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

by Michael Shaara

  Grant did not understand, said, “I’m sorry, sir … show?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Grant. We’re going to the theater tonight.”

  THE ABSENCE OF THE CHILDREN WAS MORE THAN SHE COULD stand, and Grant sent word to the White House that his wife’s impatience had prevailed after all. The train took them to Philadelphia, then they moved through the city to the wharf along the wide river, where the ferry was taking them to the New Jersey side.

  It was late now, and the ferry was just slowly making its way to the far shore. He had thought of spending the night on the Pennsylvania side, waiting until tomorrow to cross the river. But the word was out, General Grant was there, and crowds had begun to gather at the wharf, the atmosphere of a party.

  Now, they would find someplace to eat a late dinner, and then board a train, the last leg of the trip up to the town of Burlington, a few miles upriver.

  HE AND JULIA WERE IN A SMALL RESTAURANT NOW, A SMALL PIECE of privacy in a hotel near the river. He’d finally allowed himself to feel hungry, sat now in front of a plate of brown roast beef. His back was to the hotel lobby, and Julia could see the faces, a growing crowd of people, straining to see him. He was cutting the hard beef, tried not to hear his name in the general murmur of the crowd, which was kept away by the efficient energy of a gracious host. Julia still looked past him, was smiling, said, “You know, Ulyss, you could go out and say something to them.”

  He looked up at her, his mouth working the dry meat, said, “They’d be just as happy to hear from you.”

  She frowned at him, and scoldingly said, “Now, that’s not very kind of you! You are quite the celebrity. They are being quite generous. No need to be rude, you know!”

  He saw her looking out toward the crowd again, thought, Yes, she truly loves this, the attention. I suppose, maybe for her, I can say something, a few words, maybe get them to go on home. He stabbed at the last piece of meat, stuffed it in his mouth, tried to think of something, words, thought now of Lincoln, the wonderful stories, at ease in any crowd. It was a talent he knew he didn’t have. He swallowed the last of his dinner, took a deep breath.

  Suddenly there was a man beside him, a neat uniform, but not army, something else, a courier. Grant looked at the man’s face, and the man was looking down, said in a quiet voice, “Sir … we have a telegram for you.”

  Grant took the paper, saw the strange look on the man’s face, something very wrong, and he thought, What could have happened? He opened it, read the telegram, stared at the paper, the words unreal, thought, No … this cannot be true.

  Julia was waiting, impatient, said, “What is it, Ulyss? What does it say?”

  He looked at her, felt a deep cold hole open in his gut, and he looked at the message again, thought, No, this is wrong, I read it wrong. But the words were clear and brief, and the message was the same. He tried to breathe, looked at her again, said, “President Lincoln has been shot.”

  THE HOPE, THE JOYOUS RELIEF THAT THE HORROR AND SAVAGERY was past, that the rebuilding was under way, was now replaced by something else, by the last shocking blow.

  The last casualty of the war was not the tragic soldier, the man who fought for honor and a cause, who faced his enemy across the deadly space. It was instead Lincoln’s optimism, a belief in a future made glorious by the rights of the individual, that everything planned for this nation by the men who founded it could now go forward, leading the way for the rest of the world.

  The death of Lincoln ripped apart the nascent healing of a battered nation struggling to put the deep and bloody wounds behind. In the North the outrage grew, and to many it did not matter that the plot had been little more than the mindless actions of a conspiracy driven by one fanatic, a man named John Wilkes Booth. The voices of reason were swept away, drowned out by emotional cries of revenge, an emotion that would give fuel to the self-serving needs of powerful men in powerful positions. They would now take control of the weaknesses of Lincoln’s successor, Andrew Johnson, could easily point their fingers into the heart of what had been the Confederacy, using the emotion and the sorrow of a nation to punish those who could too easily be blamed.

  In the South the voices of reason understood that they had lost the one man who was after all not the enemy, that with the muskets stacked and the cannon silent, Lincoln was the only man with the power and the influence to put the war behind them all, who wanted nothing more than to bind up the wounds, to reunite the people into one strong voice, the voice of hope and freedom. Even in the darkest hearts, where resistance to the peace, to the Union, was still hard, it was clear that the assassin’s bullet had taken away much more than one man. Now would come the angry times, a new brutality; not the guns and the blood of war, but something subtle, quiet and powerful. What had not been taken away from the southern people by the great crushing weight of the war would now be taken by a new kind of violence, a policy of reconstruction that would do everything Lincoln would not. The wounds would not be allowed to heal, the vision of the bright future would be pushed aside, replaced by a dark vision of revenge. Instead of healing, the wounds would be probed and ripped, would become scars that would never quite close, would be kept alive with anger and hostility for generations.

  PART

  FOUR

  … that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom; and that this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

  Abraham Lincoln

  November 19, 1863

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  56. LEE

  BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, SEPTEMBER 1870

  THEY CLIMBED HIGHER, THE HORSES MOVING WITH SLOW GRACE, up past the small trees and rocks. He led the way, knew the trail well by now, and Traveller did not need to be prodded, the big horse knowing the ground, the long trail, as well as Lee did himself.

