“Mr. Chamberlain, I would like you to consider a leave of absence. Have you ever been to Europe?”
“Europe? No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Well, this might be the perfect time. Take a leave of absence. We’ll grant you two years. Travel, study, visit the great universities, the museums, the cathedrals, immerse yourself in the culture. You have a great talent for languages, so use it. It should be easy for you . . . and your family. It will be the opportunity of a lifetime for them. When it’s over, come back here, to your Chair, and I am confident your attitude will have tempered. The war will certainly be over, and all this . . . disruption will be gone.”
“Two years?”
“That should be plenty of time. It’s an opportunity, Mr. Chamberlain. A rare opportunity.”
“I would like to think about it, if you don’t mind, discuss it with my wife.”
“Of course, I’m not looking for an answer right now.”
“Thank you, sir.” He stood, felt a fog in his brain, a sudden numbness, his mind flooded with the idea of leaving, and . . . Europe . . . and he nodded, went slowly to the door.
Woods said to him, “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!”
HE HAD given her an absurd excuse, felt guilty immediately, but she would not understand, and there would be time for explanations later.
Augusta was a short coach ride from Brunswick, and he had wired a request, had received a positive response, and so today he would see the governor.
The coach reached the city, and he saw immediately the government buildings, the state capitol. There was little about the town to impress, but he felt impressed anyway, had never dealt with a seat of power, did not consider that these were just politicians, but the men who were close to it all, who had the facts, had up-to-date knowledge of the war and made their decisions accordingly. He felt childlike, excited.
He had excused himself from his classes for a couple of days, and Woods, and the rest, did not know where he was. It was assumed he had taken some time to be with his family, to weigh the great decision of accepting the leave. He told Fannie that he had to attend a meeting in Augusta, but did not mention the governor, said something that he could not even remember, some fictitious name of an academic conference. It had been a lie, and he knew it, and she had said nothing. He thought, She knows. But then, No, she knows you the same way they all know you, you’re the bright young scholar, the man with the future firmly planted in academics, and they have no idea what it is doing to you.
The coach hit a pothole, lurched through the rough stone streets of the capital. He watched the unfamiliar scenes roll past, shops and bakeries and offices. She would never understand this, he thought, and none of them will listen, they will tell me I’m a fool, a college professor who knows nothing of life beyond academics, who has no business anywhere close to the war.
The coach slowed, pulled into the depot, and he stepped down, could still see the top of the capitol building, high above the rows of shops and houses, and he moved quickly in that direction. He looked at his watch: one-thirty. He was early, had time, but did not slow down, would sit and wait for hours if he had to. He paid little attention to the people, the storefronts, kept his eyes on the capitol, then finally he turned a corner and saw the entire building, perched in the center of a square, waiting for him to arrive.
“SIR, GOVERNOR Washburn can see you now.”
He was startled, had let his head fall, sleepily, and he snapped awake, stood, saw the young man holding the door for him, and he tried to say something, his mouth dry and thick. “Thnn uuu,” he said, and cleared his throat, stepped through the door.
Washburn sat behind his fat desk, framed by heavy flags, the state of Maine and the Stars and Stripes. It was a picture that Chamberlain had expected, what a governor’s office should look like. Washburn was a man of medium height, showed signs of a prosperous life; a large roundness pushed his coat forward. He wore glasses, peered over them at the young professor, then glanced over to another man, a thin, older man in a blue uniform, who sat beside the great desk, examining Chamberlain carefully.
“Professor Chamberlain. We received your request. . . . A bit unusual, but these are unusual times. I understand that you wish to volunteer for service. Exactly what did you have in mind?”
Chamberlain stood stiffly, said, “Governor, I would like to volunteer for military service in whatever capacity you consider appropriate. I am an educated man, I have considerable experience instructing young people, and I am willing to serve where the army considers me the most useful. Sir.”
“Professor, that’s a fine offer. Are you familiar with General Hodsdon, our adjutant general for the state of Maine?”
Chamberlain looked at the man in the uniform, who nodded pleasantly, and Chamberlain stiffened again, said, “No, sir.”
“Well, Professor, General Hodsdon has the unenviable responsibility of organizing and equipping our volunteer regiments, and seeing that they are staffed with commanders who may lead them out safely beyond the border of our state, so they may lend a hand to President Lincoln’s army. General, would you like to ask the professor here some questions?”
“Certainly, Governor. Professor, I took the liberty of wiring your President Woods, asking about you. Nothing too personal, of course, but we do need to know what we are dealing with here.”
Chamberlain looked at Hodsdon, felt a lump forming in his stomach.
“Professor, in all honesty, I was surprised to find that President Woods did not seem to be aware that you were making this visit.”
“No, sir, I did not inform him.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because, sir . . .” He paused, sorted the words. “I am considered to be a good teacher. I have a prestigious position at Bowdoin. It is unlikely that Dr. Woods would appreciate my desire . . . to leave.”
“You’re quite right about that, he did not seem to appreciate it at all. However, he did respond to my inquiry with some highly positive comments. I don’t mean to embarrass you, Professor, but he considers you a brilliant man. He made mention of your value to the college, and he considers you to be the . . . how did he put it . . . the ‘new light of the future’ or something like that.”
