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

by Jeff Shaara

  Mary looked away, was gazing toward the small window that faced the street, said, “He is … wonderful to me. It is good that he can be here.”

  “I am grateful for that. We are fortunate his position … his duty is here.”

  She looked at him, and he knew what was coming. “Have you heard from Rooney? Is there any word?”

  He shook his head. “No … they won’t release him. I have tried … it is a difficult situation. He is considered a … prize.”

  “Of course. He is a Lee.”

  “I will keep at it. There might still be some negotiating, we do have several important prisoners. Perhaps there will be a trade.”

  “Charlotte is not taking it well. She is very ill. Even the baths, the springs, have done her no good. To watch him carried off like that … the cruelty. I am worried about her.”

  Lee looked down, did not want to think of his son that way; saw the beaming face, the huge young man, always a bright smile. His eyes followed the dark pattern in the rug, the deep purple of a rose. “I will do what I can.”

  There was a silence, and Mary said, “So, where are you off to today?”

  “The president … I have been asked to meet with him.”

  “The president …” She made a small frown. “Well, we must not allow the president to get lonely. He cannot seem to run this country without a Lee beside him. At least he permitted Custis to have this day at home, to spend some time with his mother.”

  There was another rattle of china from the hallway, and Custis entered, carefully holding a tray and teacups. “So, you are talking about me when I’m not in the room?” He set the tray down on the small table, carefully handed a china teacup to his mother.

  Lee reached down, stirred at his own cup, said, “Your mother is grateful the president has allowed you to spend some time … with your family.” He paused, knew those words held great irony for Mary, for all of them.

  Custis moved toward the window, looked out into the dull gray of the morning, shook his head. “He is … a complicated man.”

  Lee waited for more, knew Custis was careful with his words. Lee said, “He carries the weight of this war, the weight of the country on his shoulders. It may be too much for one man.”

  Custis began to pace in the small room, and Lee could see a dark anger in the handsome face. “Father, he will not listen … he will not accept any help. He busies himself with trivial details, spends half the day arguing with cabinet people, legislators, even generals, about … personalities. He wants to fill every position, every post, by himself. It is most frustrating. I don’t know what my job is, what it is he expects me to do. He says just … be there.”

  Lee watched him, nodded, thought, Yes, I know. He recalled the early months of the war, when Virginia first joined the Confederacy. He had been Davis’s first real adviser then, understood that Davis would allow nothing to pass through his offices without his personal inspection. Davis still yearned for the fight, still kept the fond memories of the great adventure in Mexico, memories they all had. He would put himself in command of troops if he did not think it would cripple the government. Lee thought of Davis sitting in his office, hidden behind piles of papers, and he suddenly remembered, pulled out his pocket watch.

  “I’m sorry … I must leave. The president is expecting me.” He stood up, saw Mary turn awkwardly, tilting her head, trying to look up at him, and he reached out his hand, put it softly on her shoulder. “I will be home for dinner.…”

  She nodded stiffly, put her hand on his for a brief moment, said to Custis, “Please help me up, will you. I’ve changed my mind … I don’t feel like a reading right now. Maybe later …”

  Lee stood back, let his son move close, and he helped her stand. She held herself against Custis’s arm, looked at Lee, and he saw a coldness in her eyes, the change in her mood. She said, “Tell Mr. Davis … tell him we have lost our home, we have lost children. The longer this goes on, the more we will lose. Tell him there are too many widows … too many mothers missing their sons. There are enough gravestones! Tell him that!”

  Lee stared at her, was shocked, had rarely heard her say anything about the war. She moved toward the hallway, and Custis moved with her. Then she stopped, looked at him again, and he saw the hard anger in her face.

  “Go! Tell him!”

  Lee said nothing, watched her move out of the room, stood alone for a moment. He knew he could not do as she wanted, that there would be more fighting, and more soldiers would die, and he could not think about the widows and the families. He could only carry out his duty and lead his men forward until God had seen enough, until God decided this bloody war would end.

