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

by Michael Shaara

  They stood up as Longstreet approached. Sorrel’s face was flushed. Jim Kemper was not finished with argument, Longstreet or no. To Fremantle he went on: “You must tell them, and make it plain, that what we are fighting for is our freedom from the rule of what is to us a foreign government. That’s all we want and that’s what this war is all about. We established this country in the first place with strong state governments just for that reason, to avoid a central tyranny—”

  “Oh Lord,” Armistead said, “the Cause.”

  Fremantle rose, trying to face Longstreet and continue to listen politely to Kemper at the same moment. Pickett suggested with authority that it was growing quite late and that his officers should get back to their separate commands. There were polite farewells and kind words, and Longstreet walked Pickett and Armistead to their horses. Kemper was still saying firm, hard, noble things to Sorrel and Sorrel was agreeing absolutely—mongrelizing, money-grubbing Yankees—and Longstreet said, “What happened?”

  Pickett answered obligingly, unconcerned, “Well, Jim Kemper kept needling our English friend about why they didn’t come and join in with us, it being in their interest and all, and the Englishman said that it was a very touchy subject, since most Englishmen figured the war was all about, ah, slavery, and then old Kemper got a bit outraged and had to explain to him how wrong he was, and Sorrel and some others joined in, but no harm done.”

  “Damn fool,” Kemper said. “He still thinks it’s about slavery.”

  “Actually,” Pickett said gravely, “I think my analogy of the club was best. I mean, it’s as if we all joined a gentlemen’s club, and then the members of the club started sticking their noses into our private lives, and then we up and resigned, and then they tell us we don’t have the right to resign. I think that’s a fair analogy, hey, Pete?”

  Longstreet shrugged. They all stood for a moment agreeing with each other, Longstreet saying nothing. After a while they were mounted, still chatting about what a shame it was that so many people seemed to think it was slavery that brought on the war, when all it was really was a question of the Constitution. Longstreet took the reins of Pickett’s horse.

  “George, the army is concentrating toward Gettysburg. Hill is going in in the morning and we’ll follow, and Ewell is coming down from the north. Tomorrow night we’ll all be together.”

  “Oh, very good.” Pickett was delighted. He was looking forward to parties and music.

  Longstreet said, “I think that sometime in the next few days there’s going to be a big fight. I want you to do everything necessary to get your boys ready.”

  “Sir, they’re ready now.”

  “Well, do what you can. The little things. See to the water. Once the army is gathered in one place all the wells will run dry. See to it, George.”

  “I will, I will.”

  Longstreet thought: don’t be so damn motherly.

  “Well, then. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  They said their good nights. Armistead waved farewell.

  “If you happen to run across Jubal Early, Pete, tell him for me to go to hell.”

  They rode off into the dark. The moon was down; the night sky was filled with stars. Longstreet stood for a moment alone. Some good men there. Lo had said, “Best defensive soldier.” From Lewis, a compliment. And yet, is it really my nature? Or is it only the simple reality?

  Might as well argue with stars.

  The fires were dying one by one. Longstreet went back to his place by the camp table. The tall silent aide from Texas, T. J. Goree, had curled up in a bedroll, always near, to be used at a moment’s notice. For “The Cause.” So many good men. Longstreet waited alone, saw one falling star, reminding him once more of the girl in a field a long time ago.

  Harrison came back long after midnight. He brought the news of Union cavalry in Gettysburg. Longstreet sent the word to Lee’s headquarters, but the Old Man had gone to sleep and Major Taylor did not think it important enough to wake him. General Hill had insisted, after all, that the reports of cavalry in Gettysburg were foolish.

  Longstreet waited for an answer, but no answer came. He lay for a long while awake, but there was gathering cloud and he saw no more falling stars.

  Just before dawn the rain began: fine misty rain blowing cold and clean in soft mountain air. Buford’s pickets saw the dawn come high in the sky, a gray blush, a bleak rose. A boy from Illinois climbed a tree. There was mist across Marsh Creek, ever whiter in the growing light. The boy from Illinois stared and felt his heart beating and saw movement. A blur in the mist, an unfurled flag. Then the dark figures, row on row: skirmishers. Long, long rows, like walking trees, coming up toward him out of the mist. He had a long paralyzed moment which he would remember until the end of his life. Then he raised the rifle and laid it across the limb of the tree and aimed generally toward the breast of a tall figure in the front of the line, waited, let the cold rain fall, misting his vision, cleared his eyes, waited, prayed, and pressed the trigger.

