by Jeff Shaara
Fannie had been reluctant to marry him, had worried about his career, their ability to raise a family. But Fannie was already happier, and there would be more children. He smiled at that, thought, A son, I would truly love to have a son, to bring him up here, show him this world, maybe even teach him to hunt, if he wants to. He might be better at it than I am.
He felt a cold wetness coming up through his pants, the melting dampness from the icy stump, but he did not move, sat still for a while longer, felt a great weariness, the need to go back. He looked down at the musket, cradled in his arms, looked along the dull metal of the barrel, saw rust spots, small brown circles, thought, Better work on that, I will certainly get the blame. He straightened his back, began to reach his arms up, a long stretch, and in the thick silence he heard a noise, a slight crunch of snow. He turned quietly, saw movement a few yards away, behind a tree, and then a deer emerged, a few short steps, and was clear of the tree.
Its head was down, searching along the ground, prodding small openings in the snow, for some small piece of brown grass, and Chamberlain saw he was huge, antlers wide and tall and heavy, and a thick neck, a chest like a brown barrel, larger than any deer he had ever seen, and the deer eased along, did not yet see him, and he brought the gun slowly up to his shoulder, pulled the hammer back with his thumb, slowly, slowly, and the hammer clicked lightly into position. The deer raised its head, froze, looking at him, and he sighted down the barrel, placed the small metal bead on the animal’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. There was a loud snap, and the gun did not fire. Chamberlain had leaned forward, anticipating the heavy recoil from the old gun, nearly fell off the stump, and there was a quick flash of the white tail and the deer was instantly gone.
He stood up, his heart pounding heavily, thought of running after the deer, another chance, but knew it was pointless. He looked at the gun, said aloud, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and he started walking, began to move back through the woods, toward the trail.
They will never believe me, he thought, and laughed nervously, stopped, felt his hands shaking. An icy chill ran down his legs, and he knew it wasn’t just the cold; he had never felt like this before. He had never enjoyed shooting anything, but this had been pure instinct, without thought—he had never wanted to kill something so badly in his life, and now it shook him, frightened him. He started walking again, quickly followed his own tracks back toward the trail, smelled the smoke again. He reached the trail, began a quick stumbling descent to the house. Far above, drifting down through the tops of the tall trees, it began to snow.
4. LEE
November 1859
AT LAST the house was quiet. He had tried to do some work, sat at the desk in the old man’s study, but the girls seemed especially playful that morning. Young Robert, Jr. had been their victim, and the joyous cries had echoed through the vast rooms like the sound of bells. Lee hadn’t stopped them, would not interfere, had just sat back in the old chair and listened with a quiet smile. It was Monday morning, and the schools were calling, and Lee wondered if the chance of getting out, of spending time away from the grim house was having an effect.
Mary was still upstairs, and Lee knew she was still in bed. The nights were difficult, the pains kept her awake for long hours, and Lee could do nothing to soothe her, to stop the pain.
Now the children and the happy sounds were gone, outside and away, and once again the house was still. Lee picked up a sheet of paper, ran his finger down a long list of materials, the lumber and hardware still needed for repairing the house.
Of all the tasks he was facing, the repairs came slowest. The fall harvest was completed, and there was more time, and so he looked to the house, the work that had been put aside for the more important job of getting the farm into production.
He rechecked the list of lumber, refigured the roofing for the outbuildings, and heard a carriage, the sound of a horse on the bricks of the front entranceway. He stood, put on the dark gray coat that hung across a chair and went out into the barnlike foyer. He could see a figure through the glass, a soldier. The man did not ring the brass bell, had seen Lee coming, waited.
“Yes, what is it?” Lee pulled the door open, then straightened in surprise. “Well, my word. Mr. Stuart, Lieutenant Stuart! Quite a surprise!”
“Sir! I am honored to see you again, Colonel.”
Lee opened the door wide, stepped back and motioned the young soldier into the house.
“Lieutenant, I regret to say you have just missed the girls. They have grown up . . . and I’m sorry, my wife . . .”
