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

by Michael Shaara

Chamberlain nodded, said, “Yes, sir. I was pinned down . . . up on the rise . . . the wall.” He felt suddenly very tired, looked at Ames, who smiled again.

  Ames said, “General Griffin, Colonel Vincent, this is Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain. I spoke of him earlier.”

  Griffin held out his hand, caught Chamberlain by surprise, and he stared numbly. Griffin waited, kept the hand out, and Chamberlain reached for it weakly.

  Griffin said, “Fine work, Colonel, keeping your men up close like that. Not many men made it that far . . . fine work.”

  Chamberlain felt the hand release, and he nodded, felt himself smiling, a big stupid grin, tried to control it, saw the faces of the others watching him, said, “Thank you, General. Are we going to attack?”

  There was a silent moment, and the others looked at Griffin, who stared down at the ground, then looked hard at Chamberlain. “Colonel,” he said, “there are no new orders. The commanding general has not given instructions to General Hooker, and General Hooker has not given instructions to me. You have done your job, Colonel. All of these men on this field have done their job. Unless something changes, that job is complete.”

  Chamberlain stared at Griffin’s face, saw deep lines and tired eyes, and he looked at Ames, and Ames raised his hand, cocked a finger, a small quick signal to move away, follow me.

  Ames moved slowly, stepped over bodies. Chamberlain struggled to keep up. His legs were not working well. “Colonel,” he said, “what happened? How can we be through?”

  Ames stopped, said, “Because we are. It’s over. We sent forty thousand men across this field, Colonel, and it was not enough. They are still up there.” He pointed to the hill, and Chamberlain could see it clearly now, the entire hill in front of him, the guns perched high on top, small flags waving. “They’re waiting for us to try again. It was suicide, Colonel. It would be still.”

  Chamberlain stared at the hill, then looked down, across the wide field, the crouching lines and small groups, the living and the dead, and he felt something swelling inside him, something painful and sickening, and he wanted to be angry, to say something important, some loud pronouncement against the raw stupidity, the tragedy of the waste, sorrow for the dead. But he had nothing left, he had given all he had the day before, and Ames turned away, moving toward the long rise. Chamberlain began to understand, to accept the truth, that there was nothing left to do but wait for the sun to drop and the field to grow dark. Then they would lead the men back across the field and pull away from the guns of the enemy.

  37. LEE

  December 14, 1862

  AS THE sun went down, it began to rain, cold, hard drops, and he found shelter, stayed near his tent. He had been at the top of his hill all day, waiting, watching. His eyes were worn, tired from the long hours of looking through the field glasses, and he felt a great need for sleep. Taylor had brought him a plate of food, and he sat now just inside the flaps of his tent, gave a silent blessing, Thank You, ate gratefully, and thought again of the great open field below him: Thy will be done.

  He had expected a new attack, all of them had, and the sunken road behind that wonderful stone wall was lined with fresh troops, anxious men who could see the field in front of them, the horrible piles of blue bodies, and they were ready for more, ready to resume the slaughter.

  He thought of Thomas Cobb, the fiery clean-cut Georgian whose brigade had first filled that road, and Maxcy Gregg, the charming, educated man from South Carolina—both were dead. There had been many . . . good soldiers, good leaders. Where would they come from now?

  He cleaned the plate, wiped at thick gravy with a hard biscuit. It was still raining, and he pushed back the flap of the tent, looked out, saw men around a sputtering fire, thick smoke.

  Taylor saw him, came over quickly, splashing through mud. “General, can I get you anything?” he asked. “Was the supper acceptable?”

  Lee nodded, handed him the plate, said, “Thank you, Major, it was fine, quite good. I would like to speak with General Longstreet. Please send someone to his camp. Be sure to express my apologies for bringing the general out in this weather.”

  “Sir!” Taylor stood upright, saluted, and moved toward the fire. Lee watched, saw one of the staff move quickly away. He let the flap drop again, moved over to his cot, lay down and closed his eyes for a moment, just a quick rest, his mind drifting out . . . over a wide flat ocean, thick waves of blue, rolling against a rocky shore, the sweet soft rumble of the surf, and the voice of . . . Longstreet.