  THEY CALLED IT THE WHITE HOUSE, AND NO ONE GAVE MUCH thought to the irony of that. This was the home of President Davis and his family, and it did not compare to the grand sweeping mansion in Washington. The name was a simple description of the home.

  Since the beginning of the war, Davis had been prone to illness, some real, some imagined. As his army had absorbed the defeats of the past months, his health had worsened, the illness affecting his mind as well. He became suspicious, protective, more likely to distrust his subordinates. He began to conduct more and more of the business of the government from his own home, converted one room into an office, would often not leave the home for days at a time.

  Lee approached the steps, looked up to the front door, saw it open. There were hushed voices, and three men emerged, talking quietly among themselves. Lee stopped, waited, and the men came down the steps toward him. He noticed the fine suits, silk shirts, gold watch chains, the finery of official visitors. They saw him now, and for a brief moment they stared, recognizing him. He removed his hat, and they seemed to recover their formality, moved down the steps, came past him. He nodded as they passed, and they glanced at him discreetly, but there were no smiles, no one spoke. The men moved to a carriage, and Lee watched them climb inside. There was a slap of leather, and the carriage quickly pulled away. He turned, moved up the steps, thought, Europeans.

  He saw now that the door was still open, a soldier inside standing at attention, waiting for him to enter. Lee moved into the house, and the soldier closed the door, stiff and formal. Lee looked toward the small secretary’s office, what had once been a closet, a large square hole cut in the wall so the front door could be seen. He heard commotion, saw movement in the small office, the sound of a chair pushed back, and he waited. A man came out quickly, adjusting his coat, thrust a hand toward him. It was Davis’s secretary, Burton Harrison.

  Harrison was a neat, dapper man. He shook Lee’s hand warmly, said, “General Lee, how wonderful! How are you, sir?”

  Lee smiled, had always been amused by the secretary’s energy, his manic protection of Davis. “I am quite well, Mr. Harrison.” He noticed Harrison glancing around the small space, self-conscious.

  Harrison said, “Forgive … my office, General. The president insists, and so we must make do with what we have. It can be difficult—” He stopped, and Lee saw a pained look, Harrison showing displeasure at his own indiscretion. “I … didn’t mean to suggest I am not happy here. This is the president’s home. We must make do—”

  There was a high squeal from Davis’s office, behind Harrison. The secretary jumped, startled, and the pained look returned. “I should tell the president you are here,” he said. “Excuse me …”

  Lee nodded. There were more squeals, the laughter of children, then he heard an older voice, and the sound of heavy steps. Harrison was gone, had fled back into the small office when the door opened. Lee backed against the wall as two children burst into the hallway, squealing with laughter. Davis was behind them, bent over, the pursuer, growling like some deranged beast.

  The children rushed past Lee, and Davis straightened, looked at Lee with surprise, then smiled and put a hand on Lee’s shoulder, supporting himself, breathing heavily. “Well, hello General … excuse me …” Lee felt the weight of the hand, was suddenly uncomfortable, as though
he’d intruded on something very private. Davis took a deep breath, and the children waited in a far doorway. Davis said, “Not now, you two … stay put for a while … the general and I have some work to do.” Davis glanced into the small room, said, “Mr. Harrison, please see we are not disturbed.”

  Lee looked at Harrison, who nodded nervously, then jumped, startled again by the sudden cries of the children, protesting the interruption of their play. Now a maid appeared, a large round woman with deep black skin. She pulled the children quickly into their room, and Davis looked at Lee, smiled, took a deep breath. Now the smile began to fade, and Lee saw the sadness return, the dark eyes filled with sickness, the weight and gloom of the war coming over him again. Davis turned, moved into his office, said, “Come in, General.”

  There was no one else in the office, and Lee was not surprised, knew that by now these meetings were often private, that Davis had become unwilling to let his staff handle the affairs of running the government. Lee moved in, sat in a small wooden chair, and Davis went to the far corner of the room and closed another door, the door to the children’s room and their small sweet sounds.