“Yes, Colonel, I heard about Mrs. Lee. I am dreadfully sorry for her condition. Please pay my respects, sir, when you are able.”
Lee led the young cavalryman into the study, felt a flood of energy, had not seen him since he graduated from the Point. It was no secret that J.E.B. Stuart had been Lee’s favorite cadet.
“I heard you had been assigned out West, but after I went to Texas, I didn’t hear much more. My word, it is good to see you!”
Stuart was embarrassed, was not used to a show of emotion from Lee. He held a plumed hat firmly at his waist and clutched the brim with both hands.
“Yes, sir, I was in Kansas. Sent to fight Indians, spent more time chasing the guerrillas, the insurrectionists. Quite a mess out there, sir. The army seems caught in the middle . . . seems like no way to make people get along. Sad, bloody place. But, sir, I have news!”
Lee smiled. Stuart always had a way of turning the conversation, any topic, back to himself.
“Sir, I am married! And, a child! Perhaps you know Colonel Cooke, Philip St. George Cooke, a Virginian, of course. I married his little girl! And, well, we have come back here . . . a visit . . . the colonel was helpful in arranging a leave for me so that he could see his new grandbaby.”
“Well, Lieutenant, it seems you have been busy. I never doubted that . . . not for a moment. I am honored you found the time to call on me.”
Stuart suddenly brought a hand up to his mouth. “Oh, sir . . . no . . . thank you, but I am here officially, from the War Department, actually. I was there this morning, hoping to arrange a meeting with the Secretary. I have this invention, you see, a means of attaching the sword—”
Lee knew he would have to steer the young man back to the main subject, gently interrupted, “Lieutenant, the War Department? You have a message for me?”
“Oh . . . yes, sir. I was sitting in the clerk’s office, waiting for the chance to see the Secretary, when Colonel Drinkard suddenly appeared, handed me this.” He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a small envelope. “He asked me if I knew the way to Arlington. I have been instructed to give this to you.”
Stuart looked at the note, studied it for a brief moment, then suddenly remembered his duty, came to noisy attention, and handed it with a snap of his arm to Lee.
Lee could not help a smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant, you may stand at ease.”
Stuart complied, then leaned slightly forward, looked at the envelope, waited impatiently for Lee to open it.
Lee unfolded a small piece of linen stationery, read aloud, for Stuart’s benefit. “ ‘From the chief clerk, Colonel Drinkard, at the request of the Secretary of War, Mr. Floyd, Colonel Lee will report to the Secretary’s office with all haste.’ ”
Lee looked at Stuart, and Stuart said, “That’s it? Just . . . report?”
“Appears so. Well, Lieutenant, would you be obliged to give me a ride over the bridge? We can leave . . . right now, actually.”
“But your uniform, sir. You are not dressed.”
Lee looked at his civilian clothes, the dark wool suit. “Nothing in the note about a uniform, Lieutenant. They seem to prefer haste to dress. I suspect the Secretary will forgive the oversight.”
Lee pointed the way, and Stuart went quickly to the front door and held it stiffly open. Lee stopped and looked up, glanced at the top of the vast stairway, knew Mary was sleeping, would stay in bed all day. A note, he thought. I should l
et her know.
He moved back into the office, pulled out a sheet of clean paper, wrote a few words, paused. Stuart had moved to the office doorway, watching him, and Lee looked at the bright young face, eager, full of life, then finished the note: “I might be gone awhile.” He wondered how she would react to that. He was always to be gone for just a while. Without speaking, he folded the note, passed Stuart and moved quickly up the stairs toward the silence.
THEY CLIMBED the clean white steps that led to the offices of the Secretary of War, and above them, from the wide doorway, came Secretary Floyd himself, leading a cluster of young clerks.
“Ah, Colonel Lee, greetings, yes, left a message upstairs for you. We are off to the White House, please accompany us.”
Lee said, “Certainly, at your service, sir,” thought of asking more, knew it would wait for now. Behind him, he heard Stuart, a rough whisper, and Lee understood, asked Floyd, “Do you mind if we are accompanied by Lieutenant Stuart? He is serving as my . . . aide.”
