expected to see the enemy, and there might be a small skirmish, or nothing at all, and then more orders, and they would march back again, on the same roads. Sometimes the orders were more specific, a hint of urgency from headquarters, and so they would march at night, hurried along by the commanders, the men who knew … something. Tonight they were marching north, so were they being chased? He thought of the numbers again, the missing troops, the men sent to Tennessee. Lee must know … maybe it was a mistake, we are too weak.

  They knew Lee had sent troops to the West as well, Longstreet’s corps. Of course it was a secret, but around these armies there were few well-kept secrets. The spies had brought in the Richmond newspapers, and they were amazed to see a full written account of Longstreet’s troop movements, even his route of travel. And so headquarters understood that sending Federal troops west would be no secret either.

  Meade was always being pushed by Washington, the impatience of a government that had expected Gettysburg to bring greater results, a quick conclusion. But Meade was still wary, knew that Lee was as dangerous as he had ever been, that Lee’s army would wait for him, try to outmaneuver him. When Washington pushed Meade forward, he would only go far enough to probe, seek an opportunity. If the opportunity was not there, if Lee did not leave himself open to attack, Meade would draw away again. For two months the armies stalked each other like two cats, and now Meade was backing away again. By morning the army would reach a small river, Broad Run, and cross to the safety beyond, at the fords around Bristoe Station.

  HE WAS ON THE NORTH SIDE OF THE STREAM, AND WATCHED FROM his horse as the last of the brigade moved across. Below Broad Run he saw a squad of blue cavalry come up out of the far woods, riding hard, moving closer to the rows of troops crossing the stream. Now he saw more cavalry, emerging from the woods farther to the right, and there were scattered shots, musket fire in the woods. His column began to break up, men falling out, trying to see behind them, the sounds rolling across the stream, and the officers began to shout, moving the men back into line.

  Chamberlain watched the distant woods, could see nothing, and he yelled toward his men, “Keep moving, clear away from the water, let the column across!”

  His men pushed forward, and Chamberlain felt a sudden rush of energy, thought, Yes, they are chasing us. Below the stream the cavalry began to dismount, officers yelling orders to form a skirmish line. Chamberlain saw that his men were well above the stream now, saw the last of the First Division crossing, and he rode back to the bank, where Griffin was splashing his horse through the shallow water, coming toward him.

  Griffin pointed back to the line of cavalry, yelled, “Colonel, prepare to receive an attack! Move your column to that rise above the creek. Lee’s right on our tail!”

  Chamberlain turned, saw his men moving up on the ridge, said, “Right away, sir! We’re there already. I’ll turn them this way.” He saluted, spurred the horse, climbed the short rise. The men were turned, the regiments forming a line of battle facing the stream. Chamberlain watched Griffin direct more troops into line toward his flank, and he rode forward, climbed a small knoll and
saw them. Below the stream, across a wide field, two thick lines of rebels came out of the woods, advancing toward the last of the men still waiting to cross. Then Griffin was beside him, and Chamberlain watched him staring hard across the field. Griffin said, “It’s A. P. Hill … they got up around us. They’re trying to cut us off. But it’s too late.”

  Chamberlain could see the rebel lines moving closer, and now there was a solid line of gray smoke and the sound of the volley. The cavalry line was being overwhelmed, and they rushed back toward the stream, closer to the mass of blue infantry. Then the rebels moved forward again, pressing the attack.

  Griffin said, “Only a division … maybe two brigades. They don’t have the strength! What the hell is going on? Where’s the rest of them?”

  The rebels moved closer, there was another volley, and along the stream shells began to explode, the booming of rebel guns from far across the field. Chamberlain’s chest was pounding now; he heard the whiz of a musket ball over his head, then another, closer. He looked down along the lines of the brigade, saw the faces staring out at the enemy. The musket fire was steady now, and Griffin was saying something, pointing. Chamberlain tried to hear, followed Griffin’s gesture. Off to the left, beyond the stream, he saw a bright flash, but it was not cannon, there was no smoke. He leaned forward, tried to see through a row of small trees, realized it was a reflection, the sun glancing off the massed bayonets of many, many men. Griffin was still pointing, said, “It’s … the Second Corps …”

  Chamberlain saw it all now, the smoke from the fight in front of them clearing away in the breeze. On the far side of the stream there was a railroad cut, and the Second Corps had moved up, twelve thousand men hidden by a high embankment, unseen by the rebels. Now a mass of muskets pointed out over the embankment, and suddenly there was a sharp cracking volley, a flaming blast into the flank of the rebel assault. The smoke flowed across the field, and Chamberlain felt an odd turn in his gut, the shock of the mass of fire, of watching a whole battle line collapse at once. The rebels began to turn what was left of their line, to face the railroad cut, and some moved forward, to charge this new enemy, but there was another volley, and those lines collapsed as well. Then the big Federal guns above the stream began to fire, and Chamberlain felt the ground shake, and Griffin stood up in his stirrups, yelled, “A trap! A perfect trap!”

  Abruptly, Griffin spurred his horse and rode forward, followed by his staff. Chamberlain turned, saw the sergeant behind him, holding the flag, and the man was staring grimly, silently, toward the field. Chamberlain followed the man’s eyes, could see the last of the rebels moving away. The musket fire faded, the big guns quieted, and in minutes it was over. Now came the shouts, the wild yells. He looked down the lines of his brigade, and the men were cheering, waving hats, muskets held high. Then the loud voices rang out to the left, across the stream, the men behind the railroad cut. Chamberlain watched the last of the rebels fade back into the far trees, and he thought, This was more than a skirmish. We won … we beat them. It was over so quickly. He tried to feel the excitement of the men around him, but it was held away by his own surprise at what had happened, at how clearly he’d seen it. He looked across the field at the men left behind, a horrifying mass of rebel dead. It was a foolish attack, he thought. There was no strength. And they didn’t know the railroad cut was full of infantry. Griffin was right. They walked right into a trap.

