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

by Jeff Shaara

  Mildred was smiling, shook her head. “Papa, you have never seen any of us as grown. I’m not a child. Mother is very happy where she is. After all, she has you.”

  He nodded, knew she was right, that often when he was with his army, he would send letters home to all of them, advice, small bits of knowledge, as though they were all still children. It was something he’d always done, even in the early days, stern letters then, the absent father teaching them from far away.

  He moved forward, stood out on the edge of a large rock, peered down into thick brush, saw more birds now, small flecks of color.

  Mildred was rubbing the neck of the mare, said, “Are you still writing?”

  He sagged, took a deep breath, turned and looked at her. “Not for a while now. It is very hard.” He stared out to the mountains again, thought of Taylor, Gordon, Johnston, so many others. There was great interest in his own account of the war, and the letters were still coming, many from men he’d forgotten, commanders who looked to him to complete the task, as though it had to be from him and him alone. There were even letters from up North, from newspapermen and publishers, prompting him to tell his side of the story, a version that otherwise might never be told. He had tried, had asked many of the veterans, the commanders, to send him their own reports, to fill in gaps in the official records, or gaps in his own memory. The papers were stacked high in his study, and on those days when he had the energy, he would begin to read, to make some notes, but the energy would not last. Even when he would force the effort, taking the pen in hand and putting words on paper, something would hold him back. He would stare into some distant place, and the memories would come back, and many of the memories were very, very bad.

  He thought now of the men themselves: I cannot judge them, it is not my place. If I tell the truth, there will be controversy, anger. We do not need that now. If a man was not a good commander, or if by some mistake a fight went badly, it is for God to decide the importance of that, not me. They expect me to give them some kind of Final Word, as though only I can tell the absolute truth. No, I do not want that responsibility.

  He was suddenly very tired, thought, This is why … I come up here. It is far away from all that, from the eyes of the people. He’d received many invitations, social and political functions, places where he would certainly be an honored guest. No, he thought, they do not understand. They still want to talk about the war, to relive the great fights, the grand memories. I do not enjoy that.

  Mildred was now close to him, said, “Beautiful … the valley.”

  “Yes … this is home. I always knew that.”

  Mildred looked at him, then down, hesitated, then said, “Mother still believes … she still wishes you would reconsider all the offers.”

  Lee did not look at her, knew very well how Mary felt. “Do you feel the way she does?”

  Mildred raised her arms, a long stretch. “I like having you home. If you were governor, you wouldn’t be home very much.”

  He smiled, thought, I should have had her on my staff. There was never any doubt what Mildred’s opinions were. He said, “She doesn’t understand. She believes that I can do some good, help Virginia get through these times. She only sees one side, my influence, my …” He paused, hated the word. “… my popularity. She does not consider that I have many enemies. There are so many people in the North who would use me as an excuse to punish Virginia. I have to stay away from that. I am no good at being a figurehead, a symbol. If I thought my presence there would be for the good of Virginia … but it can only do harm.”

  “Papa, you have always been a symbol. You can’t change that.”

  He stared out again, tried to find the great lone bird, saw it now, soaring in soft circles, quiet, without effort, carried on the wind.

  “They must go on … move forward on their own. I cannot help them do that. The soldiers, the people …” He still followed the flight of the bird, saw it move beyond the crest of a far hill, drop out of sight. He felt a chill now, a shiver that Mildred saw, and she moved close to him, put her hands on his arm.

  “Papa, you don’t have to convince anyone. Everyone knows how much you have given.”

  The chill flowed all through him now, and he pulled at his coat, his hands shaking, said, “We had better go back.”

  He turned, looked back, saw Traveller raise his head, the horse rested now, ready for the ride back down the long trail.