  WEDNESDAY,

  JULY 1, 1863

  THE FIRST DAY

  … of the coming of the Lord

  1.

  LEE

  He came out of the tent into a fine cold rain. The troops were already up and moving out on the misty road beyond the trees. Some of them saw the white head and came to the fence to stare at him. The ground rocked. Lee floated, clutched the tent. Got up too quickly. Must move slowly, with care. Bryan came out of the mist, bearing steaming coffee in a metal cup. Lee took it in pained hands, drank, felt the heat soak down through him like hot liquid sunshine. The dizziness passed. There was fog flat and low in the treetops, like a soft roof. The rain was clean on his face. He walked slowly to the rail where the horses were tethered: gentle Traveler, skittish Lucy Long. Stuart had not come back in the night. If Stuart had come they would have wakened him. He said good morning to the beautiful gray horse, the great soft eyes, said a silent prayer. He thought: Tonight we’ll all be together.

  Troops were gathering along the rail fence, looking in at him. He heard a man cry a raucous greeting. Another man shushed him in anger. Lee turned, bowed slightly, waved a stiff arm. There was a cluster of sloppy salutes, broad wet grins under dripping hats. A bareheaded boy stood in reverent silence, black hat clutched to his breast. An officer moved down the fence, hustling the men away.

  Lee took a deep breath, testing his chest: a windblown vacancy, a breathless pain. He had a sense of enormous unnatural fragility, like hollow glass. He sat silently on a rail, letting the velvet nose nuzzle him. Not much pain this morning. Praise God. He had fallen from his horse on his hands and the hands still hurt him but the pain in the chest was not bad at all. But it was not the pain that troubled him; it was a sick gray emptiness he knew too well, that sense of a hole clear through him like the blasted vacancy in the air behind a shell burst, an enormous emptiness. The thing about the heart was that you could not coax it or force it, as you could any other disease. Willpower meant nothing. The great cold message had come in the spring, and Lee carried it inside him every moment of every day and all through the nights—that endless, breathless, inconsolable alarm: there is not much time, beware, prepare.

  “Sir?”

  Lee looked up. Young Walter Taylor. Lee came slowly awake, back to the misty world. Taylor stood in the rain with inky papers—a cool boy of twenty-four, already a major.

  “Good morning, sir. Trust you slept well?”

  The clear black eyes were concerned. Lee nodded. Taylor was a slim and cocky boy. Behind Lee’s back he called him “The Great Tycoon.” He did not know that Lee knew it. He had a delicate face, sensitive nostrils. He said cheerily, “Nothing from General Stuart, sir.”

  Lee nodded.

  “Not a thing, sir. We can’t even pick up any rumors. But we mustn’t fret now, sir.” A consoling tone. “They haven’t got anybody can catch General Stuart.”

  Lee turned to the beautiful horse. He had a sudden rushing sensation of human frailty, de
ath like a blowing wind: Jackson was gone, Stuart would go, like leaves from autumn trees. Matter of time.

  Taylor said airily, “Sir, I would assume that if we haven’t heard from the general it is obviously because he has nothing to report.”

  “Perhaps,” Lee said.

  “After all, sir, Longstreet’s man is a paid spy. And an actor to boot.” Taylor pursed his lips primly, flicked water from a gray cuff.

  Lee said, “If I do not hear from General Stuart by this evening I will have to send for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll send the Maryland people. They’ll be familiar with the ground.”

  “Very good, sir.” Taylor shifted wet papers. “Message here from General Hill, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “The General wishes to inform you that he is going into Gettysburg this morning with his lead division.” Taylor squinted upward at a lightening sky. “I expect he’s already under way. He advises me that there is a shoe factory in the town and his men intend to, ah, requisition some footgear.” Taylor grinned.

  “General Ewell is moving down from the north?”

  “Yes, sir. The rain may slow things somewhat. But General Ewell expects to be in the Cashtown area by noon.”

