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

by Michael Shaara

  “And you came through the picket line after dark?”

  “Yes, sir—” the spy’s head bobbed “—I did indeed.”

  “We are in your debt.” Lee stared at the map. “Thank you. Now I’m sure General Longstreet will see to your accommodations.”

  The spy was dismissed, had sense enough to know it. He rose reluctantly. He said, “It has been my pleasure, sir, to have served such a man as yourself. God bless you, sir.”

  Lee thanked him again. Longstreet instructed Sorrel to see that the man was fed and given a tent for the night and to be kept where Longstreet could find him if he needed him, which meant: keep an eye on him. The spy went out into the dark. Longstreet and Lee sat alone at the table in the rain.

  Lee said softly, “Do you believe this man?”

  “No choice.”

  “I suppose not.” Lee rubbed his eyes, leaned forward on the table. With his right hand he held the muscle of his left arm. He shook his head slowly. “Am I to move on the word of a paid spy?”

  “Can’t afford not to.”

  “There would have been something from Stuart.”

  “There should have been.”

  “Stuart would not have left us blind.”

  “He’s joyriding again,” Longstreet said. “This time you ought to stomp him. Really stomp him.”

  Lee shook his head. “Stuart would not leave us blind.”

  “We’ve got to turn,” Longstreet said. His heart was beating strongly. It was bad to see the indomitable old man weak and hatless in the early morning, something soft in his eyes, pain in his face, the right hand rubbing the pain in the arm. Longstreet said, “We can’t risk it. If we don’t concentrate they’ll chop us up.”

  Lee said nothing. After a moment Longstreet told him about Meade. Lee said, “They should have gone to Reynolds.”

  “Thought so too. I think he turned it down.”

  Lee nodded. He smiled slightly. “I would have preferred to continue against General Hooker.”

  Longstreet grinned. “Me too.”

  “Meade will be … cautious. It will take him some time to take command, to organize a staff. I think … perhaps we should move quickly. There may be an opportunity here.”

  “Yes. If we swing in behind him and cut him off from Washington …”

  “If your man is correct.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Lee bent toward the map. The mountains rose like a rounded wall between them and the Union Army. There was one gap east of Chambersburg and beyond that all the roads came together, weblike, at a small town. Lee put his finger on the map.

  “What town is that?”

  Longstreet looked. “Gettysburg,” he said.

  Lee nodded. “Well—” he was squinting—“I see no reason to delay. It’s their army I’m after, not their towns.” He followed the roads with his finger, all converging on that one small town. “I think we should concentrate in this direction. This road junction will be useful.”

  “Yes,” Longstreet said.

  Lee looked up with black diamond eyes. “We’ll move at first light.”

  Longstreet felt a lovely thrill. Trust the old man to move. “Yes, sir.”

  Lee started to rise. A short while ago he had fallen from a horse onto his hands, and when he pushed himself up from the table Longstreet saw him wince. Longstreet thought: Go to sleep and let me do it. Give the order and I’ll do it all. He said, “I regret the need to wake you, sir.”

  Lee looked past him into the soft blowing dark. The rain had ended. A light wind was moving in the tops of the pines—cool sweet air, gentle and clean. Lee took a deep breath.

  “A good time of night. I have always liked this time of night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Lee glanced once almost shyly at Longstreet’s face, then looked away. They stood for a moment in awkward silence. They had been together for a long time in war and they had grown very close, but Lee was ever formal and Longstreet was inarticulate, so they stood for a long moment side by side without speaking, not looking at each other, listening to the raindrops fall in the leaves. But the silent moment was enough. After a while Lee said slowly, “When this is over, I shall miss it very much.”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not mean the fighting.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Lee said. He looked to the sky. “It is all in God’s hands.”

  They said good night. Longstreet watched the old man back to his tent. Then he mounted and rode alone back to his camp to begin the turning of the army, all the wagons and all the guns, down the narrow mountain road that led to Gettysburg. It was still a long dark hour till dawn. He sat alone on his horse in the night and he could feel the army asleep around him, all those young hearts beating in the dark. They would need their rest now. He sat alone to await the dawn, and let them sleep a little longer.

  2.

