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

by Michael Shaara

  Jackson began to fidget, rocked back and forth on stiff legs. “My men are ready to move on your command, General.”

  “General Jackson,” Lee said, “we do have one problem, which I will need you to address.”

  Longstreet said, “Harper’s Ferry.”

  “Yes, General, you are correct. There are nearly twelve thousand Federal troops quartered there, and they could add to those numbers easily by moving men up the river. That would be the danger to our rear. Harper’s Ferry must be secured. General Jackson, I want you to move your forces down that way, surround the town from the heights and secure it by any method that will ensure success. I will accompany General Longstreet’s forces across the Potomac, masking our movements behind the mountains. We should be well into Maryland before anyone in Washington can do anything to impede us.”

  Longstreet said, “General, we are already greatly outnumbered, and by dividing the army . . . there is considerable risk, sir.”

  “This plan could end the war, General. Is that not worth risk?”

  Jackson looked at Longstreet, said, “General, my troops will move on Harper’s Ferry and reunite with your army in short order.”

  Longstreet kicked at the dirt, said, “We need cavalry in the mountain passes, masking our movement, and in our rear, to keep anyone from following us.”

  “General Stuart will be so ordered. I will inform President Davis of this plan, and provide both of you with detailed written orders by tonight. It is a slow process. . . .” He held up his hands. “I must dictate everything to my staff.”

  Lee turned, began to walk back toward the wagons, and the others followed close behind. They reached the edge of the shade, felt the cooler air, and Lee paused, said, “Gentlemen, you were both on this field a year ago. We won a great victory then, quite possibly could have ended this war, and we did nothing, we did not follow it up. That is why we had to fight here again, on this same ground. It is a lesson learned, gentlemen. It is time to take this war out of Virginia.”

  23. CHAMBERLAIN

  August 1862

  THEY STOOD in groups, sat in small circles. Some were lying on the ground, some slept. He had walked from the train station, through the streets of Portland, had seen other men moving in the same direction. No one noticed him as he made his way into Camp Mason, the first assembly point for the volunteers of the Twentieth Maine.

  He saw the faces of the young, the same kind of faces he had seen in the streets of Brunswick, but there were others too, older men, men with rugged, worn faces, big men, log cutters, farmers, and he was surprised, but it made him feel better. This was not, after all, an army of boys.

  There were tents lined up in neat rows at the far end of the grounds, and he began to move that way, lugging a heavy cloth bag over his shoulder. He had thought of bringing his usual small trunk, then decided it would be too conspicuous. He did not want to appear to be too green. At least make a good first impression, he thought. He walked past the groups of men, heard conversations, most about where they had just come from, what was left behind, a few comments about the war, where they might go next. He heard a few accents, Irish, Scottish, but clearly, they were all Maine men, and they did not yet know that he would lead them.

  He reached the tents, saw a man, an officer, the only uniform he had seen so far, sitting at a small table. The man was writing on a long sheet of paper, and Chamberlain said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my tent. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain.”

  The man looked up, glanced him up and down quickly, then stood, saluted.

  “Sir, I am Major Gilmore, formerly of the Seventh Maine. I have been sent here to assist you . . . and . . . this regiment.”

  “Fine, Major, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You are a veteran, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Fought in General Hancock’s brigade, on the peninsula, General Smith’s division.”

  “We can use some experience here, Major, myself included. Are you the only officer here?”

  “There are others, sir, the company commanders, but the uniforms have not yet arrived.”

  “And Colonel Ames?”

  “The colonel is expected at any time. I have taken the liberty, sir, of preparing a schedule . . . a routine for the drills. I had thought Colonel Ames would want to begin as soon as possible. They’re a pretty rough bunch, sir. If you’d like, we can begin right away, get a bit of a jump on it before the colonel arrives.”

  Gilmore handed him the paper. Chamberlain saw a list of march steps, formations, and column movements, and he examined the list with an attempt at a critical eye, hoped Gilmore did not realize that he would have no idea how to begin drills.