  “General, forgive me for waking you.”

  He blinked, tried to see, sat up and shook his head. “No, please, General,” he said. “I will join you.” He stood, pushed aside the flaps, stepped out into the chill. The rain had stopped, giving way to a light breeze. Longstreet stood towering before him in a heavy overcoat, his face hidden by the wide floppy hat. Lee moved to the fire, held out his hands, felt a thick cloud of smoke engulf him. He backed away, said, “Too wet. Winter . . . we should not be out here.”

  “We won’t be, much longer.”

  Lee looked toward the voice. “General, do you have some information?”

  Longstreet removed the hat, pulled out a short cigar, lit it behind his dirty white gloves, said, “They spent all afternoon digging trenches, by the town. Those men out there, in the field: they will be gone by morning. The skirmishers down below have been talking to them, taunting them a bit . . . you know how it goes, sir. ‘Come and get some more,’ all of that. The Yanks are talking pretty freely about . . . about all of it, I suppose. Mainly, they’re pretty sure they’ve been left out there alone. Not many kind words for Burnside. General McLaws brought me a prisoner, an officer, Pennsylvania man, says he’s not going back, thinks he’s been led by fools, a lost cause. Says there’s no attack coming, the generals have no stomach for another day like yesterday.”

  Lee stared at the struggling fire, said, “Dangerous talk from an officer. You believe him?”

  “He says they’re expecting us to advance, drive them back. That’s the reason for the trenches. They think we’ll try to push them across the river.”

  Lee shook his head, rubbed his fingers through his beard. “No, there will be no advance. We have no cause to move off the good ground. We have beaten them from this ground . . . we will do it again.”

  “I don’t believe they will give us the chance.”

  “I hope you are wrong, General. This has been a war of missed opportunities. We have let them get away before. I do not wish to make that mistake again. We cannot continue to lose men . . . good officers. . . . We cannot trade casualties with an enemy that has much greater numbers and much greater resources. If we are to win this war, we must strike a decisive blow . . . force him to admit defeat.” He turned away from the fire, walked slowly toward the crest of the tall hill, toward the wide, dark field. “He will try again . . . maybe to the south, below General Jackson. It should have been his plan from the start . . . not here, not against these hills. We must tell General Stuart to observe him closely, watch for movement by Franklin’s forces. General Reynolds is down there. He is a good commander, knows how to position his troops.”

  Longstreet stayed close behind him, and Lee still moved forward, reached the crest and began to walk down, between the batteries. The clouds were thinning now, the moon reflecting on the flat plain. There were scattered shots from below, from the base of the long hill to the left, the men in the sunken road firing at motion in the moonlight.

  Longstreet chewed on the cigar, put the hat back on his head, said, “Sir, John Reynolds will not move anywhere Burnside does not tell him to move. It is still Burnside’s army. We have beaten him. There will be another day, but it will not be here.”

  Lee said nothing, watched the shadows of the small clouds move across the field, and suddenly there was a bright flash, a searing band of color jumped out of the sky, and he flinched, raised his hand up to his face. But there was no sound, it was completely silent, and now he saw a wide sheet of g
reen, and the light spread out over him, rippled, then was gone. To the north there was another, turning slightly red, and around them the men began cheering, yelling.

  Longstreet said, “The aurora . . . the northern lights.”

  Lee kept staring up, the lights dancing and flickering, then spreading out wide, then moving away. “My God . . . I’ve never seen anything like this before. Are you . . . certain, General?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Used to see them once in a while in Pennsylvania, when I was at Carlisle. Quite a show sometimes.” Longstreet began to chuckle, was enjoying the spectacle.

  Lee said, “No . . . it is more than that, General. It is a sign. We have pleased God. He is honoring the dead. A sight like this cannot be . . . just an accident. This is Sunday . . . the Sabbath. No, it is no accident.”

  Longstreet said nothing, stared upward, and the calls were echoing now, across the field, soldiers on both sides absorbing the wondrous sight. Longstreet looked down at the flat ground, saw the colors reflecting off what was left of the snow, thought, We are all sharing this . . . both sides. If God has smiled on us, then He will also smile on them.