“Dr. Woods is very kind. I do not consider myself destined, however, to remain behind the walls of a university. I have a strong belief in the need, our need, to win this war.”
“That’s good, Professor. Tell me, do you have any military experience?”
He paused again, thought of just saying no, but considered that anything might help. “Sir, when I was younger, I attended Major Whiting’s Military Academy.” He felt instantly foolish. He had been barely a teenager.
“Yes, I’m familiar with Major Whiting. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir. But before you pass judgment, please allow me to express that . . . I will accept the challenge of studying military tactics, and I will apply myself to training as I have applied myself to . . . many things.”
Chamberlain stared straight ahead, looking past Washburn’s head, heard a slight chuckle.
Hodsdon said to Washburn, “Governor, President Woods gave me a lengthy description of this young professor. He speaks seven languages, teaches four different disciplines, and Woods says he will likely master any subject that is placed before him.”
“It’s no wonder President Woods is unhappy with your running off to join the army.” Both men laughed now, and Chamberlain nodded slightly, felt himself relaxing.
Washburn waved his hand, said, “Professor, it is not necessary for you to stand at attention. You’re making me nervous. Sit down, please, over there.”
Chamberlain turned, saw a wide dark chair, sat slowly down, thought, At least, keep your back straight.
Washburn moved some papers on his desk, studied one, said, “Professor, I have an order here from President Lincoln, requesting five new regiments of infantry. Five. We’re talking about five thousand men. General Hodsdon has a
lready sent them fifteen regiments, but it’s not enough.”
Hodsdon said, “Professor, what do you know of the war?”
Chamberlain considered the question, said, “I know that we are fighting against a rebellion that . . . if we are not successful—”
“No, Professor, the war. The fighting.”
“I have seen newspapers, some reports.”
“Professor, what the newspapers will not tell you is that the Federal Army has shown that when it confronts the forces of the rebels, when we bring superior numbers and superior armament against an enemy that is poorly equipped, underfed, and outnumbered, we lose. The war could well have been over last July, after that mess at Bull Run, had the rebels marched on into Washington. They sent our troops scurrying back across the Potomac like a bunch of schoolchildren. We are in sad shape, Professor. I for one am pleased to accept your offer. We are in desperate need of good officers.”
Washburn said, “General, how about this? I see here . . . we have no one yet in command of the Twentieth Regiment. Professor, how would you like to be commissioned the rank of colonel and placed in command of the Twentieth Regiment? How does that sound?”
Chamberlain stood again, looked over at Hodsdon. “Well . . . Governor . . . thank you, but . . . commander? I must admit, I would have no idea how to begin. I had thought, maybe a lower position . . .”
Hodsdon leaned across the desk, pointed at something in Washburn’s papers that Chamberlain could not see, then said, “Governor, I believe the professor is correct, perhaps immediate command of a regiment may be a bit premature. As you can see, here, we have Colonel Ames arriving back here next month. I had expected to appoint him to command that regiment.”
“Hmmm, all right, yes I see.” Washburn nodded, then looked up over his glasses at Chamberlain. “Well, then, Professor. How about Lieutenant Colonel? You would serve as second in command, the Twentieth Maine Regiment, under the command of Colonel Adelbert Ames.”
Chamberlain absorbed the words “Lieutenant Colonel,” felt a bursting need to yell at the top of his lungs, run around the wide office, and he pulled himself together, knew he was smiling, could not help it.
“I am honored to serve, sir. May I ask . . . when would I—”
Hodsdon said, “You will receive orders within a few weeks. Most likely, you will report to the adjutant’s office in Portland, it’s the closest to you. This should give you enough time to arrange your personal affairs.”
Washburn stood, held out a thick hand. “Good luck, Professor. Oh . . . one piece of advice.”
“Yes, sir, please.”
“When you take command of your troops, it might be better for discipline if you’re not smiling like that.”
THE COACH ride from the capital seemed to take forever. Now he walked, and sometimes ran, from the depot, and reached his house in a panting, sweating excitement.
He stopped outside the front door, said to himself, Slow, calm down, and let his body breathe heavily. He waited a moment and then opened the front door. Inside he heard the cries of his small son, Wyllys, now barely three, and he stopped, was struck by a wave of guilt, felt that he had somehow betrayed his family. He listened to the boy, the sound echoing through the house, and then heard Fannie, saying something, trying to calm him. Chamberlain walked slowly through the house, went down the hallway, toward the sounds, reached the doorway into the children’s room and paused.
Fannie sat on the floor beside the boy, holding something, a toy, waving it toward him in a playful tease, and the boy quieted. Up on the small bed, Daisy, who was now five, watched them both, began to laugh as the crisis passed. They did not see him, and he stayed quiet, framing the scene before him like a treasured picture, one he knew he would carry with him.