  Lee nodded. Taylor peered distastefully at another paper.

  “Ah, there is a report here, sir, of Union cavalry in Gettysburg, but General Hill discounts it.”

  “Cavalry?”

  “Yes, sir. General Pettigrew claims he saw them yesterday afternoon. General Hill says he was, ah, overeager. General Hill says he expects no opposition but perhaps some local militia, with shotguns and such.”

  Taylor grinned cheerily. Lee remembered Longstreet’s spy. If it is Union cavalry, there will be infantry close behind it. Lee said, “Who is Hill’s lead commander?”

  “Ah, that will be General Heth, sir.”

  Harry Heth. Studious. Reliable. Lee said, “General Hill knows I want no fight until this army is concentrated.”

  “Sir, he does.”

  “That must be clear.”

  “I believe it is, sir.”

  Lee felt a thump, a flutter in his chest. It was as if the heart was turning over. He put his hand there, passed one small breathless moment. It happened often: no pain, just a soft deep flutter. Taylor was eyeing him placidly. He had no fear of the Army of the Potomac.

  “Will the General have breakfast?”

  Lee shook his head.

  “We have flapjacks in small mountains, sir. You must try them, sir. Fresh butter and bacon and wagons of hams, apple butter, ripe cherries. Never seen anything like it, sir. You really ought to pitch in. Courtesy of mine host, the great state of Pennsylvania. Nothing like it since the war began. Marvelous what it does for morale. Never saw the men happier. Napoleon knew a thing or two, what? For a Frenchman?”

  Lee said, “Later.” There was no hunger in the glassy chest. Want to see Longstreet. Up ahead, in the mist, A. P. Hill probes toward Gettysburg like a blind hand. Hill was new to command. One-legged Ewell was new to command. Both had replaced Stonewall Jackson, who was perhaps irreplaceable. Now there was only Longstreet, and a thumping heart. Lee said, “We will move the headquarters forward today, this morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, ah, there are a number of civilians to see you.”

  Lee turned sharply. “Trouble with our soldiers?”

  “Oh no, sir. No problem there. The men are behaving very well, very well indeed. Oh yes, sir. But, ah, there are some local women who claim we’ve taken all their food, and although they don’t complain of our having paid for it all in the good dear coin of the mighty state of Virginia—” Taylor grinned “—they do object to starving. I must say that Ewell’s raiding parties seem to have been thorough. At any rate, the ladies seek your assistance. Rather massive ladies, most of them, but one or two have charm.”

  “See to it, Major.”

  “Of course, sir. Except, ah, sir, the old gentleman, he’s been waiting all night to see you.”

  “Old gentleman?”

  “Well, sir, we conscripted his horse. At your orders, as you know. I explained that to the old man, fortunes of war and all that, but the old gentleman insists that the horse is blind, and can be of no use to us, and is an old friend.”

  Lee sighed. “A blind horse?”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t want to trouble you, sir, but your orders were strict on this point.”

  “Give him the horse, Major.”

  “Yes sir.” Taylor nodded.

  “We must be charitable with these people, Major. We have enough enemies.”

  “Oh yes, sir.” Taylor made a slight bow. “The men have the strictest orders. But I must say, sir, that those orders would be easier to follow had the Yankees shown charity when they were back in Virginia.”

  “Major,” Lee said slowly, “we will behave ourselves.”

  Taylor recognized the tone. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Lee rested against the rail fence. He noticed at last a struggling band: “Bonny Blue Flag.” A brave but tinny sound. He bowed in that direction, raised his coffee cup in tribute. A tall thin soldier waved a feathered hat: the music bounced away. Lee said, “I would like to see General Longstreet. My compliments, and ask him to ride with me this morning, if he is not otherwise occupied.”

  “Breakfast, sir?”

  “In a moment, Major.”

  Taylor saluted formally, moved off. Lee sat for a moment alone, gazing eastward. Cavalry. If Longstreet’s spy was right, then there could truly be cavalry in Gettysburg and masses of infantry right behind. We drift blindly toward a great collision. Peace, until night. He rubbed the left arm. Must show no pain, no weakness here. The strength now is in Longstreet. Trust to him.

