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

by Michael Shaara

  He did not know where they were taking him, slept through most of the trip, had to be told by a nurse, a very round woman with very bad breath, that he was at Annapolis, the naval hospital. And he would be there for a long time.

  In every direction all he could see was white—white walls, a white ceiling, white sheets, women in white uniforms. Next to him there was another man, covered in more white, a man Chamberlain had yet to speak to. When the nurses came around, they spoke in whispers, and it was not because of him. He would lie wide-awake, hoping they would stop and talk to him, break the monotony. But they would only nod politely, and he’d watch their faces, the horrified stares at the bed beside him, and even the whispers would fade away. Now it was beginning to get to him. What was the matter with this man?

  There was no trying to sit up or turning to one side. The wounds were still very dangerous, the surgery very fragile. If he made the effort, tried to see beyond the mounds of white that blocked his view, there would be a blast of pain, and he would apologize to himself, try to relax, let himself drift back into the soft white clouds around his head.

  After a few days the pains were not constant, the sleep not interrupted, and they had stopped giving him the drugs. Now, when daylight began to fill the room, he tried to keep track of time, to measure what hour it was. His mind made it an exercise, and he told himself it might be the only way he could survive this and stay sane.

  He knew it was mid-morning now, he’d been awake for a while, the room brightly lit. He had learned to watch the shadows, a picture frame on the one wall he could stare at comfortably. There was a portrait in the frame, and in the first few days in the bed, when the drugs still clouded his mind, he thought it was Dr. Adams, Fannie’s father, a grim portrait that hung in their living room. The shock of that had given way to acceptance, his price for being here, for allowing himself to be wounded. But when his eyes cleared, the face had grown unfamiliar, and he was still not convinced that the painting had not been quietly switched, that the new face was someone else’s punishment.

  But the frame now held his attention, ornate and gilded. The morning sun cast a shadow on the wall to one side. He had not seen the window, but by now guessed how tall it must be, enough to let the sunlight hit the frame for just so long. The shadow would disappear while the sun was overhead, but sometime in the afternoon it would return, the other way, until finally it faded away with the light in the room. He even began to believe he could see the shadow move, just slightly, shifting as the sun rose and set. It was his secret, his one guilty pleasure. He was beginning to get pretty good at it; it became his game. When the nurses came around, he would ask them the time, and before they could answer, would tell them himself. By now they reacted with feigned surprise, patronizing him, and he knew that, but he also knew they had no idea how he’d figured it out. And so it was still his game.

  The shadow was growing weak as the morning went on, and he heard rain. He stared at the picture frame, began to feel a small panic, the shadow fading in the dull light. Scared, he thought, My God, this game is more important than I realized. His mind began to roll over, images flashing as the daylight faded, his concentration not held by the picture frame. Hold on, he thought, what is going on?

  The sounds of the rain were growing, the wind began to rattle the windows, and suddenly there was a bright flash and a sharp crack of thunder. He made a sound, a loud short scream, stared at the white ceiling above him, then heard more screams, all down the rows of beds, the storm bringing out the memories, the fear, the horrors of what brought these men to this place. He could feel his heart beating, each pulse a small stab of pain low in his gut. He heard the rain again, the soft sound above him, took a long deep breath, then another. One man was still screaming, no words, just an awful sound, and Chamberlain wanted to sit up, to say something to the man, “It’s just rain, just a storm. There are no guns here.”

  The nurses were moving past him, and now the screaming stopped and he heard women’s voices, soft, comforting, and closed his eyes, relaxing again. He tried to imagine how the rest of this place looked, had no idea there were more men in the same room with him, a row of men that stretched out … how far, past the one man next to him?

  He opened his eyes, heard the voices of the women again, closer, and suddenly was missing her, feeling as empty and alone as he’d ever felt. Then the voices were beside him, and he blinked through damp eyes, tried to see, abruptly saw her face, her hair dripping wet, small drops of water falling on him, and he thought, No, this is a dream, like the portrait on the wall, and he cleared his mind, blinked again. He felt, then, her soft cool hand on his, wrapping around, holding him tightly. She kneeled down beside the bed, a small voice, tears. “Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence …”

  He tried to squeeze her hand, and there was no strength, and he tried to see her, but his eyes were filled, and he closed them, felt the tears on the side of his face, heard the soft sounds of her voice.