  He moved his horse forward, close to the edge of the stream, saw men in blue moving out into the field, tending the wounded rebels. There were men with canteens, men with stretchers. The cheering had stopped, and now the sounds came from the field, faint and high and terrible, and more soldiers moved out to help the men they had shot down. In the distance some of the wounded were still crawling back toward the woods, pulling themselves away from a perfect disaster.

  5. LEE

  OCTOBER 1863

  HE REACHED THE EDGE OF THE WOODS, STOPPED THE HORSE, stared out beyond the wide field. He could see the stream, the small wood buildings. He looked to the low hills beyond, closed his eyes, waited, then forced himself to look at the ground close by, the wide sweep of open grass covered with the bodies of his men.

  Along the stream he saw cavalry, a squad of Stuart’s men. Stuart was already following Meade’s trail, the roads north, and the messages came back to Lee in a steady flow: Meade was moving away. Lee knew Meade would not stop until he reached the next good ground, would protect himself from any surprises. For a while, at least, there would be no more fighting on this field, along this stream, this place called Bristoe Station.

  Troops began to move up around him, skirmishers, sent into the field to make sure there were no enemy stragglers and no lingering sharpshooters. The men began to look to the bodies, to prod and poke, to search for some sign of life, but the wounded were gone. Those who had not been able to retreat were now carried by the Yankees.

  Hill was beside him, sat quietly, watching Lee, waiting. Lee spurred the horse, moved out into the field. The soldiers moved with him, spread out farther to the front, watching, focused on the far hills across the stream, the tops of trees. There was no calling out, no cheers, nothing to reveal to hidden eyes who this might be, the white-bearded officer on the tall gray horse.

  The horse stepped between the bodies of the dead, and Lee looked out across to the railroad cut, saw bodies spread all along the embankment. He removed his hat, held it by his side, rubbed his hand through the white hair, thought, If there had been more strength … we might have pushed them out of the cut, routed them across the stream. He tried to see it in his mind, the flags and the swarm of men pushing up and over the embankment, but the image was not there. This was not a field where victory had been turned away by brilliant strategy or a crucial piece of luck. It had not been close, a decision forced by the gallant heroics of one man rising up to turn the flow. It had been a simple bloody mistake.

  Lee looked back at Hill, and Hill moved his horse forward, close beside Lee. The staff stayed back. Only Taylor rode out, stayed a few feet away, on the other side. Taylor stared at the dead, made an angry sound, a low discreet grunt. Lee did not acknowledge it, knew that Taylor did not respect Hill, did not regard him as a good commander. But Taylor could never say that to Lee.

  Lee had not done this often—ridden out onto the bloody fields, fields where there were so many of his men, and so very few of the men in blue. There had not been many defeats like this, one-sided tragedies. Now it was up to Hill himself to explain; not to make excuses, but to understand what he’d done, the incredible disastrous mistake.

  Lee still stared ahead, heard Hill clear his throat, a small cough, heard him shift himself in the saddle. Lee knew Hill was not well, had great discomfort riding, seemed to be in pain all of the time. The pain was on his face, and in the shape of his body, a great hard weight on his shoulders, pushing him down. Hill cleared his throat again.

  “General Lee, there was a lack of … good reconnaissance.”

  Lee said nothing, waited for more.

  “We did not know the Yankees were in force on this side of the run. I ordered … I believed that speed was the priority. He was spread out … I thought I could catch his rear unprotected.”

  Lee nodded quietly, still said nothing. He understood now how this could have happened.

  A. P. Hill was a difficult man to command, sensitive and easy to provoke. He carried with him a dark stain from a past that he could not escape. At West Point he had missed graduating with his class in 1846, had to wait one more year, and the reason was scandalous and embarrassing: He had built a reputation as a young man who enjoyed the parties and the houses of ill-repute, the rowdy temptations of New York, and he’d suffered from what was described discreetly as a “social affliction.” The late graduation meant he’d barely made it to the fight in Mexico, a fight won by the heroism of many of his classmates, Jackson, McClellan. And even in Lee’s army he had never found a comfortable command. There was the great feud with Longstre
et, a dispute begun by a newspaper report in Richmond, giving Hill more credit than Longstreet felt he deserved for the good fights on the Virginia peninsula, the Seven Days battles. Their arguments and hostility grew so intense that Hill challenged Longstreet to a duel, something Lee could not tolerate. Lee had only defused the situation by transferring Hill to Jackson’s command. But Hill did not perform to Stonewall’s rigid and inflexible standards, and so he found himself the focus of Jackson’s hot temper as well. There were more charges, threats of arrest and court-martial, a controversy that ended only with Jackson’s death.

  But on the field, Hill had made his reputation. At Second Manassas, his battered line held their ground against Pope’s overwhelming strength, and saved Jackson’s flank until the great crushing blow from Longstreet swept the Federals from the field. At Sharpsburg, Hill pushed his men on a hard forced march, arriving on the field when Lee’s entire position was near collapse. His division had driven Burnside’s surprised troops back across Antietam Creek, and from that moment the cry among the men was “up came Hill.” He bathed himself in that, the pride of his men, and most had considered him then the best division commander in the army. Since Jackson’s death, Hill commanded a much larger force, many of Jackson’s troops; but since Gettysburg, and through the small nameless fights of autumn, he’d shown none of the fire that had given him his reputation. It was a crushing disappointment to Lee, and he was beginning to see how it could be a great danger to the army. Here, on this one open field, in a fight that lasted less than one hour, because Hill was in a hurry, they had lost nearly two thousand men.