The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

  ANNA ROSE earlier than usual, the sun just over the trees on the eastern rim of the mountains. Jackson was already gone, out for his morning walk, and she dressed quietly, with special care, with respect for the Sabbath. She thought, The services will be good today, a break from the turmoil of the past week.

  Jackson had been occupied with preparations for the deployment of the cadet corps, the readiness required to send these boys off to train an army, a new army. The week had ended with nothing definite, though constant rumors had kept the entire town on edge.

  Anna walked down the stairs that wound through the center of their home. She stopped midway, stood on the small landing, paused to listen, could hear her husband’s footsteps, the unmistakable rhythm. She listened, waited for him to climb the back stairs, and heard his every motion, could see him in her mind, removing his boots, the long, high stretch, organizing his body, seeking out the pains and probing them. Then he quietly opened the back door and padded inside.

  He came into the hallway, tiptoeing, would not wake his little esposita, rounded the base of the stairs. Anna stood above, looked down on his tall frame, and he saw her suddenly, smiled up at her. She did not smile in response, did not share his good mood.

  “My darling, you startle me. Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

  “No, Thomas, I . . . just fell awake, had to be up. This is a special Sunday.”

  “Why? Oh, forgive me, I know it is special. I have missed the good prayer sessions, the good company. . . .”

  “No, Thomas, this is special because you will be leaving soon. We both know that. All the prayers, all our hopes, have not been answered. There will be a war.”

  He was surprised at her gloom, tried to put it aside. “There is no war yet. I am still here, with you. There is still hope. The Almighty may yet make them see, may turn us away from this course. It can still happen.”

  “No, Thomas, it will not happen. God does not change our course, that is for us to do. All we have done is plan one course, and only one course, and there is only one end.”

  He was stunned, had not heard her speak this way before. He realized he had been so busy this week, had spent so much time at the institute, he had not been with her, had not been of much comfort. She heard the rumors, all the buzz in the town, and he understood how rumors affected people.

  “We are preparing, we must be ready. But that is not for today. This is the Lord’s day, and we shall spend it with Him, you and I together.”

  He started up the stairs, to be close to her, but she passed by him, to the bottom of the stairs, said, “I expect we should start with breakfast,” and she disappeared around the corner. He watched her, wanted to tell her . . . something, make her understand that his duty was his greatest responsibility to God, that God would protect them as long as he did his duty. He felt a pain in his side, reached up high with his left arm and stretched. The pain lessened, but did not go away. He began to climb up to the bedroom, to change his clothes and make ready for the Sunday services, at least there would be that, the comfort of church, and he thought of Dr. White. Maybe Dr. White could talk to Anna, help her understand. But we will have this day, at least, he told himself, this blessed day.

  They both heard the sharp noise from the small brass bell at the front door. Anna stood in the kitchen, heard the bell ring again, heard the urgency, the strain on the thin metal. She could not go, could not answer the door. There could be nothing good about a caller this early on Sunday morning.

  Jackson hurried down the stairs, opened the door and saw: a cadet.

  The boy snapped to attention, said with crispness, unsmiling, “Good morning, Major. This just arrived for you.”

  Jackson took the envelope, saw the wax seal, thought he should wait and send the boy away, but he could not stop himself from opening it. He felt his hands shake, looked up at the boy, embarrassed, but the cadet was staring straight ahead, was not seeing, the good discipline of the soldier.

  The paper slid out into Jackson’s hands, clean and white, and there were only a few lines, the beauty of the skilled pen. Jackson read the message silently, looked back behind him, looked for Anna, and she was not there, had not come out, and he knew she had expected this, had seen it coming sooner than he had, already knew what it said.

  Jackson turned back to the boy, said, “Cadet, return to the institute. Give Colonel Smith my compliments, and inform him that I will be at his office within the half hour.”

  The boy saluted, said simply, “Sir,” and in one quick motion was down the steps and gone.