  CHAMBERLAIN

  He dreamed of Maine and ice black water; he awoke to a murderous sun. A voice was calling: “Colonel, darlin’.” He squinted: the whiskery face of Buster Kilrain.

  “Colonel, darlin’, I hate to be a-wakin’ ye, but there’s a message here ye ought to be seein’.”

  Chamberlain had slept on the ground; he rolled to a sitting position. Light boiled in through the tent flap. Chamberlain closed his eyes.

  “And how are ye feelin’ this mornin’, Colonel, me lad?”

  Chamberlain ran his tongue around his mouth. He said briefly, dryly, “Ak.”

  “We’re about to be havin’ guests, sir, or I wouldn’t be wakin’ ye.”

  Chamberlain looked up through bleary eyes. He had walked eighty miles in four days through the hottest weather he had ever known and he had gone down with sunstroke. He felt an eerie fragility, like a piece of thin glass in a high hot wind. He saw a wooden canteen, held in the big hand of Kilrain, cold drops of water on varnished sides. He drank. The world focused.

  “… one hundred and twenty men,” Kilrain said.

  Chamberlain peered at him.

  “They should be arriving any moment,” Kilrain said. He was squatting easily, comfortably, in the opening of the tent, the light flaming behind him.

  “Who?” Chamberlain said.

  “They are sending us some mutineers,” Kilrain said with fatherly patience. “One hundred and twenty men from the old Second Maine, which has been disbanded.”

  “Mutineers?”

  “Ay. What happened was that the enlistment of the old Second ran out and they were all sent home except one hundred and twenty, which had foolishly signed three-year papers, and so they all had one year to go, only they all thought they was signing up to fight with the Second, and Second only, and so they mutineed. One hundred and twenty. Are you all right, Colonel?”

  Chamberlain nodded vaguely.

  “Well, these poor fellers did not want to fight no more, naturally, being Maine men of a certain intelligence, and refused, only nobody will send them home, and nobody knew what to do with them, until they thought of us, being as we are the other Maine regiment here in the army. There’s a message here signed by Meade himself. That’s the new General we got now, sir, if you can keep track as they go by. The message says they’ll be sent here this morning and they are to fight, and if they don’t fight you can feel free to shoot them.”

  “Shoot?”

  “Ay.”

  “Let me see.” Chamberlain read painfully. His head felt very strange indeed, but he was coming awake into the morning as from a long way away and he could begin to hear the bugles out across the fields. Late to get moving today. Thank God. Somebody gave us an extra hour. Bless him. He read: … you are therefore authorized to shoot any man who refuses to do his duty. Shoot?

  He said, “These are all Maine men?”

  “Yes, sir. Fine big fellers. I’ve seen them. Loggin’ men. You may remember there was a bit of a brawl some months back, during the mud march? These fellers were famous for their fists.”

 
Chamberlain said, “One hundred and twenty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Somebody’s crazy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many men do we now have in this Regiment?”

  “Ah, somewhat less than two hundred and fifty, sir, as of yesterday. Countin’ the officers.”

  “How do I take care of a hundred and twenty mutinous men?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kilrain sympathized. “Well, you’ll have to talk to them, sir.”

  Chamberlain sat for a long moment silently trying to function. He was thirty-four years old, and on this day one year ago he had been a professor of rhetoric at Bowdoin University. He had no idea what to do. But it was time to go out into the sun. He crawled forward through the tent flap and stood up, blinking, swaying, one hand against the bole of a tree. He was a tall man, somewhat picturesque. He wore stolen blue cavalry trousers and a three-foot sword, and the clothes he wore he had not taken off for a week. He had a grave, boyish dignity, that clean-eyed, scrubbed-brain, naïve look of the happy professor.

  Kilrain, a white-haired man with the build of an ape, looked up at him with fatherly joy. “If ye’ll ride the horse today, Colonel, which the Lord hath provided, instead of walkin’ in the dust with the other fools, ye’ll be all right—if ye wear the hat. It’s the walkin’, do you see, that does the great harm.”

  “You walked,” Chamberlain said grumpily, thinking: shoot them? Maine men? How can I shoot Maine men? I’ll never be able to go home.