  December 15, 1862

  THE FOG returned, and he woke to more wet cold, and an army still shivering. Lee pushed out of the tent, could see up toward the top of his hill, rolling mist and dark shapes. He looked for Taylor, for the others, saw no one, thought, They cannot be sleeping, must be . . . breakfast. He thought of going toward the food, tried to pick up the smells, but the heavy mist was in the way, and he walked the other way, back up over the crest. He saw small groups of men gathering around the guns. Someone saw him and hats were raised quietly. They knew by now not to shout, not to alert the enemy. Down the hill he could see nothing, just a sea of thick gray, and he listened hard, heard voices, movement, the sound of tin coffee cups, nothing else.

  He turned, climbed back up to the crest, toward his tent, saw a man kneeling, working on the fire, wet wood and quiet curses. The smells began to reach him, coffee, fresh bread. He shivered, felt a growl in his stomach, saw men moving toward him, carrying plates, and Taylor quickly hurried up to him.

  “Sir, I have been looking for you. A courier is here, from General Jackson.” He turned, looked for the man, and Lee spotted him, the young Pendleton, carrying a plate piled high.

  Pendleton saluted with his free hand, cleared away a mouthful of food, said, “Good morning, General. Sorry . . . we have not yet had breakfast in General Jackson’s camp. Sir, General Jackson offers his respects and reports that the enemy is no longer in front of our position, sir. The general made a reconnaissance in force early this morning, hoping to catch the enemy in the fog . . . and they were no longer there, sir.”

  Lee looked for a stool, moved over, sat, said, “Are you referring to the forces under General Franklin? Captain, you’re talking about sixty thousand troops. They did not just vanish. Has the general spoken with General Stuart . . . have they scouted downriver?” His voice began to rise and he felt a tightening in his chest.

  “General, the enemy has withdrawn back across the river. When our troops found no resistance, they kept going. They reached the edge of the river and they could hear the enemy, on the other side. The sound carries very well in the fog, sir. The pontoon bridges are gone, sir, cut loose from the bank.”

  Lee stared up at the young face, thought, It cannot be . . . Longstreet was right. He straightened his back, said to Taylor, “Major, summon General Longstreet. I want to know what is down below us here. I do not wish to wait for the fog to lift to find out. Captain Pendleton, you may return to General Jackson. Please express my appreciation for his diligence. And please remind General Jackson that we do not wish to give the enemy an opportunity by exposing our troops to those guns on the heights. When the fog lifts, your advance will surely receive a concentration of artillery fire.”

  Pendleton saluted, nodded. “Yes, sir. General Jackson has already ordered the men back. There is only a line of pickets at the river, sir.”

  Lee thought, He has done all this . . . so early? He remembered the joke, passed along by his staff: to Jackson, dawn is one minute after midnight.

  “Very well, Captain. You are dismissed.”

  Pendleton slid the contents of the plate into his pockets, moved quickly to his horse and disappeared in a flurry of muddy hoofprints. Lee leaned forward, rested his arms on the tops of his thighs, felt another shiver. Longstreet will be here soon, he thought, and I must know. He stood, flexed the stiff, sore hands, moved toward the warmth of the growing fire.

  THE MEN at the base of the hill already knew. Many had ventured out, another night of scavenging, taking from the dead what they no longer needed. But this time they found that most were buried, shallow and crude graves, dug with bayonets and shell fragments. It was one thing to strip a dead man, but once he was in the ground, in the earth, it was a line they would not cross, and so they had come back to the safety of the wall with few new prizes.

  McLaws had ordered more of them out now, a more organized line, probing, easing slowly along, down the slope of the incline, into the depression. Like Jackson’s men, when they did not find the enemy, when there was no rifle fire, no obstacle, they pressed on, gradually picking up speed, stalking less quietly and with more courage. They had gone all the way to the edge of the town, crossed over the trenches dug the day before, and once they knew there was no one there, they began a party, a feast on the spoils left behind, knapsacks and blankets. Word had gone back to McLaws, then to Longstreet, and Longstreet had come to Lee.