Floyd nodded, did not look at Stuart. “Fine, fine, let’s move a bit, shall we?”
The crowded carriage rolled quickly to the President’s home, and the group of men walked swiftly into the building, Stuart jumping in front to open doors.
Lee had met President Buchanan at social functions, really did not know much about him, about the man. But he realized that all this commotion was serious; there was none of the social banter of politicians.
Lee and Floyd were escorted past guards into the President’s office. Stuart, knowing he had to remain outside, sat deeply into a thick chair, pouting silently.
Lee followed Floyd into a wide office, sunlight pouring through great windows. Aides were moving away, and Lee could see Buchanan sitting across a vast desk.
The President said, “Colonel Lee, welcome. Allow me to dispense with pleasantries, if you will. Colonel, we have what seems to be an emergency, a situation. We need you to command a military force, to lead troops against . . . well, we don’t know what. A revolution, an insurrection, call it what you will.”
Lee’s eyes widened. He had heard nothing of any trouble.
Buchanan continued, “Harper’s Ferry . . . from what we have heard, the Government Arsenal has been captured, trains have stopped running. We’ve heard as many as five hundred, maybe more, a slave uprising.”
Floyd nodded vigorously. “Five hundred at least, slaves rising up, yes, a great deal of bloodshed.”
Buchanan glanced at Floyd, impatient, went on. “Colonel, you are to take command of a company of marines that is currently en route, and three companies of infantry from Fort Monroe that are preparing to move. The militia has been called out as well, mostly Maryland men, I believe, some Virginians.”
Floyd nodded sharply. “Yes, Maryland and Virginia.”
Lee sat quietly, absorbed, waited for more.
“Is there a problem, Colonel?”
“No, not at all, Mr. President, I am honored to be your choice . . . but I am confused why—”
“Because you are here, Colonel. Washington is full of ranking officers who haven’t led troops in decades. There’s no time to bring in anybody from the field. According to General Scott, you’re the best man we’ve got, under the circumstances. There should be no further need for explanation, Colonel.”
“No, sir, certainly not. I will leave immediately for Harper’s Ferry. Do we know anything about . . . any idea who or what this is about, who we are dealing with?”
Floyd spoke up: “Kansas ruffians, insurrectionists, slaves. That’s all we know. It’s chaos, Colonel.”
Lee thought, There are few slaves at Harper’s Ferry. But . . . the Arsenal—if there was an uprising, it was a prime target, a huge store of guns that could supply a massive revolution. But something nagged at Lee, some feeling that he had heard this before: the rumors that flew through Texas, huge hordes of Indians terrorizing the plains, frightened civilians, the constant alert for a crisis that was never there. Still, there was the Arsenal.
“Good luck, Colonel. Keep the Secretary posted on events, if you don’t mind. It seems that real information is in short supply.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I will do my best.”
The meeting was over, and as the men left the President’s office, passing through the heavy oak door, Stuart jumped to his feet, his eyes imploring Lee for details, and Floyd stopped, turned to Lee and said, “I don’t have to tell you what this means, Colonel. This could look very bad for us here, very bad for . . . the President. The public is very nervous. All this talk of slave revolts, and now . . . my God.” His voice quieted and he leaned closer to Lee. “You must protect us!”
Lee slid away from Floyd, said, “Will the Secretary provide us a ride to the train station? We will secure a car immediately. And perhaps a courier. I should . . . could you please send word to my family.”
Floyd nodded, excited. “Certainly, Colonel. Right away.”
Lee turned away, moved past the huddle of clerks, past grand portraits on stark white walls, down the wide steps to the lush green lawn, Stuart following close behind. He heard Stuart comment, a low curse, something about politicians. Lee did not answer, let it go by, thought now of Mary, tried to see the soft face, but the image would not come, and so he began to think of his new command.