  Jackson looked again at the message, the neatly scribed words:

  You are ordered to report immediately with the Corps of Cadets to Camp Instruction, Richmond, to begin the formal training and organization of the Provisional Army, for the defense of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  He turned, did not look for Anna, ran up the stairs to find his uniform.

  Anna stayed in the back of the house, the kitchen, prepared a small meal for herself, knew he would not eat now. Then she heard him, the heavy boots on the old stairs. He called out, said something, she couldn’t hear it all, and then he was gone.

  She walked out to the back, down the porch steps, looked across the yard, the new furrows in the clean brown soil, the bed of the new spring garden, waiting for the seeding, the new crop, and she knew he would not be planting it, that he would not be working his beloved field outside of town. She looked up to the porch, saw the cloth bags, the seeds. She had just bought them this week, had hoped to sit with him, to poke small fingers into waiting dirt, the beginnings of the new life, and she thought of him, the look of pure joy, sitting in the dirt, part of it, brown smudges all over his clothes and face; thick, caked dirt on his hands. He loved it, would ask her to sit with him, share the feeling, the good work with God’s earth.

  She stood in the yard for a long while, lost track of time. She could hear noises drifting over the town from the big hill to the north, where the cadets were preparing. She could hear drumming, the hollow sounds echoing through the streets, and the townspeople, excited voices. She went back to the porch, sat on the steps. Looking up, she saw the spring birds flying past, circling, landing on the freshly turned soil, then away in a flutter, spooked by the noises from the street, and then she heard him, calling out in his playful Spanish from the front of the house, and she stood, hurried up the steps and inside.

  “My esposita, I have only a few minutes. I must get back . . . we have a church service. . . . Dr. White is going to lead . . . then we are moving out, to Richmond.” He was out of breath, and she knew he had run all the way from the institute.

  “Come, before I leave, we must sit, read together. There is a verse . . .” and he led her into his study, found his Bible, hurriedly thumbed through. “Yes, yes, here. Corinthians, Second Corinthians, chapter five, please, sit by me. I have been thinking about this verse.”

  Anna sat, put her hand on his, and they read it together.

  “For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens . . .”

  When they had finished, he turned, knelt before her, looked at her with a softness she had never seen, then closed his eyes and said, “I pray, O Almighty God, I pray that You feel our love, You feel that we do only what You ask, that our path is the right one, and that we may sit by Your side . . .” He went on, a long and earnest plea, and Anna pulled her mind away, watched him, saw the passion, the determination to do right, and she lay a hand gently on the side of his face, waited.

  He finished, the final Amen, then she pulled him closer, and he opened his eyes, and she knew it was to be, his way was clear. They rose, stood with hands together, and she smiled. He saw the first smile from her today, and suddenly he hugged her, clamped his arms around her, pulled her into him and held her . . . and then it was done.

  She stood at the open door, watched him move in a quick motion down the steps, watched
the long strides marching up the street, away. He turned, one more wave, and she tried, could not raise her hand, watched him crest the hill and drop out of sight. She looked up then, tilted her head toward a bright sky, the sharp unblemished blue, and asked aloud, “How could You make this day so beautiful?”

  11. LEE

  April 1861

  HE STARED out the window of the moving train, saw the buildings of Richmond grow in size and number. He had not been through this part of Virginia in years, and he marveled at the changes, the vast number of new houses, the sleepy farmlands absorbed by a spreading city.

  Barely two days after his resignation, Lee had received a messenger from Governor Letcher, a request that he accept the command of the Provisional Army, the defense forces for the state of Virginia.

  The train ride was his own idea. He did not receive an invitation to meet personally with the governor, but assumed it would be best if he was closer to the rush of events that would certainly follow the secession vote.

  As the train began to slow, Lee continued to gaze intently at the buildings, stately homes of red and white brick with tall, peaked roofs. They reached the station, and the train lurched to a stop. He climbed down onto the platform into a fever of activity, the hot energy of people moving with a purpose. Through the moving crowd he spotted a line of horse-drawn taxis, carried his one leather bag and climbed aboard, alone and unrecognized. The taxi began the climb up the streets of the city in turmoil, toward his temporary home, the Spottswood Hotel.