  “Yes . . . well done, Major . . . but, this is Colonel Ames’s command. I think we should let him decide the training schedule.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Chamberlain began to look around, studying the faces, the clothes, the mix of city and country, then turned toward the tents, said, “Major, can you point me—”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, yes, you are over there . . . that large one, with the open flaps.”

  “Thank you, Major.” He began to move that way, felt a childlike excitement, his own tent, sleeping right out here, on the ground, then he felt silly, forced himself not to smile. He leaned over, into the empty tent, saw only one small cot. He threw his bag toward the back, then gazed at the camp again, thought, Maybe I should walk among the men, introduce myself, get to know them. Then he thought, Well, no, maybe a commander shouldn’t do that. But the officers . . . I should find the officers. . . .

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I heared you was a perfessor?”

  It was a comical voice, with a crude, exaggerated accent. Chamberlain turned, saw a man coming from between the tents, a small, thin man in baggy clothes. The man had spoken out from under a wide, floppy farmer’s hat, then the hat lifted and he saw: Tom!

  “What . . . you come to see me off? What are you doing here?”

  “Lawrence, I joined up. I’m in this regiment. I’m going with you.” Then he snapped to attention, threw up a crooked salute, said, “Colonel, sir!”

  “How did . . . did Father approve this? How will he run the farm?”

  “Lawrence, once he heard you was gonna be a colonel, he couldn’t say no. You know him, he’ll be all right, they both will. I just gave him one less thing to cuss at. And Mama said so many prayers for both of us . . . we got nothin’ to worry about.”

  “Well . . .” He looked at the clean smile of the boy, felt the pride, then a hard tug in his gut. His brother, his little brother, was a soldier. “Well, I guess I have one more responsibility—I have to look after you.”

  “Me? Lawrence, Mama told me to look after you.”

  Chamberlain smiled, could picture that scene, his mother wrapping the tight arms around her youngest son, the last gift of pious advice, and his father standing to one side, grim and silent, maybe one nod, one grudging show of affection.

  “This is really something, eh, Lawrence? Look at all these men. And you’re gonna tell ’em all what to do. Think they’ll listen to you? You’re just a professor.”

  Chamberlain felt a sting, said, “They’ll do what they have to do . . . it will take some time. But one thing has to change right away.”

  “What’s that, Lawrence?”

  “Stop calling me Lawrence.”

  HE LAY alone and quiet, heard nothing, the camp dark and silent. He thought, I had better sleep . . . I have to be sharp tomorrow. But there was no sleep, and he tried to move, lay on his side, hoping it would be more comfortable. But the stiff cot would not give in, and he rolled onto his back again, staring at white canvas. He sat up, stuck his head out through the flaps, saw the stars, a clear, lovely night, and stepped outside, stretched, looked out over the sea of tents. Nearly a thousand men, he thought, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Waiting for me. No wonder you can’t sleep. He looked farther out, saw a lone figure moving, walking, then toward the
other side, another one: sentries. Major Gilmore had posted guards, something Chamberlain would not have thought of. Guarding against what? We’re still in Maine. But, of course, the guards were there to keep these men here.

  He thought of taking a walk, strolling through the cool air, but no, it would be a bad example. Try to get some sleep, Colonel, he told himself, and he moved back into the tent, sat on the cot. His brother was there. He had not counted on that. It shouldn’t change things, he thought, but it does.

  Stretching out on the cot, he stared up again, at the blank canvas. He tried to relax his mind, heard himself breathing, and then saw Fannie—God, I miss her already. He thought of the many nights he would reach over to her, run his hand gently over her arm, touch her hair. . . .

  It was a terrible screeching, a dying animal, some horrible demon tearing through his brain, a hellish whine in his ears. It was dawn . . . and it was a bugle.