THE MARINES were up ahead, waiting for their new commander. Lee had wired to the station in Baltimore, told them he was close behind, instructed them to stop at Sandy Hook, just outside Harper’s Ferry. It was long past dark when Lee and Stuart caught up, and as the two men stepped from the train car, a young officer approached, saw only Stuart’s cavalry uniform, saluted him with a puzzled look.
“Sir, are you. . . ? I was told to expect a Colonel Lee.”
“I am Colonel Lee, this is Lieutenant Stuart, my aide. Forgive my appearance, Lieutenant, there was not time for proper dress.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Lieutenant Green at your service. I am to turn command of the marines over to you.”
“Very well, Lieutenant, I assume command.” Lee looked past the young man, saw neat rows of crisp blue, men waiting for orders. “Lieutenant, is there anything you can tell us?”
“Well, yes, sir. The bridge over to Harper’s Ferry is wide open, no resistance that we can see. We’ve heard a few shots, but nothing major.”
Lee was not surprised. A more accurate picture was beginning to form in his mind.
“And over there, Colonel, state militia has been arriving since we’ve been here, several companies. I don’t know who is in command there, sir.”
Out beyond the station platform Lee saw troops gathering in the darkness, a ragged formation of volunteers, numbers swelling by the minute, and he had an uneasy feeling, did not look forward to commanding men who were not used to command. He stepped down off the platform, walked out toward the uneven groups of men, saw someone who appeared to be in charge.
“Excuse me, sir, are you in command of these men?”
The man turned, gave a quick glance to the older man in the dark suit, sniffed with the air of a man of importance.
“Pardon me, sir, but I have no time for interviews. I must organize these men here—”
“That’s good to hear, sir. I am Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, and by order of the President I am assuming command of your militia.”
The man turned again, looked Lee over doubtfully, said, “I do not know you . . . Colonel. Forgive me if I’m somewhat cautious. We don’t know who the enemy is here. Have you some orders, some documentation?”
From the platform behind him, Lee heard the voice of Stuart, calling out, “Colonel, a wire for you. The infantry is in Baltimore, awaiting your orders. And the marines are ready to move out on your command, sir.”
The militia commander began to respond, puzzled, then realized Stuart had been talking to Lee.
“Well, forgive my suspicions, Colonel. I am Colonel Shriver of the Maryland militia. I suppose . . . my men are at your disposal.”
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“Thank you, Colonel. Perhaps you can tell me exactly what we are confronting here.”
“From what we have learned from the townspeople, sir, there is a group of men barricaded in the Arsenal, with some hostages, local citizens.”
“How many, Colonel? How many men, how many hostages?”
“Perhaps twenty, or more.”
“Hostages?”
“Oh, no, sir, the insurrectionists, the rioters. There may be ten or twelve hostages. The insurrectionists fought with some local militia for most of the day, and then holed up in the engine house, inside the Arsenal.”
“Any notion who is in charge?”
“I have heard, a man named Smith . . . something like that.”
“Very well, Colonel. Have your men fall into line behind the marines. Keep them together, good order. Let’s move out.”
Stuart had walked down toward the road, the wide bridge over the Potomac. He turned, ran back up the short hill, met Lee at the platform, motioned to the bridge.
“There are people, Colonel, wagons, moving across the bridge, both ways. Looks awfully . . . normal.”
“I know, Lieutenant. I believe this situation will soon be under control. Would you please go to the telegraph window and wire the Baltimore station my orders to return the infantry to Fort Monroe. I don’t believe we will be needing an army here.”
“Yes, sir, right away.”
“And, Lieutenant, send a wire to Secretary Floyd. Tell him his revolution has an army of twenty men.”
“Sir?”
“No, you had better just tell him the situation is in hand and not as serious as rumor would suggest.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Lee walked over to the lines of marines, saw curious faces watching him, said, “I am Lieutenant Colonel Lee, Second Regiment of Cavalry. Forgive my lack of uniform. I don’t know what you have heard about what is happening over that bridge, but I assure you, it will not be as bad as you’ve been told. Now, gentlemen, if you will move out behind me, we may proceed.”