  Mildred rode Lucy Long, the mare given to Lee years before by Jeb Stuart. The smaller horse did not have Traveller’s strength, but Lee knew Traveller’s pace, that he would carry them slowly, the steady climb. Lee also knew that Mildred was not afraid to use the whip, that his youngest child had become an excellent rider herself.

  Of all the children, he was enjoying Mildred the most now. She was finally grown, as they all were, but as she passed out of the teenage years, she became less of the spoiled aristocrat, had grown to accept life in the valley, the life her father had chosen.

  It had not been easy for any of them. Lee had accepted a position that seemed to be more tedious than the quiet retirement everyone felt he’d earned. Washington College had barely survived the war, barely survived the torches of David Hunter. The college was the neighbor of VMI, and when Hunter burned the “halls of treason,” the pleasant red brick buildings next door had been looted, nearly destroyed as well. What remained of the college was little more than the will of those who worked to see it survive. The man chosen to lead that campaign had been Lee.

  It would have been impossible for him to stay long in Richmond. From the earliest days after the war, he’d been under siege, great long lines of visitors, former soldiers, refugees, men who just had to see him, to look upon him with teary eyes, while others brought gifts, the devotion of a people who still saw him as their symbol. He tried to be kind, but generosity had a price, wearing him down physically, and he could not endure the pressure of the public eye.

  The invitation to take on the challenge of rebuilding Washington College had come late in 1865, and at first there was nothing about the position that appealed to him. But the pressure simply overwhelmed him, the political turmoil in Virginia and all through the South, the efforts to bring him out into a public forum, all the pleas for some active role in the political chaos of reconstruction.

  The offer to move to Lexington began to feel more attractive for a variety of reasons. There were many young men from his old command, soldiers who needed an education to survive, men who had the youthful energy and the
intellect to move themselves forward, to create a new life for their families. Lee knew there was prestige in his name, and to use that to build something of value, to lend his name to the rebirth of an institution for learning, could not be ignored. There had been criticism, surprise that he would accept the position at this shell of a school in the small town of Lexington when larger, more prestigious schools would certainly have welcomed him, had they known he was inclined. But in fact the invitations did not come from these better schools, but from this one struggling place at the head of the Shenandoah Valley.

  There was another reality, and he thought more of Mary than himself, though it was clear to the children and to anyone who knew him well—he was aging. Mary had become accustomed to the wheelchair, and the deterioration, the crippling effects of her arthritis, had slowed. There was even relief from the pain, and if she still could not walk or use her left arm, with the lessening of the pain came the return of the spirit, the hot anger, the impatience, the spoiled little girl who took command of the household once again. Lee had never shied away from her anger before, had simply endured her jabs, her sharp comments. It was always a fair price to pay for the guilt he carried. He had not been there for her, for the raising of the children; with him, it had always been duty first, the long career in the army.

  But now he was there, and there was time to be with her, to sit for long hours, have conversations with the children, or endure Mary’s long and angry monologues about the politics of the day. That had surprised him, her sudden interest in politics, her knowledge of detail, her passion and opinions about so many of the complicated issues that swirled through the country like some blinding dust storm. There were still times when she would rant to her friends, to their new social circle in Lexington, and her views were usually the popular ones—anger at the abuses endured by southerners at the hands of the northern politicians, the carpetbaggers, those who made opportunity for themselves from the chaos and ruin of war. She would sometimes shock him with hot words, indiscreet assaults on politicians she would fearlessly name.

  The move to Lexington was a difficult change for the girls as well. Mary, Agnes, and Mildred had grown up in the shadows of great plantations, great social circles. Now they were replanted in a town that did not have the bright whirl of Virginia society. Here, the men kept a respectful distance; if they actually had the courage to keep company with the girls, it would take audacity to actually court a daughter of Robert E. Lee.

  The best times for Lee were the quiet times, evenings when the girls would be at some local gathering, some function, and he would sit alone with Mary. Often they would not speak at all, just look out the windows across the campus at the tall oak trees, the green lawns.

  The school had built him a new residence, near the traditional home of the president, the home that had been built for the founder, George Junkin. That had been the home where Stonewall Jackson had lived, long before anyone used that nickname. It was there that Junkin’s daughter Ellie, Jackson’s first wife, had died, a dark memory that followed Jackson into the war, through the last years of his life. Lee had lived there for a while, but the decision to build the new residence had been a blessing for him, more than he would tell the board, the men who provided the funds. He could never escape what had happened there, could not stand in the small rooms that had been Jackson’s and not feel the weight of that, the terrible emotion that still echoed in those walls.