  “You’re alive …”

  JULY 3, 1864

  SHE SAT WITH HIM FOR LONG STRETCHES, AND HE FORGOT ABOUT the game, about the shadow on the wall. He still could not lift himself up, the pain still waiting with every motion, and so he lay on his back. He could not see the man beside him. Fannie sat with her back to the man, sat between the beds, would only glance at him when she arrived, a brief look of horror, would sometimes say something, “Oh my,” and then turn away, quickly turn her back.

  He wanted to know, and some part of him already did, that even if he never saw the man, he had seen the wounds, men shot into pieces, men surviving, amazingly, pieces of them gone, taken away in a horrible moment. The arms and legs were commonplace now, but the doctors were learning, had gotten better, would now try to save men they had always thought could not be saved. It was these men who had the worst time, trying to go home, missing an entire shoulder, or hip, men who had to be carried, or would never leave a wheelchair. Or the faces, men who lost more than an eye, or some teeth. Chamberlain tried not to think on that, fought against it, the faces of scared children, what that would be like, feeling the stares, the horror of your own appearance. But the doctors were saving lives, and men were going home who two years ago would have been left for dead on the field.

  And maybe that’s a good thing, he thought, not just for those men, but for everyone. Take the war back home, show the citizens. He had often seen the coffins, waiting for the trains to take them home, thought, Dead men in boxes bring grief and crying, gravestones remind us of those we once knew, give us the memories, hold them for us in stone. But these men, still alive, would bring the horror of this war right into their towns, their homes; not some fading memory or sad empty space at the table.

  He didn’t have to see the man beside him now; the expressions from the nurses, from Fannie, told him all he needed to know. He began to feel he knew the man, and felt affection for him, the man with no voice, who never spoke, and it did not matter why. Go home, he thought, good luck. You gave as much as those who gave their lives. You have to endure, you are the living face of this war, a symbol we must look at and not turn away from. God bless you.

  HE AWOKE TO HER SOFT HANDS, TURNING HIM GENTLY, AND HAD TO force himself to relax, to let the movement come from her. The soft cloth rubbed his back, the cool dampness soothed him. Above him, a nurse waited, would help her if she had trouble. But Fannie had learned, was helping whenever they would let her. Now he was turned back, closed his eyes again, relaxed into the pillows.

  “Well, what have we here, some kind of hero?”

  He opened his eyes, knew the voice, and Fannie stood up, there were hugs. He tried to see, then the face leaned out over him, smiling, the rough beard, the clear blue eyes. It was his brother.

  Chamberlain smiled, said, “Tom … how … you desert?”

  Tom stood straight, wounded at the comment, said, “Most certainly not. I’ll have you know that not only am I not a deserter, I am now a captain!”

  Chamberlain wanted to reach up, t
o grab his younger brother around the shoulders, to feel that young energy. He lifted one hand, and Tom took it, held it for a moment, said, “We were worried about you, Lawrence, the whole regiment. Just ’cause you command those Pennsylvania boys don’t mean the Twentieth Maine forgot about you. Colonel Spear sent me a message for you, said even if you ain’t fit to command, there’s always a place for you in the Twentieth. You can be our mascot, maybe.”

  Mascot? Chamberlain didn’t know if he was serious or not. He glanced at Fannie, said, “I assure you, young captain, I am no one’s mascot. All I need is a bit of rest, and I’ll be back on the field.” He looked at Fannie again, and she was smiling at him, shaking her head. He knew she didn’t take him seriously, that she believed he would never go anywhere but home.

  She said, “Lawrence, you have another visitor.”

  He heard a throat clear, and another man stepped up close to the bed.

  Chamberlain saw a familiar face, said, “Well, Major Gilmore, how are you … my word, it’s been a while.”

  Gilmore was smiling, said, “Actually, it’s Lieutenant Colonel Gilmore, sir. The army seems to enjoy promoting men from Maine.”

  Chamberlain was feeling very good now, would always remember the stern face of Gilmore, the first combat veteran he’d met, the first day the regiment was organized. Gilmore had been sent to Portland to help organize and drill the new recruits, an efficient and disciplined officer who showed a subtle tolerance for Chamberlain’s lack of experience.