  The fog was nearly gone now, and the sky began to clear, cold and blue. Lee and Longstreet reached the edge of the town together. Lee moved Traveller carefully down, across the fresh trench, and Longstreet followed, and in front of them nervous skirmishers began to move out through the streets of Fredericksburg, probing through the remains of the houses, making sure there was no one waiting.

  Longstreet pointed, said, “Over the river . . . they’re back on the heights. They may begin to shell us . . . the town.”

  Lee stopped the horse, stared over to the far hill, said nothing. From the right, toward the far edge of the town, they heard horses, and the foot soldiers dropped down and raised their muskets. Lee saw a flag and a man in a tall, plumed hat. In the street an officer yelled out to hold fire. It was Stuart.

  “Good morning, General! General Longstreet. I heard you were riding into town. I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

  Lee nodded, said, “Of course, General, you are always welcome.” He saw a broad smile, a man full of victory. “General Stuart, it was risky for you to ride across that plain with your flag. The enemy could certainly see you clearly.”

  Stuart bowed. “Thank you for your concern, General. We did not unfurl the flag until we reached the safety of the buildings. Besides, General, my staff and I have a way of escaping the guns of the enemy. Their marksmen are no match for a good horseman.”

  Longstreet made a sound, and Lee did not look at him, said, “All the same, General . . . there are too few of us to present the enemy with careless opportunity.”

  The smile faded and Stuart nodded solemnly, a scolded child.

  Lee moved the horse forward, saw an officer running through the streets toward them, waving, yelling. “General . . . it’s barbarism! The devil himself! You have to see . . . !” The man turned, waved them on, ran back down the street.

  They rode ahead, followed the man’s path, rounded a corner and reached the first row of houses, many still partially intact. Lee stared, looked down the street to heaping piles of debris, saw many more piles beyond, shattered furniture. He dismounted and the others followed. He walked toward the homes, felt the cracking of glass under his feet. The street was covered with the contents of the houses. There were mirrors, smashed from their frames, paintings ripped and torn, clothing—dresses, men’s suits, a bridal gown—soaking up muddy water. He turned, walked down a side street, saw more of the same, began to move quicker, to the next main
street, saw a huge pile of broken furniture, pieces of porcelain, grand vases and small pitchers, dishes, cups, all shattered into pieces. In front of one house a pile of books lay in the mud of the yard, covers ripped off, bindings split, and finally he stopped, felt the hot anger tighten his chest. He clenched his fists through the soreness, lowered his head.

  “God . . . ” He fought the anger, felt the sharp edge of the curse rising inside him, held it hard, pushed it back, away. “God, forgive them for what they have done.”

  Longstreet moved up beside him, and Lee still stared down, his eyes closed now, and Longstreet tried to think of something, said, “It’s a real war. This is what war can do.”

  Lee did not look up, said, “No, General. This is not the work of soldiers. That man was right . . . it is the devil himself. It is the rape of the innocent.” He raised his head, looked around again, and Longstreet saw tears, red swollen eyes. Lee turned then, walked back through the great piles of destruction. Longstreet heard a voice, Stuart, raw indignation, angry sounds, and he came up beside Longstreet, wanted to say something to Lee. Longstreet held up an arm, held him back.

  Stuart said, “The whole town . . . barbarism . . . everything is destroyed! He has to do something about this!”

  Longstreet watched Lee mount the horse, said, “He will, General, he will.”

  38. HANCOCK

  December 15, 1862

  THE SNOW was nearly gone on the heights, the warmer rain washing much of it away into the river, and the hillside was slick and muddy. All day the troops had moved up the hill, forming camps behind the long rise, spreading out behind the guns. What was left of his division was now far back in the trees, behind the old mansion.

  He had spent most of the morning with the paperwork, his great talent, and this time it was not supplies he counted, but men, the casualties. Word came up, passed from the squadrons, to the companies and regiments, and then to the brigades, and while other commanders were still tending to their own staffs, or the replacement of horses, Hancock was working with the papers. He had to know.