  The new home was larger, more spacious, with large windows, and Lee even added a sun porch, a patio enclosed with glass, so Mary could sit in the warmth, surrounded by the greenery outside. He’d been amazed to discover that she had a talent for painting, something he had rarely been around to see. Now he would watch her for hours, her one strong hand still nimbly creating beauty, paint on small canvases, idyllic scenes, forests and water, and scenes of young lovers, mythic celebrations, all enclosed by the beauty of God’s world. She was especially skilled at faces, the small details, and he marveled at that, looked at his own rugged hands, and thought, She has paid such a price, and surely He has given her the gift, that through her one good hand will come His blessing, His beauty.

  His work at the college had always been difficult, the hours long and the duties expanded as the college became healthy again. Each year the enrollment had grown. The endowment was now receiving funds from surprising sources, many in the North. He took great pride in that, but would not take the credit. The staff, the faculty, had grown as well, and all the energy was forward. Lee knew it was the effort from all of them, the dedication and labor from beyond his own small office, that had built the school’s growing reputation.

  He would not focus on it, but had felt the quiet illness spreading through him. The same pains and hollow weakness that had come to him during the war were never truly gone. The workload had made it worse. He’d thought often about retiring completely, but his presence was a great force at the college, and he was not yet ready to make the selfish move, give up all the good work, and the good work yet to come, just for his own well-being. Even the rides into the hills were fewer now, the discomfort of long periods on horseback something he found difficult to admit.

  They reached the crest of the long hill, and he patted Traveller’s neck, thought, You do understand. You were gentle today.

  Many times he had come up here, on a pleasant ride past thick green woods, climbing, a long straight trail that would take him to this special place, the extraordinary view of the town and far beyond, the Shenandoah, the Blue Ridge Mountains. He often made the trip alone, but there had been something in him, a voice, caution, and now he would wait, find the right time, days when Mildred was not occupied with something more pressing than a long ride with her father.

  He turned, saw the mare bringing Mildred up the last climb, and he dismounted, slowly, felt the stiffness in his back, his arms. He rubbed his hand on Traveller’s nose, the horse nodding to the touch.

  Now Mildred was down, said, “Oh, Papa, this is … wonderful. I forget about this place.”

  He stared out toward the long line of mountains, said, “Don’t … forget. Never forget. This is God’s place. He has led us here. This is where He wants us to come, to see His work.”

  She looked at him, saw a small frown and said, “Papa, are you feeling all right?”

  He did not look at her, stared at a motion against the distant sky, a large bird, far away, a long slow turn, drifting. He said, “I am fine, child. I wish I could come up here … more often. There is no time.”

  The horses began to nuzzle the ground, pulling at small pieces of green, tufts of grass in the rocks.

  Mildred was still watching him, said, “I wish Mother could see this.”

  There was a quiet moment, and Lee nodded. “I have brought her up here sometimes, in my mind. I have imagined she could ride, that she could see this. I have talked to her, right here, as though she was with me.” He was suddenly uncomfortable, had revealed some very private place, looked at her, said, “I’m sorry. That was very personal. I hope I did not embarrass you.”

  Mildred was smiling, shook her head. “Papa, you have never seen any of us as grown. I’m not a child. Mother is very happy where she is. After all, she has you.”

  He nodded, knew she was right, that often when he was with his army, he would send letters home to all of them, advice, small bits of knowledge, as though they were all still children. It was something he’d always done, even in the early days, stern letters then, the absent father teaching them from far away.

  He moved forward, stood out on the edge of a large rock, peered down into thick brush, saw more birds now, small flecks of color.

  Mildred was rubbing the neck of the mare, said, “Are you still writing?”

  He sagged, took a deep breath, turned and looked at her. “Not for a while now. It is very hard.” He stared out to the mountains again, thought of Taylor, Gordon, Johnston, so many others. There was great interest in his own account of the war, and the letters were sti
ll coming, many from men he’d forgotten, commanders who looked to him to complete the task, as though it had to be from him and him alone. There were even letters from up North, from newspapermen and publishers, prompting him to tell his side of the story, a version that otherwise might never be told. He had tried, had asked many of the veterans, the commanders, to send him their own reports, to fill in gaps in the official records, or gaps in his own memory. The papers were stacked high in his study, and on those days when he had the energy, he would begin to read, to make some notes, but the energy would not last. Even when he would force the effort, taking the pen in hand and putting words on paper, something would hold him back. He would stare into some distant place, and the memories would come back, and many of the memories were very, very bad.

  He thought now of the men themselves: I cannot judge them, it is not my place. If I tell the truth, there will be controversy, anger. We do not need that now. If a man was not a good commander, or if by some mistake a fight went badly, it is for God to decide the importance of that, not me. They expect me to give them some kind of Final Word, as though only I can tell the absolute truth. No, I do not want that responsibility.

  He was suddenly very tired, thought, This is why … I come up here. It is far away from all that, from the eyes of the people. He’d received many invitations, social and political functions, places where he would certainly be an honored guest. No, he thought, they do not understand. They still want to talk about the war, to relive the great fights, the grand memories. I do not enjoy that.

  Mildred was now close to him, said, “Beautiful … the valley.”