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1870

  THE CHURCH WAS DOWN THE HILL FROM THE RESIDENCE, ACROSS AN open lawn. It was dark early now, and he walked slowly up the hill in a steady rain, thought of the meeting, the voices of the men. He had presided over the vestry meetings for a while now, the business of managing the church, and today’s meeting had been as routine as any of the others. He rarely took a strong hand at running things, let the members work out the issues for themselves, would exercise whatever authority they had granted him only when there was some impasse. The meeting today was a long one, and it was nearly seven o’clock, past the supper hour. It had been difficult for him, the damp misery of the unheated church cutting into him, his mind drifting, pulling him off into some cold angry place. When he brought his attention back to the voices, his patience had been short, and the meeting concluded as they often concluded, with the announcement of a shortage of funds. He’d seen an opportunity there, to bring the meeting to a blessed close, offered to provide funds himself, to meet the shortfall. It had given the meeting an optimistic tone, and the men filed out with good cheer, while he moved out still feeling the misery of the cold, and clenched his jaw for the uphill walk in the rain.

  They were waiting for him. The supper had been delayed until he came home, and he could smell the food when he opened the door. He slid out of his dripping coat, ran his hand through wet hair, moved into the large living room, saw the dining room beyond, the girls moving into their chairs, Mary in the wheelchair. There was laughter, some joking at his appearance, and he still felt the chill. He pulled at himself, wrapped his arms tighter. Mary was watching him, said something, and he looked at her, could not hear her words. He moved toward his chair, and there was silence, they were all watching him, watched him slowly sink into the chair. Mary said something else, and he felt his mind asking … what? Why do you not speak up? Now Mary moved her chair closer to him, held out a cup, the steam from the tea drifting up in front of his eyes. He stared ahead, still could not hear them, felt the fog closing across his eyes, his mind now drifting slowly away. He saw them standing now, moving forward, hands touching him, the voices like small bells, echoing through the cold darkness in his brain, the darkness spreading now, covering them all.

  OCTOBER 12, 1870

  HE HAD BEEN AWAKE MOST OF THE TIME, HAD TRIED TO RISE FROM the bed, but there were always hands, and he had no strength to fight them. He was in the dining room, had thought that was strange, some odd dream, that the bed was in the wrong place, embarrassing, the privacy violated. But when his mind cleared he could hear them, understood that they’d made the large room his hospital, had seen the faces of the doctors now, familiar, men with warm hands, comforting words.

  The medicine was always there, the bitter liquid, and they told him it would help, and so he took it without protest. For two weeks they told him he was getting better, would recover, something about a congestion in his brain, something the medicine would help. For the first few days he believed them, felt the strength coming back, but then would come the bad days, when he could not hear them, when the kind faces would change, showing dark concern, and he knew what they would not say to him, that it was more than a simple illness, more than any treatment could help.

  When the sunlight had come into the room through the wide bay windows that looked out to the campus, he’d seen strange faces, thought he was dreaming again, but then his mind would clear, and the faces were real. Outside the house, they had lined up for days, students at first, then people from the town. As word of his illness spread, more people came, many just standin
g outside the window, watching the activity inside. At night the curtains would close, but the people would stay, many of them sleeping right there, on the lawn. On the good days, he had even waved to them, and they cheered him, joyous tears, kind words. He had seen uniforms, even a flag, a strange surprise, some of his army violating the law, presenting themselves to the man who was, after all, their commander. He had thought, speak to them, tell them they do not have to do this, it is all right. But he never left the bed, and so the faces never left their vigil outside the window.

  Through the night, when the brief moments came, when he was awake, he could feel Mary’s soft hand holding his. He felt the pains come back, the familiar tightness, the left arm, his throat filled with a dull ache. He wanted to tell them, but there were no words, no sound except the voice in his mind. He tried to see her face, could still hear the sounds flowing around him, but the darkness settled around him, began to push it all away. His mind was still working, and he tried to see through the darkness, thought, It must be … the face of God, but the darkness began to open, move away.