  Davis moved to his own chair, sat behind a small desk, looked at Lee. “It’s difficult … not spending all day with them. This is perhaps … not the best way to run a government.”

  Lee said nothing, could now hear small muffled sounds from the next room.

  Davis said, “All morning long … the meeting lasted for hours, and nothing … no commitment, no encouragement. I am afraid … we cannot expect much help after all.”

  Lee sat straight in the chair, said, “The … French?”

  “Yes … you saw them?” Davis leaned forward, rested his hands on the desk. “There is no chance now. Not since the summer, since Vicksburg …” He paused, looked down, said, “Since Gettysburg …”

  Lee could see the word was awkward for Davis, but Lee nodded, knew the mention of the place carried no blame.

  Davis looked at Lee now, said, “And there was still a chance, even the English could see that we were still in control, still held on. We just had to show them … one victory, one real smashing blow. I am certain of it … they would still have come in, would have broken the blockade. But … events have changed that.”

  Lee knew that Davis was talking about the enormous and stunning defeat of Braxton Bragg. Bragg had penned the Federals up tightly in Chattanooga, and the official reports as well as northern papers said the Federals were starving, it would be Vicksburg in reverse. It should not have taken much longer; the shroud of winter would force Rosecrans to surrender, and they all knew the pendulum would swing, the momentum lost at Vicksburg would turn their way in the West. But Bragg had grown careless, weakened his army by sending Longstreet’s corps up toward Knoxville, to relieve the occupation there by Burnside’s forces. And little attention had been paid when Lincoln, weary of Rosecrans, sent a new commander to Chattanooga, a name that was vaguely familiar to Lee, the man known mostly for engineering the strangle of Vicksburg. His name was Ulysses Grant.

  Quickly, Grant punched through Bragg’s choke hold, found a way to bring supplies into Chattanooga, and his men were not starving anymore. But Bragg was still in control, the Federal army still held tightly inside Chattanooga. Suddenly, and with complete efficiency, Grant surprised Bragg by advancing across the entire front, the blue soldiers climbing straight up the hills, first the invincible position of Lookout Mountain, not invincible after all. Then, incredibly, while Bragg’s army looked down from Missionary Ridge, Grant formed his lines in the wide-open fields beside the city. The rebels had admired and applauded the parade ground pageantry, until Grant sent his massed battle lines forward, straight into the hill, the men climbing up rock by rock, protected by the ravines and cracks in the earth. Bragg had the high ground, but never counted on a direct assault, had not put his men into proper position, and so when the rebels tried to shoot straight down the hill, they had to expose themselves to the fire from the flat ground below. As Grant’s men climbed the hill in greater and greater numbers, most of Bragg’s army simply dissolved, pulling away from the crest of the hill. The retreat became an utter panic, a complete disaster. Now, Grant’s army was in pursuit, and Bragg was withdrawing into Georgia. Davis had been forced to accept that it was time to replace him, that his friend was, after all, not the man for the job.

  Davis looked at Lee, who had known this moment would come. There had been rumors, even mention in the Richmond papers that Lee would go west, take command of Bragg’s shattered army. There was something ominous about Grant, something new, a deadly efficiency that the southern commanders had not faced before. To many, it was only logical that Lee be the one to confront him, the best man to face what was beginning to be the most dangerous threat. But it was not a duty Lee wanted.

  Davis sat back in the chair again, rubbed his head with his hand, said, “We are not … in a position of strength. The Europeans know that … the people know that. Certainly the enemy knows that.”

  Lee nodded, said, “Yes, I imagine he does.”

  Davis still rubbed his head, and Lee saw his face twisting, feeling the pain of the headache. “General, are you the man we need? Are you willing … to replace General Bragg?”

  Lee settled into the chair, took a deep breath and said, “I am willing to serve wherever you assign me.” He watched Davis’s face, the deep eyes now looking at him. Davis nodded, said nothing. “But, I believe there are others who are more suited for that command. It is not likely that the Army of Tennessee would perform well for a commander they did not know.”

  Davis put his hands on the desk, did not show surprise at Lee’s response.