  “Ah, but, Colonel, darlin’, I’ve been in the infantry since before you was born. It’s them first few thousand miles. After that, a man gets a limber to his feet.”

  “Hey, Lawrence. How you doin’?”

  Younger brother, Tom Chamberlain, bright-faced, high-voiced, a new lieutenant, worshipful. The heat had not seemed to touch him. Chamberlain nodded. Tom said critically, “You lookin’ kinda peaked. Why don’t you ride the horse?”

  Chamberlain gloomed. But the day was not as bright as it had seemed through the opening of the tent. He looked upward with relief toward a darkening sky. The troops were moving in the fields, but there had been no order to march. The wagons were not yet loaded. He thought: God bless the delay. His mind was beginning to function. All down the road and all through the trees the troops were moving, cooking, the thousands of troops and thousands of wagons of the Fifth Corps, Army of the Potomac, of which Chamberlain’s 20th Maine was a minor fragment. But far down the road there was motion.

  Kilrain said, “There they come.”

  Chamberlain squinted. Then he saw troops on the road, a long way off.

  The line of men came slowly up the road. There were guards with fixed bayonets. Chamberlain could see the men shuffling, strange pathetic spectacle, dusty, dirty, ragged men, heads down, faces down: it reminded him of a history-book picture of impressed seamen in the last war with England. But these men would have to march all day, in the heat. Chamberlain thought: not possible.

  Tom was meditating. “Gosh, Lawrence. There’s almost as many men there as we got in the whole regiment. How we going to guard them?”

  Chamberlain said nothing. He was thinking: How do you force a man to fight—for freedom? The idiocy of it jarred him. Think on it later. Must do something now.

  There was an officer, a captain, at the head of the column. The captain turned them in off the road and herded them into an open space in the field near the regimental flag. The men of the regiment, busy with coffee, stood up to watch. The captain had a loud voice and used obscene words. He assembled the men in two long ragged lines and called them to attention, but they ignored him. One slumped to the ground, more exhaustion than mutiny. A guard came forward and yelled and probed with a bayonet, but abruptly several more men sat down and then they all did, and the captain began yelling, but the guards stood grinning confusedly, foolishly, having gone as far as they would go, unwilling to push further unless the men here showed some threat, and the men seemed beyond threat, merely enormously weary. Chamberlain took it all in as he moved toward the captain. He put his hands behind his back and came forward slowly, studiously. The captain pulled off dirty gloves and shook his head with contempt, glowering up at Chamberlain.

  “Looking for the commanding officer, Twentieth Maine.”

  “You’ve found him,” Chamberlain said.

  “That’s him all right.” Tom’s voice, behind him, very proud. Chamberlain suppressed a smile.

  “You Chamberlain?” The captain stared at him grimly, insolently, showing what he thought of Maine men.

  Chamberlain did not answer for a long moment, looking into the man’s eyes until the eyes suddenly blinked and dropped, and then Chamberlain said softly, “Colonel Chamberlain to you.”

  The captain stood still for a moment, then slowly came to attention, slowly saluted. Chamberlain did not return it. He looked past the captain at the men, most of whom had their heads down. But there were eyes on him. He looked back and forth down the line, looking for a familiar face. That would help. But there was no one he knew.

  “Captain Brewer, sir. Ah. One-eighteen Pennsylvania.” The captain tugged in his coat front, produced a sheaf of papers. “If you’re the commanding officer, sir, then I present you with these here prisoners.” He handed the papers. Chamberlain took them, glanced down, handed them back to Tom. The captain said, “You’re welcome to ’em, God knows. Had to use the bayonet to get ’em moving. You got to sign for ’em, Colonel.”

  Chamberlain said over his shoulder, “Sign it, Tom.” To the captain he said, “You’re relieved, Captain.”

  The captain nodded, pulling on the dirty gloves. “You’re authorized to use whatever force necessary, Colonel.” He said that loudly, for effect. “If you have to shoot ’em, why, you go right ahead. Won’t nobody say nothin’.”

  “You’re relieved, Captain,” Chamberlain said. He walked past the captain, closer to the men, who did not move, who did not seem to notice him. One of the guards stiffened as Chamberlain approached, looked past him to his captain. Chamberlain said, “You men can leave now. We don’t need any guards.”