  He could see new faces, panic, tears, the faces of soldiers, the great hollow sounds of a bloody fight. There was a stone bridge, a creek, red with the blood of the armies, and flowing across the bridge was a great mass of blue, pushing away everything in front of them. He saw Jackson now, the smiling face of Stuart, and they were standing still, beside him, looking at him silently, waiting for him to move, to tell them what to do. He looked around, saw the great blue wave moving close, and he looked at the commanders, and still they did not move, and now he heard a noise, a great cheer, the high scream of the rebel yell, and he turned that way, felt the horse under him, could smell the smoke, the hard sounds of the fight along the creek.

  All around him now were row after row of his men, long lines of death, but back behind him the high yell was still coming forward. He looked back, over the hill, saw troops, soldiers, his soldiers, a great wall spreading out to turn away the blue wave. He waved his hat, pulled the horse up high, Yes, come forward, push them, drive them. He could see the men on horses now, the flags, saw the one man in the red shirt, and he thought, Now, do it now! The staff was there now, the face of Taylor, and he yelled, “Tell Hill he must come up!”

  In one great surge his men poured down the hill, the blue wave now backing away, a furious fight, the bridge now choked with the blue mass, death spreading all along the creek, the piercing yell of Hill’s men still flowing forward. He watched, still waved the hat, felt that glorious thrill of the victory, the blessing from God he never took for granted.

  The battle was past now, and the field was changed, the horrible sights, the awful scenes of death were gone. He saw Hill now, and the others, and behind, there were many more faces, all still, quiet, watching him. He wanted to tell them, Fine work, victory is yours … but there were no words now, and the faces were all smiling at him, and now he saw strange faces, men who should not be there, who were not at that great awful fight, the struggle for Antietam Creek. There were the faces of many friends, Winfield Scott, Albert Sidney Johnston, many others, all the familiar faces, spread out in a soft white glow. He was not on the horse now, moved forward, the white mist flowing around him, and the faces began to move away. He began to follow them, saw them looking back at him, leading him farther into the mist.

  Now the mist began to clear and he saw a vast field, a great tide of men, moving away. He thought, Who … which army … But there were no uniforms, they were all the same. He watched them, felt more men now moving past him, the flow endless, the faces looking at him with a gentle calm. Some were calling to him, silent words, but he could feel it, thought, I must still lead them. He stared out above them, the bright white of the sky, thought, The face of God … it must be.… Then he looked again at the men, the endless numbers, still flowing past him, and he thought, Yes, this is the face of God … you are all the face of God. He looked behind him now, thought, It is time … I must go with them. He looked for his staff, but there was no one there, and he thought, There must be someone … I must tell them … we must go now. He turned, yelled out the command, the last breath before he moved away, marched again with his men.

  “Strike the tent!”

  57. GRANT

  MOUNT MCGREGOR, NEW YORK, JULY 1885

  HE HAD BEEN WRITING ALL MORNING, THE WORDS POURING FROM his mind in a steady stream that seemed to outpace his ability to put them down. He would pause, resting, feel his own harsh breathing, but the words pushed hard against the dam, and so his hand would move again, releasing them, an unstoppable flow.

  His hand began to ache, and he stopped, sat back in the chair, laid his head back, stared at nothing. Outside, he could hear the sounds, the birds, and he looked that way, felt the tightness in his throat, and now his weariness was complete. He looked at the paper in front of him, thought, No more, not now.

  He stood, a slow labor, walked to the doors that opened onto the terrace, stared for a moment, could see the birds now, flutters of motion, and below, the road, blessedly empty, no traffic, none of the people who had gathered earlier that morning.

  It had annoyed him at first, people coming just to watch him, to stare at him, his private moments. There was kindness in that, he knew, but it was still an intrusion, and the sickness took away his patience. When he needed the break from the work, from the writing, he would go outside, settle into the soft chair, listen to the birds. If there were onlookers, they were respectful, usually quiet, would not disturb him, but he always knew when they were there, and that was disturbing enough.