  “Colonel Gilmore, I congratulate you on your promotion.” He looked at Tom again, said, “I congratulate both of you. I have no doubt the promotions were well deserved.”

  Tom looked at Gilmore now, made a small impatient gesture. Gilmore said, “Colonel, whether Captain Chamberlain is here with permission or not is something I cannot be certain of. However, I am here on official business.”

  Tom started to protest, and Chamberlain said, “For what? Who—”

  “For you, sir. The Department has sent me here to read you … this. If you will permit …”

  Chamberlain felt a sudden dread, thought, A discharge, they’re sending me home. “Go on, Colonel, read it.”

  Gilmore unrolled a piece of paper, read, “To Major General George Meade, Commanding the Army of the Potomac, Major General G. K. Warren, Commanding Fifth Corps, Brigadier General Charles Griffin, Commanding First Division. Colonel Joshua L. Chamberlain, Commanding First Brigade, First Division, Fifth Corps, for meritorious and efficient services on the field of battle, and especially for gallant conduct in leading his brigade against the enemy at Petersburg, Virginia, is hereby appointed Brigadier General of Volunteers, to rank as such from the eighteenth of June, 1864. As provided by Special Orders Thirty-nine, Signed, Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, Commanding.”

  Gilmore lowered the paper, and out across the white room there was a sudden burst of applause, a few small cheers, from men Chamberlain had yet to see. Gilmore handed him the paper, and he read it over, ran his finger over the seal of Grant’s official signature.

  He raised one hand, said aloud, “Thank you, gentlemen. I cannot see you yet, and I hope some of you are not here because of me.”

  He looked up at Gilmore, then at Tom, saw the smiles, and he read the words again, his eye now settling at the top of the page. He said, “This is addressed to General Griffin. His name is at the top. Why?”

  Tom looked at Gilmore and began to laugh. Gilmore cleared his throat, leaned down, close to Chamberlain’s face, said quietly, “I had hoped not to tell you, actually. You would find it out eventually. Um …” He stopped, and Chamberlain could see he was searching for words.

  Now Tom leaned over, said with a broad smile, “Lawrence, they think you’re dead!”

  Chamberlain looked at the paper again, saw the order, all in the third person, not addressed to him at all.

  Gilmore said, “It seems so, sir. I was told that General Grant has never promoted anyone on the field before. Ever. The first reports from the Fifth Corps seemed to indicate that you did not survive. When General Grant heard about that, he issued the promotion on the spot.”

  Chamberlain began to feel sick. He looked at the paper again, said, “This looks official. Can he change his mind?”

  Now Gilmore was smiling, said, “Not hardly, sir. It’s been approved by Congress, by the War Department. I believe that by now General Grant is aware that you are among the living. The promotion is official. May I be the first, sir.”

  Gilmore stepped back, snapped a salute, and now Tom did the same. There were more voices from the room, the applause again.

  Chamberlain looked up at the two men, lifted his hand, returned the salute. He stared up at the ceiling then, felt weak. It was the most exertion he had experienced in a while, and he was drained. He closed his eyes, could hear the voices of the women again, whispers, heard the boots on the hardwood floor, moving away. He felt a hand wrap around his, knew it was Fannie. She said in a soft voice, “I am very proud of you, Lawrence. My soldier …”

  The voice drifted away above him, and now he saw one more face, the old man looking him in the eye, something he rarely did. Chamberlain still felt the piece of paper in his hand, wanted to show it to him, felt suddenly very young, very excited, remembered the question, his father asking him, “You got a chance at bein’ a general?” He looked at the old face, the hard eyes, and Chamberlain smiled, said only, “Yes,” and now the old face was smiling back at him, something he had never seen, and he felt the old man’s hands now holding him, a tight grip on both arms, and Chamberlain said it again.

  “Yes.”

  28. GRANT

  JULY 27, 1864

  HE SAT ALONE WITH THE CIGAR, A SMALL CAMP CHAIR LEANING against a thin oak tree. He was in Meade’s camp, waiting for Burnside to arrive, but he was thinking about Sherman.

  He remembered the conversation with Lincoln, he thought of it often now, what he’d said, the phrase coming to him whenever there were quiet moments like this one. It is only a matter of time.