  He stood in front of the men, ignoring the guards. They began to move off. Chamberlain stood for a moment looking down. Some of the faces turned up. There was hunger and exhaustion and occasional hatred. Chamberlain said, “My name is Chamberlain. I’m Colonel, Twentieth Maine.”

  Some of them did not even raise their heads. He waited another moment. Then he said, “When did you eat last?”

  More heads came up. There was no answer. Then a man in the front row said huskily, in a whisky voice, “We’re hungry, Colonel.”

  Another man said, “They been tryin’ to break us by not feedin’ us.” Chamberlain looked: a scarred man, hatless, hair plastered thinly on the scalp like strands of black seaweed. The man said, “We aint broke yet.”

  Chamberlain nodded. A hard case. But we’ll begin with food. He said, “They just told us you were coming a little while ago. I’ve told the cook to butcher a steer. Hope you like it near to raw; not much time to cook.” Eyes opened wide. He could begin to see the hunger on the faces, like the yellow shine of sickness. He said, “We’ve got a ways to go today and you’ll be coming with us, so you better eat hearty. We’re all set up for you back in the trees.” He saw Glazier Estabrook standing huge-armed and peaceful in the shade of a nearby tree. “Glazier,” Chamberlain said, “you show these men where to go. You fellas eat up and then I’ll come over and hear what you have to say.”

  No man moved. Chamberlain turned away. He did not know what he would do if they did not choose to move. He heard a voice: “Colonel?”

  He turned. The scarred man was standing.

  “Colonel, we got grievances. The men elected me to talk for ’em.”

  “Right.” Chamberlain nodded. “You come on with me and talk. The rest of you fellas go eat.” He beckoned to the scarred man and waved to Glazier Estabrook. He turned again, not waiting for the men to move off, not sure they would go, began
to walk purposefully toward the blessed dark, wondering again how big a guard detail it would take, thinking he might wind up with more men out of action than in, and also: What are you going to say? Good big boys they are. Seen their share of action.

  “Gosh, Lawrence,” Tom Chamberlain said.

  “Smile,” Chamberlain said cheerily, “and don’t call me Lawrence. Are they moving?” He stopped and glanced pleasantly backward, saw with delight that the men were up and moving toward the trees, toward food. He grinned, plucked a book from his jacket, handed it to Tom.

  “Here. This is Casey’s Manual of Infantry Tactics. You study it, maybe someday you’ll make a soldier.” He smiled at the scarred man, extended a hand. “What’s your name?”

  The man stopped, looked at him for a long cold second. The hand seemed to come up against gravity, against his will. Automatic courtesy: Chamberlain was relying on it.

  “I’m not usually that informal,” Chamberlain said with the same light, calm, pleasant manner that he had developed when talking to particularly rebellious students who had come in with a grievance and who hadn’t yet learned that the soft answer turneth away wrath. Some wrath. “But I suppose somebody ought to welcome you to the Regiment.”

  The man said, “I don’t feel too kindly, Colonel.”

  Chamberlain nodded. He went on inside the tent, the scarred man following, and sat down on a camp stool, letting the man stand. He invited the man to have coffee, which the man declined, and then listened silently to the man’s story.

  The scarred man spoke calmly and coldly, looking straight into Chamberlain’s eyes. A good stubborn man. There was a bit of the lawyer about him: He used chunky phrases about law and justice. But he had heavy hands with thick muscular fingers and black fingernails and there was a look of power to him, a coiled tight set to the way he stood, balanced, ugly, slightly contemptuous, but watchful, trying to gauge Chamberlain’s strength.

  Chamberlain said, “I see.”

  “I been in eleven different engagements, Colonel. How many you been in?”

  “Not that many,” Chamberlain said.

  “I done my share. We all have. Most of us—” He gestured out the tent flap into the morning glare. “There’s some of them no damn good but most of them been all the way there and back. Damn good men. Shouldn’t ought to use them this way. Looky here.” He pulled up a pants leg. Chamberlain saw a purple gash, white scar tissue. The man let the pants leg fall. Chamberlain said nothing. The man looked at his face, seemed suddenly embarrassed, realized he had gone too far. For the first time he was uncertain. But he repeated, “I done my share.”