  The Spottswood was a grand place, and as such, the focal point for important meetings and gatherings. Lee walked slowly through the hurried clatter of the lobby, saw groups of men, some huddled in intense conversation, others waving big cigars, broad-chested men with loud voices, proclaiming their opinions with the mindless flourish of those who share no responsibility for the consequences of their grand ideas. Lee stopped briefly, listened to one such speech, felt uncomfortable and began to wonder what reckless policies and self-indulgent planning was going on elsewhere.

  His room was large, with white walls and dark oak furniture. He placed his bag on the bed, deciding to unpack later, for he wanted to waste no time before seeing the governor. From the large window he gazed down at the streets, saw tightly packed carriages, men on horseback, noticed that everyone was hurrying, the wagons and carts bouncing about on the rough cobblestones. He began to feel anxious, excited, could not help but be caught up in this, whatever it was.

  There was a mirror hanging on the wall across from the window, and Lee checked his appearance, the fine dark suit, looked down at the fresh polish on his black leather shoes, and with quick, precise steps, went out to meet the governor.

  The walk to the capitol was longer than he had anticipated. He climbed hills and walked down streets that intrigued him. There was much of his own history here, and he felt a strong sense of kinship, the revolutionary spirit that had filled this place nearly a century before. He kept a brisk pace, felt the cool spring air, and up ahead could see a statue, a man on a horse, standing high in the middle of a circle, a wide plaza. He approached with curiosity, then saw: George Washington.

  He stopped. People were walking past, few looking at the tall figure, the sharp bronze features. Lee felt himself breathing heavily, the exhilaration of the walk, and he looked into the face of Washington, thought, We too are in the midst of a revolution. He wondered what Washington would do in his situation, and felt, of course, he had been in this same situation, accepting the cost of fighting for independence.

  Lee spoke, in a low voice unheard by people dashing past. “What has changed? Why has it not worked?” He began to think of history, the great men: Madison, Franklin, Adams. They did not design a government to control the people.

  He shook his head, looked around at the crowded street. He watched a family, a young mother pulling along two reluctant children, then saw more children, a small park across the plaza, parents sitting on benches while children crawled about in thick green grass.

  I have so missed that . . . all of that, he thought. But I did that myself . . . the army, my whole life.

  Now he thought of Mary, watching him write his letter to Scott, giving up his career. He’d cried, put his head down on his arm there at the big desk and wept, and she was there, put a frail hand on his shoulder, tried to help, and he realized for the first time what she had given up. She had married a young soldier, had shared the life that his career demanded. She was confined to a wheelchair now, could barely walk at all, and now he was gone again, leaving behind advice, as he always had, to move the family, take the girls and leave Arlington. He knew, as she could not comprehend, what a war would do to his home.

  And so, Lee knew he would accept this command, would defend his home, because in the end he had nothing else, he had given up all of it.

  He looked back up at the face of Washington. We are all revolutionaries, he thought. If we understand that, we will have great strength, we will defend our homes, we will prevail.

  He turned, began to move through the crowds, toward the capitol.

  LEE WAS surprised how quickly he was escorted into Governor Letcher’s office.

  “Colonel Lee, a surprise, to be sure. Good of you to come, however. Please, please, be seated. Cigar?”

  “No, thank you, Governor. I received your gracious request, and thought it best that I come here. . . .”

  “Excellent, yes, Colonel. Oh . . . excuse me, I don’t believe I should refer to you . . . excuse me, Mister Lee.”

  “It’s quite all right, Governor. I still refer to myself as Colonel.”

  “Well, Mr. Lee, I would prefer to call you Major General Lee. Are you, um, pleased with that title?”

  Lee began to feel swallowed by the energy, the enthusiasm, of this man who, he suddenly thought, did not look much like a governor. He thought of the imposing figure of Sam Houston, the image pressed into his brain, a contrast to the bald man with the puffy red face who sat across the wide desk. Around the wide office sat several others whom Lee did not recognize, men in dark suits. There was a sense of celebration, and Lee wondered, Has something else happened, what have I missed?