  He’d wondered at first why they came, thought they might be reporters, or old soldiers, someone who knew him once, maybe a long time ago. But he never saw a familiar face. They had the odd habit of just standing, watching, giving a wave, a small greeting. Then it had occurred to him: they are waiting for me to die.

  The first pains had come the autumn before, a sudden shock, an assault on his throat from nothing more than eating a piece of fruit. He felt a sting, thought it was an insect, a bee, and swallowed, fighting back, had bathed his throat in cold water, but the pain had not gone away. Julia insisted on doctors, but he would have none of that, had little faith in anything they would do. But Julia had her way, always had her way, and the doctors had come to him with that look that carries its own message. He had cancer of the throat.

  Julia would not believe that, sought more doctors, some assurance that it was curable, but Grant did not cooperate, would not be the subject of experiments. He could feel it inside, the disease kept a hold on him every day, always announced its presence. He eventually began to weaken, and then he knew what was happening, that there would be very little time, and that he had one very important job to complete.

  The memoirs had not been his idea, but when the offer was made, it seemed to be a miracle. After eight tumultuous years in the White House, after a two-year journey around the world, his gift to the patience of his wife, he had in fact been nearly destitute. He’d been approached to write some articles, a piece for a magazine, and was surprised to learn there was an audience for the stories, for his memories of the war. He was never a writer, had never even thought of putting words on paper, nothing but what came with the job. They paid him anyway, a pleasant surprise, and he’d begun to enjoy it, going back, searching through some of his old papers, the familiar names and places, and even the bad times, the grim fights where many good men were lost.

  It had never occurred to him that anyone would pay to read the story of his life, that there was anything about his life that was inspiring, or even interesting. But the numbers had been presented to him, a guarantee of half a million dollars; that if he could produce the memoirs, it would ensure the financial well-being of his family. The articles, brief and to the point, had been fun. Now there was something added—a responsibility. The writing had taken on an urgency because, he knew, more than anyone else, he was running out of time.

  The money, the financial security,
was inspiring certainly, but there was something more, a growing friendship with the publisher, Samuel Clemens, an unexpected benefit of the simple business deal. That was a new experience for Grant, because his business deals almost always went bad. Through his entire life, the most painful lessons, his faith in man would be shaken not by success or failure on the battlefield, but by how men behaved in business dealings. It was a lesson he still could not accept, not completely, and he still wondered about the criticism he’d received, how naive he was. He had always been too eager to trust, believed that everyone would accept responsibility the way he did. It was simple and logical. If you trusted someone with doing their duty, to do a job, it did not matter if money was involved, the job would be done.

  During the last half of his presidency, he had clearly shown too much blind faith in those who worked in his administration. His failure to understand and then to stop the corruption around him had not only been a severe embarrassment, but would haunt him for years after his term expired. It was as it had always been, on the fields of Virginia, or in the white halls of Washington. If he was told the job would be done, he simply believed it.

  The memoirs could only be handled by him, and even if he had use of a secretary, someone to correct his spelling, his poor grammar, the words still came from him. His fading energy only gave him a few hours each day, but it had been enough so far. Clemens was confident that he was very close, that in a few weeks, or maybe days, the final pages would be written.

  Clemens came more often now, and the visits were more social than professional. He would wait for Grant to complete the day’s work, then they would sit and talk, as much as Grant’s voice would allow. As weak as he was, as much discomfort as his voice gave him, he enjoyed the visits. It could be wonderfully entertaining, because Clemens himself had no problem filling the quiet spaces with his own words, was a man who did not even require an audience, seemed perfectly happy just speaking out loud, entertaining himself as well as anyone who might be around. Clemens had done a good bit of writing himself, great literary treasures, and Grant always enjoyed hearing about that from a professional, the magical process, where the words came from. He’d always been astounded that this man would actually pay him to write the memoirs, was honored now by the man’s friendship, the man most people knew by the name of Mark Twain.