  He saw the old gentleman, who thanked him with tears for the return of the blind horse. A Pennsylvania woman flirted, asked for his autograph. He gave it, amazed, wondering what good it would do her in this country. He met with his aides: angry Marshall, gray-bearded Venable. Marshall was furious with the absent Stuart, was ready to draw up court-martial papers. Lee said nothing. The courteous Venable drew him politely away.

  “Sir, I have a request to make.”

  “Yes.”

  Venable: a courtly man, a man of patience. He said, “Could you speak to Dorsey Pender, sir? He’s had a letter from his wife.”

  Lee remembered: beautiful woman on a golden horse, riding with Pender on the banks of the Rappahannock. Lovely sight, a sunset sky.

  “Mrs. Pender is, ah, a pious woman, and she believes that now that we have invaded Pennsylvania we are in the wrong, and God has forsaken us—you know how these people reason, sir—and she says she cannot pray for him.”

  Lee shook his head. God protect us from our loving friends. He saw for one small moment the tragic face of his own frail wife, that unhappy woman, the stone strong face of his mother. Venable said, “I think a talk might help Pender, sir. Another man would shake it off, but he’s … taken it badly. Says he cannot pray himself.” Venable paused. “I know there are others who feel that way.”

  Lee nodded. Venable said, “It was easier in Virginia, sir. On our home ground.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you speak to him, sir?”

  “Yes,” Lee said.

  “Very good, sir. I know it will help him, sir.”

  Lee said, “I once swore to defend this ground.” He looked out across the misty grove. “No matter. No matter. We end the war as best we can.” He put his hand to his chest. “Napoleon once said, ‘The logical end to defensive warfare is surrender.’ You might tell him that.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Venable went away. Lee felt a deeper spasm, like a black stain. I swore to defend. Now I invade. A soldier, no theologian. God, let it be over soon. While there’s time to play with grandchildren. It came too late. Fame came too late. I would have enjoyed it, if I were a younger man.

  He moved back to the map table. The g
uilt stayed with him, ineradicable, like the silent alarm in the fragile chest. Swore to defend. Misty matters. Get on with the fight. He looked down at the map. The roads all converged, weblike, to Gettysburg. And where’s the spider? Nine roads in all. Message from Ewell: his troops were on the move, would be coming down into Gettysburg from the north. Lee looked at his watch: eight o’clock. The rain had stopped, the mist was blowing off. He thought: good. Too much rain would muck up the roads. The first sun broke through, yellow and warm through steaming tree leaves, broad bright light blazed across the map table. Lee began to come slowly awake, blinking in the blaze of morning.

  Out on the road the troops were moving in a great mottled stream: Longstreet’s First Corps, the backbone of the army, moving up behind Powell Hill. The barefoot, sunburned, thin and grinning army, joyful, unbeatable, already immortal. And then through the trees the familiar form: big man on a black horse, great round shoulders, head thick as a stump: James Longstreet.

  It was reassuring just to look at him, riding slowly forward into the sunlight on the black Irish stallion: Dutch Longstreet, old Pete. He was riding along in a cloud of visitors, bright-clad foreigners, observers from Europe, plumes and feathers and helmeted horsemen, reporters from Richmond, the solemn members of Longstreet’s staff. He separated from the group and rode to Lee’s tent and the motley bright cloud remained respectfully distant. Lee rose with unconscious joy.

  “General.”

  “Mornin’.”

  Longstreet touched his cap, came heavily down from the horse. He was taller than Lee, head like a boulder, full-bearded, long-haired, always a bit sloppy, gloomy, shocked his staff by going into battle once wearing carpet slippers. Never cared much for appearance, gave an impression of ominous bad-tempered strength and a kind of slow, even, stubborn, unquenchable anger: a soft voice, a ragged mouth. He talked very slowly and sometimes had trouble finding the right word, and the first impression of him around that gay and courtly camp was that he was rather dull-witted and not much fun. He was not a Virginian. But he was a magnificent soldier. With Jackson gone he was the rock of the army, and Lee felt a new clutching in his chest, looking at him, thinking that this was one man you could not afford to lose. Longstreet smiled his ragged smile, grumbled, jerked a finger over his shoulder.