  “Sir, I am honored that you would offer me the position.”

  “Well, you come highly recommended, most highly. This won’t be official of course, there’s the convention . . . the formalities. Your name must be brought before the body, then voted. Well, it’s all very ceremonial.”

  “Whatever is required, sir.”

  “Good, good. This is a ghastly business, Mr. Lee. We did everything, everything to convince the convention to stay neutral, but as I’m sure you were made aware, when Mr. Lincoln called on us, on Virginians, to supply troops to his army, well, sir, the response was . . . well, I must say, even I began to feel the call to secede, to defend against this kind of tyranny. Well, I seem to be making a speech.”

  There was laughter from around the office, good-natured jabs at Letcher’s political side. Lee tried to relax, to flow into the good feelings, but could not, felt himself pull together, deflecting their good humor.

  “Sir, may I inquire as to my first duties? Do you . . . is there a plan, a strategy? Pardon my directness, sir, but I need to be informed on just what is happening.”

  “Yes, certainly you do, Mr. Lee. The government of the new confederation of southern states is currently quartered in Montgomery, and is seeking to reach an agreement with Virginia to relocate here, in Richmond. They are also requesting that the Provisional Army forces, which you will command, be incorporated into a central army, a joining of all the state forces. This matter is still under some discussion.”

  Lee heard murmurs from around the room, sensed this was a difficult topic.

  “I believe you are well acquainted with the President of the Confederated States, Mr. Davis, Jefferson Davis?”

  “Yes, sir, we attended West Point together. I haven’t been in touch with him in a number of years.”

  “No matter. He has
great respect for you, Mr. Lee, and I expect you will be working closely with him and his people on establishing our defense. It is likely, Mr. Lee, as you may already know, that with Virginia’s siding with the Southern cause, we are clearly the front door to any invasion force. Your first duties will be quite explicit. Form a line of defense.”

  There were some nods of approval, and one man, a large, round man with a deep raspy voice, said, “Hit them. Hit them hard.”

  Another round man, shorter, with a higher-pitched voice, said, “Yes, we must attack them, quickly. Show them they can’t push us!”

  Lee listened, respectfully, said nothing. Of course, it would be popular to go on the offensive, the people would cheer the marching troops, the call to battle.

  Letcher cut off the discussion, saying, “Good, good, well, Mr. Lee will begin his duties as quickly as we can formalize the post. If there is nothing else, Mr. Lee?”

  “Gentlemen, I look forward to serving the Commonwealth of Virginia, and I will defend her from harm as best I can.”

  There were more murmurs, approving, confident. He stood, ready to leave, waited for others to rise. As he reached the wide door, the big man placed a heavy arm on his shoulders and breathed a thick voice into his ear.

  “Remember, hit them hard!”

  12. HANCOCK

  May 1861

  THE ROUTE started west in Kansas, Fort Leavenworth, where the last of the telegraph wires stopped. The man rode hard and fast and as long as the horse would carry him, then, trading one horse for another, climbed toward the great mountains, following the trails through the high passes. The horse carried him quickly over the shrinking ice fields, slippery patches of melting snow that were just now warming under the springtime sun. There were stations along the way with fresh horses, small and crude outposts, and the man would hand over his heavy cloth sacks, the precious mail, newspapers, to a new man, who would take a fresh horse farther, higher, then down through the hard red rocks of the western flatlands, across the plains of Utah and Nevada, along the edges of small rivers that cut through the dry sands. He would climb again, into California, the breathtaking views across the Sierras, more snow now, and the horse slowed, could not move as quickly as the rider pushed him. Often it did not survive, brought the rider to the next station, only to collapse, dead from brutal exhaustion. Once across the mountains, the ride became easier, the green hills and valleys of northern California, a blessed relief to the man who had begun the trip hundreds of miles back, had survived the dangers of the mountains.