  Lee said, “General Meade is still in Virginia. I believe that he is still the greater threat, certainly to Richmond. And we are still the greatest threat to Washington. The war, ultimately, must be won … here. The Army of Northern Virginia is familiar with my command. I do not believe they would respond well to a major change in command. They are accustomed to … things as they are now.”

  Davis smiled, said, “I should have had you here to talk to those Frenchmen. You have always been a fine diplomat.”

  Lee let out a breath, felt great relief. He had thought Davis might order him west no matter what he said.

  Davis looked at the clutter of paper on his desk, shuffled through it, read. Lee had seen this before, knew the matter had passed, that they would now move on. Davis read from a page, rubbed one hard finger idly against his temple, said, “Well, now, General, if your army requires that you stay in Virginia, we must provide someone equally inspiring to the Army of Tennessee.…”

  THE HOUSE WAS FILLED WITH CHRISTMAS, BRIGHT RIBBONS streaming around the windows, candles casting small shadows. He heard the voices in back, happy sounds flowing through the dark hallways, and he stopped in the dim light of the parlor, looked at the wheelchair still sitting in the corner of the room. He smelled the pine branches, sharp and familiar. He looked at the dark needles, and the smell was of the woods … the camps. He was suddenly very sad, still listened to the voices, stood quietly in the dim light of the room, tried to feel what they were feeling, the joy in the sounds, the holiday. But there was no holiday in the camps of the army. It was just a pause in time, the wait for the weather. They would not fight because it was impossible to move, the guns and wagons could not travel the icy, muddy roads, the men could not march through freezing nights. But it would not be long, it had never been long enough, and the roads would dry, the sun would warm them enough to move again, and there would be new fights, and new ground to cover, and places they had never heard of, villages and crossroads and small quiet rivers that would become the new horrible names they would always remember.

  He moved to the small couch, sat down, felt stiff, cold, thought, I am not well. He put his hand on his chest, slid it up to his left shoulder, massaged. I do not understand … is it just that I am … old? He felt the tightness in his chest, always there now, and when it did not hurt
, on those mornings when he would wake without the pain, he was grateful, gave a thankful prayer.

  He thought of the past few days, the drudgery of the meetings, the arguments, men with great opinions and little understanding. He had known it would be this way, that by coming to Richmond he would be pulled into it, hear it firsthand, that men with oil in their voices would take him aside, greet him with fat handshakes, take him into their confidence, seek his valuable approval, the influence of a powerful, respected man.

  There had been great debate about Bragg’s replacement, and finally Davis reluctantly agreed that the best man for the job, the one the troops themselves had always followed, was Joe Johnston. It had been a bitter pill for Davis, because Johnston had never cooperated with him, had never cooperated with anyone, and they all knew that Johnston would begin it all again, would run his own show, respond selectively to orders, regard Davis’s instructions as inconvenient suggestions. On the Virginia peninsula, when McClellan had come at Richmond from the sea, Johnston cut off all communication with Davis, fought the Federal invasion exactly as he saw fit. When Johnston had been wounded, Davis was forced to make a painful decision, to give up Lee, his most trusted adviser, to send him from the capital to command the army. It had been Lee who organized and equipped the new army, Lee who designed the defensive lines of Virginia, the lines that proved so crucial to the first big fight at Manassas. But Davis had still wanted him nearby, and so Lee suffered quietly in the stifling air of a Richmond office while others led the fighting. But with Johnston down, Davis had to concede that the army’s well-being was as important as his own, and finally Lee was given the opportunity to command the army in the field.

  When Johnston’s wounds healed, he’d gone west, but his command was separate from Bragg’s, one of the great flaws in the organization of the army. Johnston had not been there when Bragg needed the strength, had kept himself secure and well defended in Mississippi, against an enemy that was making the fight somewhere else. Despite all of this, Davis had been made to understand, and Lee agreed, that when it came to putting troops in the field, when there were decisions to be made that could decide where and how the battle would be fought, Joe Johnston was the best man they had left.