  Chamberlain turned over, tried to find the floor, rolled off the edge of the cot and hit the hard ground with his whole body. Then he pulled himself up, tried to stand, and his head bumped the canvas above him. He tried to see, stumbled toward the opening in the tent, saw it was still dark, a faint white glare beyond the far trees. The bugle continued to blow, a broken and tuneless flow of sounds, and men were moving now. He heard voices and curses, and he backed into the tent, looked through the darkness for his clothes, realized he was already dressed, had never taken them off. He turned again, fought his way out through the tent, stood outside in the chilly morning and saw a man on a horse, a sharp silhouette in the faint light. It was Gilmore, and beside him, standing, was the man blowing the bugle. Chamberlain began to move that way, thought, I really do need a uniform, and as he approached, Gilmore saw him and saluted stiffly. Behind him, Chamberlain saw a horseman sitting stiffly, a smaller man in a wide-brimmed hat. The man moved his horse up beside Gilmore, the major said something, and, blessedly, the bugle stopped.

  Then Gilmore said, “Colonel Ames, I am pleased to present Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain.”

  He felt confused, then realized it was him, and he saluted in the man’s direction. He could not see the face, but he heard, “Colonel Chamberlain, please accompany me to breakfast.”

  Food? he thought. “Yes, sir. When, sir?”

  Ames stared down at him, said nothing, and now the men were gathering in numbers, most of them up and out of the tents.

  Gilmore shouted, “Line up . . . here, across here.”

  The men began to fall in, and Chamberlain heard the voices, “Where’s the coffee?” “Kill that bugler,” and he thought, Yes, a brave man carries the bugle.

  Gradually the men came together, a sea of bodies in the faint light, and Gilmore shouted, “Quiet! Men of the Twentieth Maine Regiment of Volunteers, this is your commanding officer, Colonel Adelbert Ames.”

  There were some cheers, applause, and Gilmore waved his arms frantically. “Quiet! You do not applaud your commander. You will learn to salute him. Now, here . . . this is Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain, your second in command.”

  There were more cheers, and Chamberlain bowed, then heard Gilmore again. “Quiet!”

  The noise lessened, and the men began to mumble, talking among themselves, waking up in a rising steady hum, and Gilmore yelled again, “Quiet!” and it had only minor effect.

  Ames said, “Major, it’s their first official morning. We’ll give them a bit of slack today. You won’t have much of a voice left if we don’t. Let them eat . . . then we begin the drills. Colonel Chamberlain, come along, if you please.”

  Ames moved his horse away, and Chamberlain walked behind, was not sure where they were going, remembered breakfast, and thought, I really do need a horse.

  “COLONEL, YOU will share my tent.”

  “Sir?”

  “It will work out better. We can spend our time more efficiently, teaching you the fundamentals.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  They sat at a small table, under a flat open tent, and Chamberlain was holding his first cup of army coffee, was attacking it bravely, determined. It was his greatest challenge so far. The tent began to fill with other men, the officers of the regiment, who had learned that the officers ate separately from the men. They came slowly up, with some shyness, approached the mess table where assorted piles and pots of food were waiting. Chamberlain watched them come, stuffed a hard biscuit into his mouth, knew immediately it was a mistake, too large and too dry, but could not remove it. He saw Ames watching him, and so took a hard gulp from the coffee cup, washed it down.

  Ames smiled. “Welcome to the army, Colonel.”

  Ames was a small, thin man. He had a wide, round face with a thick mustache, and Chamberlain was surprised to see he was young, much younger than him. He had graduated from West Point only a year before, and had seen action immediately at the first big fight, Bull Run. His assignment to command this new regiment was a questionable reward, but he was an ambitious man, and took his own advancement as seriously as he took his need for discipline.

  “I’ve been told quite a bit about you, Colonel. General Hodsdon has a great deal of faith in your abilities. It’s my job to teach you how to be a commander.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will do whatever it takes.”

  “We’ll start immediately. This regiment is about as raw as any I have seen. That will not last, Colonel. They will learn how to be good disciplined soldiers, or they will be slaughtered.”

  Abruptly, he stood, said loudly to the other men under the tent, “Gentlemen, in fifteen minutes I want the regiment formed in lines of four, company A on the left, and so on down the line. We cannot waste time getting these men in shape.”