Fannie had given birth to four children, and two had not survived. There had been doubts about Wyllys’s health as well, and his first year had been difficult. Chamberlain had grown weary of doctors, of somber pronouncements and vague predictions, and through it all he had feared more for Fannie. Their home had become the warm nest she needed, and the deaths of the children had shaken her, but Chamberlain was amazed that she had come back, had learned to smile and laugh and play again. Even after the second death, it was as though she had expected it, a price for the happiness, and so it too had passed, and now the boy was growing, the problems were behind them, and the family was complete.
“Daddy!” Daisy saw him now, jumped off the bed, ran to him and clutched his leg.
Fannie turned around and smiled, saw his expression, and the smile faded. She turned back to the boy, made sure he was all right, then stood up and said, “You’re back so soon. I wasn’t sure . . . you said it might be a couple of days.”
“Yes, it did not take long. The ride is fairly short. Come, we need to talk.”
“Let me get them ready for bed. It’s been a rather long day. They seem to have some new energy these days, or maybe . . . I have less.” She forced a small laugh, and he knew she was preparing herself for something, some news, his face had betrayed him. He went outside, to the small front porch, sat in a rickety chair, saw lights now, the day was done. He pushed back carefully, felt the chair twisting, groaning, and he looked up, saw the first stars, looked back on his day, his meeting, what he had done, and realized now that he actually felt alive, and happy, and it shook him, he had not felt this way in years. Now he would have to explain that to her.
It was not long, a few minutes, and she came out, had wrapped a sweater around her shoulders, moved in front of him, to the other chair. He could barely see her now, her silhouette in the dim lamplights of the town.
“I don’t think I could have gotten them to bed if you had not come home. That’s all I heard this afternoon, ‘Where’s Daddy?’ ”
They sat quietly, and Chamberlain felt himself tensing up, felt his heart beating. His hands began to sweat, and he took a deep breath, then another. Fannie heard him, knew he was finding the words, waited a few minutes, then said, “Are we moving?”
“What? Moving?”
“I thought . . . maybe you have been offered a new position.”
“Well, no, but . . .” He stopped, could put it off no longer. “I saw the governor today, Governor Washburn.”
“The governor? Really?” She laughed, “My father calls him Old Breadball.”
Chamberlain smiled, knew many reasons why he did not discuss politics with Reverend Adams.
“The governor has offered me . . . a commission. He has offered me a command position, a lieutenant colonel’s rank . . . in the Maine volunteers.”
She sat up straight, and he felt her eyes. “Why would he do that?”
“Because I requested it. I volunteered for service.”
She stared at him in the dark, and he leaned forward, brought the chair slowly back down onto four legs.
“You volunteered . . . to join the army? Why on earth . . . you mean, you want to leave here? Leave us?”
“No, I didn’t do it for that. Please. I love you, I love you all. But . . . this has been coming for a long time . . . maybe since the war started.”
“You can’t mean this, Lawrence. You’re not a soldier.”
He heard the edge in her voice, knew she was not going to take this well. He turned in the chair, faced her.
“The closer I came to doing this, the more I thought about it, the more I knew it was something I had to do . . . I wanted to do. I cannot let this war happen without doing something. If I don’t do . . . something . . . I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
Her voice was quiet, softer. “But what about your career? You can’t just . . . quit. Have you told them?”
“No. I will do that tomorrow. They already know, probably. Woods knows. I’m sure I will hear a lot of . . . criticism. Those old men, they have no idea what this is about. I doubt I could ever convince them, so I won’t try. They can’t stop it. They’ve granted me the leave already.”
“I thought we were going to E
urope, I thought that was the news. You haven’t told me if you were accepting the leave or not. It’s been weeks, and I thought, finally, you had made up your mind. I did not expect you to join the army. How could you do this . . . without discussing this with me first? Do I not have any say in this?” She was angry now, and he looked away from her, out into the dark, did not have an answer for her, had never been able to tell her that he was simply . . . unhappy.
“I’m sorry. Please try to understand. . . .”
“I thought we were finally . . . doing so well. I thought you enjoyed . . . doing what you did. You never gave me any notion that you would ever do anything like this.”
He looked at her again, tried to see her face in the dark, said, “I had come to believe that I would grow old standing in front of students, reciting my lessons, and that it didn’t matter if I was happy or not. If this is where I am supposed to be, then I would accept that. But . . . something changed. I look into their faces, and they expect answers, and I began to realize that the answers they want are the same ones I want. My colleagues . . . they stopped asking about anything a long time ago . . . they know all they need to know, and their lives are as complete as they will ever be, and that works for them. I am not ready to grow old, to accept that what I am today is what I will always be.”
She stood, moved away, to the edge of the porch, leaned against the thin railing, stared out to the night sky. “So, that’s it.”
He stood, moved toward her. She lowered her head, said slowly, her voice calmer now, “So . . . when do you leave? How long will you be gone? What will you be doing?”
“I’m not sure . . . of any of that. They’ll send me orders . . . soon . . . a few weeks. It’s a new regiment, the Twentieth. I’ll be serving under a fellow named Ames, Colonel Ames. I expect we have a good deal of training to go through. I have a lot to learn.”
“You’ll learn it. If you want to do this, you will learn it.”
He smiled, thought of Woods, Hodsdon. “They seem to believe that too.”
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 25