  Sherman had said the same thing, had pushed and pursued Joe Johnston from Chattanooga all the way to Atlanta. The pursuit had come when the good fights did not, because Johnston was skilled at retreat, at the careful maneuver, had kept his smaller army away from a general engagement with Sherman’s power. Johnston had learned the value of the trench, the heavy mounds of dirt, and his men made good use of the shovel. Grant smiled at that, thought of Sherman’s angry impatience. He’d received a steady flow of reports from Georgia, all rippling with the frustration of a commander who wanted the fight, wanted it now, and Johnston wouldn’t give it to him. Each time Sherman brought his great strength into line, Johnston would simply back away, sometimes with obvious and distinct movements, sometimes quietly in the night. But if Sherman was frustrated, he also understood that he was in fact winning, that with the constant movement forward, the closer he pushed his army toward Atlanta, it was only a matter of time.

  Grant had wondered about Johnston, just how long Richmond would listen to the explanations of retreat. He’d read the hostile joking in the southern newspapers, that Davis had already organized a fleet of transport ships at Savannah, ready to receive Johnston’s troops, prepared to carry Johnston’s retreat all the way to Bermuda. If there was bitterness in the humor, Grant knew that in Richmond no one was smiling, and especially not Jefferson Davis. And then the word had come. To no one’s surprise, Johnston had been relieved. What did surprise Grant, and bring a smile to the impatient Sherman, was the name of Johnston’s replacement. The defense of Atlanta was now in the hands of John Bell Hood.

  No one questioned that as a commander of troops in the field, there were few on either side who could put the fight into his men as well as Hood. But the appreciation, the enthusiasm, for Hood’s appointment, came from both sides. The most recent letter from Sherman had made Grant smile, the childlike excitement barely concealed. Sherman knew that Johnston had been relieved because Davis had heard too much
of retreats. Sherman also knew that if there was one rebel commander who needed no pressure from Richmond to make a fight, it was Hood. And the one man who had pressed for a fight more than anyone was Sherman. With Hood in command of the enemy, Sherman knew he’d get his fight.

  He heard footsteps, turned, saw Porter stepping slowly, quietly forward. Porter would never say anything until Grant saw him first. The staff had come to understand that when he sat alone like this, quiet, the small motion of the cigar, you did not interrupt. Unless there was urgency, they would wait for the moment to pass and for Grant to bring himself back to the business at hand.

  Grant held out the cigar, said, “Yes, Colonel?”

  “Excuse me, sir, General Burnside is on his way. He should be here any moment now, sir.”

  Grant leaned back against the tree, nodded, said, “Fine, Colonel. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Porter saluted, backed slowly away. Grant watched him, thought, Yes, you too, Mr. Porter. You want to ride out in front, and lead men into the guns. I am sorry, young man, but it will not happen.

  He thought of the others, the good staff, knew most of them were doing a fine job, would always be with him. Rawlins, of course, was the headmaster, had never dreamed of leading combat troops, probably had nightmares about finding himself actually having to look at the rabble of the enemy. Grant smiled, gave a small chuckle, thought, No, Mr. Rawlins, don’t ever let yourself be captured. They’d have to build you a special prison all your own. He knew Rawlins was his guardian, the great protector, had appointed himself the keeper of his public image. Rawlins was forever watching him, a small peek through the tent flaps, a bold intrusion into Grant’s private moments, something Porter would never have done. He’s afraid, Grant thought, afraid of the newspapers, of Lincoln’s enemies, afraid of me, of something I might do to embarrass us all. Or to embarrass him. He has found his purpose in life, to be a chief of staff, to be the caretaker of our good behavior. But Porter is very different, he has his eye … out there, beyond the front lines, where the adventure lies. He shook his head, stood up, stretched his back, suddenly thought of his oldest son, Fred. Yes, he would do that too, stare out past the front lines, see only the adventure, the daring, the heroics. But no matter how long this war goes on, and no matter how much he ever begs me, he will not get the chance. He will never see it for himself. The thought gave Grant a cold chill. He had never imagined the war would go on long enough for his fourteen-year-old son to fight. He stared into the dark, saw the boy’s face, then remembered another face, at Cold Harbor, the nameless young man who had died right in front of him. No, he thought, my son will not have the chance. What we do here, what I must order this army to do … this will never happen again. Once this is over, this country will carry this forever, the faces, the blood, the horror. It will be the last time. It must be.