  Chamberlain looked at the other officers, saw nods, uncertain faces, and there was a noise off in the distance, the shouts of men, a line of wagons. A man ran to the tent, saw Ames’s blue coat, said, “Sir, the uniforms are here!”

  The officers rose from their breakfasts and the tent emptied as they moved quickly toward the small line of wagons. Men had crowded around, there were happy shouts, and now the officers took control, began to yell instructions, herding the men into formation.

  Chamberlain stayed with Ames, following his lead, and Ames climbed on his horse, moved the animal slowly toward the forming men. Chamberlain walked behind, watched the officers waving and pointing, with minimal success. Men still gathered at the wagons, and suddenly Ames rode forward, pushing his horse through the men. Reaching the first wagon, he pulled his sword and yelled something Chamberlain couldn’t hear. The men scattered, moved toward the familiar, less-threatening faces of their company commanders. Now the columns began to show some shape, rough formations, and Ames turned the horse around, rode to the front.

  Gilmore rode up, began speaking, then Ames followed, giving instructions of what was expected of them, how the training would go. The company commanders were instructed to appoint a quartermaster officer, who would issue the uniforms. Chamberlain listened to the words, the commands, watched the strange mix of men standing before him, some looking up at Ames, some at him, some staring away into some distant place, and he began to get a feeling of dread, a feeling that this wasn’t going to work. These men were not an army. Surely it was different in other units, men with a sense of order, an inherent knowledge of how to do all this. These were Maine men, a different breed, men used to a hard, tough life, a life as individuals, men who never had to listen to anybody tell them anything, and so many of them were not listening now.

  He tried to spot Tom, looked for the floppy hat, did not even know what company he was in, and his eyes ran up and down the rows, past all variety of dress and stance and expression. Are they better than us? He thought of General Hodsdon’s words, and he wondered if the rebel army was so much better, what it was that won battles. He still felt the dread, a sense of doom, and then he saw Tom, the bright face. He was not wearing the ridiculous hat, was smiling at him, directly at him, and Chamberlain could not stare back at him, because
he would begin to smile as well. But he felt the look, the energy of youth, the enthusiasm, and now he began to see others, the faces that were staring to the front, listening to Ames’s words, absorbing them, and he saw there were a lot of them, men who did not yet know how, but would learn, men who understood after all, what this meant, what they had to do.

  He began to feel better, the dread slipping away, and imagined himself wearing the uniform, the deep blue, seated high on a horse, before neat rows of men with their own uniforms, straight lines of rifles, shining bayonets. He glanced up at Ames, heard the voice of the commander, and thought, No, they are not better than us, and we will have our chance.

  September 1862

  THEY WERE at Camp Mason less than a month when orders arrived to board the trains, trains that would pass through other towns and other states, adding carloads of men and equipment, bringing them all out of the cool hills of New England, toward the flat, hot plains around Washington.

  Chamberlain had his horse finally, a gift from the town of Brunswick, a wonderful surprise. It was light gray, dappled with white spots, and he rode slowly, grandly, through the formations, watching the men of the regiment turning themselves into soldiers. And they had watched him as well, as he was taught and drilled night after night by Ames. Now, as they rode the long rails south, there was a feeling, shared by all of them, that they were ready for the only real test. Ames still pushed them, rode them hard, drilled them so often that they began to curse him, hate him, but they continued to learn, and if Ames was despised, they also knew he was a good soldier.

  In Washington they continued to drill, lines and formations, columns of march and lines of battle, the bugle commands and the hand signals of the officers. Then they were issued muskets and ammunition, backpacks and blankets and canteens. Around them, in camps spread throughout the city and well beyond, great fields of blue troops and white tents, horses and wagons, began to move together, toward and across the river, lining up and flowing out along the narrow, hard roads. The men knew it was their turn, fresh troops for a battered army, and they began the march, not to the south, as they had thought, but northwest, toward a far corner of Maryland.