Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  Early the next day, Lee rode his small carriage over the bridge into Washington. The river flowed peacefully beneath him, and along the banks, rows of young trees were speckled with the fresh buds of a new spring. He could see couples, lovers walking along the water, wrapped with the sublime peace of romance. For a moment he felt lost, away from all the turmoil. He left the bridge and rode through the wide streets, feeling as good as he had in weeks. It must be the air, he thought, and had a sense that everything would be all right, the troubles would pass.

  Then he reached the Blair house, climbed out of the carriage, and saw an old man standing on the porch. The look on the man’s face, a stony, sobering stare, brought Lee back down, back to the place and the time. It was Francis Blair.

  As Lee reached the porch, Blair turned, without speaking, walked into the house and held the door open for Lee, who followed. Lee was ready with a warm greeting, inquiries about Blair’s son, still in Missouri, but the old man did not speak. He led Lee into a study, a large and impressive room with shelves filled with hundreds of books.

  Lee looked around the room admiringly, and finally Blair said, “Colonel, have a seat. Welcome to my home. I thank you for your promptness.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blair. I am happy to see you. I would like to hear about your son—”

  “Colonel, allow me to get to the point. I have been authorized by President Lincoln himself, with the full blessings of the War Department, to offer you the position of Major General, in command of an army, an army that is being formed to put down the rebellion and preserve the Union.”

  Lee had not expected anything of the sort, did not know Blair was that close to the President. His mind danced, jumped in all directions, and he sat for a long moment before replying. “I am . . . grateful, but an army? Where . . . when is this army being formed . . . ?”

  “The President is issuing a call for volunteers, from every state. Every state. The President expects to build an army of seventy-five thousand men, maybe more. You are the choice, his choice, for commander of that army.”

  “But, General Scott . . . ? Has he . . . ?”

  “The general still retains the title of Commanding General, but it is only a title. The President will not remove the general from his post. He feels that General Scott is entitled to leave his command in his own fashion. The general is also strongly in favor of your appointment to this post.

  “If you don’t mind, Colonel, the President is in somewhat of a difficult position. This army must be raised, equipped, and organized as quickly as possible. I’m sure you are familiar with the difficulties of that. We require your acceptance of this position . . . well, immediately.”

  Lee stared at the old man, tried to think, to clear his mind. “I am assuming, Mr. Blair, that this army is to be used to . . . invade those areas . . . to eliminate the rebellion by force.”

  “Of course, Colonel. The Federal government has been violently attacked by elements of an unlawful band of criminals, who have been most effective in turning the sentiments of several state legislatures against their central government, against the Constitution. The President has no choice. The situation is quite clear.”

  Lee stared at the wall beyond Blair’s desk, the rows of books, then looked down, looked at his own hands, realized he was shaking. He said a small prayer. God, how can You have let this happen? But it was happening, and he was being asked to sit in the center of it all. He thought of the long, dull years spent wondering if there would ever be the satisfaction, the reward for a good career, the advancement he so wanted but could not politic for. And now it was there, from the President himself, and with it came the horror of what he would have to do. He prayed again, silently asked God, Why must there be such irony?

  He looked at Blair, saw patience. The question had been asked. Lee broke the silence with a small cough. “Sir, would you please convey my deepest sense of honor and gratitude to the President, but I must decline your offer. Please understand, I am sorely opposed to secession, as I am opposed to the violent path that the southern states seem bent on following. I decided months ago that my greatest loyalty is to Virginia, to my home. I would rather resign from the army and return to my fields at Arlington than to lead an invasion such as this. I hope, with all prayers to God, that Virginia stays within the Union, but I fear that with this call for an army, this building of an invasion force . . . I fear that the President will now unite his enemies. And that may include Virginia. Please tell him, please be clear, I have never taken my duties lightly, not to my country nor to my home. But I have no greater duty than to my home, to Virginia.”

  Blair did not speak, sat with his head down, rubbed an old hand on the back of his neck, then looked up and nodded. “Well, Colonel, we have your answer. I hope . . . in the end . . . your home is a safe place.”

  HE RAN up the steps to General Scott’s office, did not stop outside the door, pushed through and halted at Keyes’s desk.

  Keyes jumped, startled. “Oh! Colonel . . . I am not aware you have an appointment—”

  “Please, Colonel, may I see the general? It is very important.”

  Keyes knew instinctively that Lee was serious, would not be there to waste anyone’s time. He opened Scott’s office door, said something Lee could not hear, then opened the door farther and stood aside.

  “Thank you, Colonel Keyes. I am grateful.”

  Scott sat back in his chair, watched Lee pull the door shut, and Lee saw there was no humor in the man’s face.

  “General, forgive the intrusion. I have just spoken with Francis Blair. Permit me to be blunt, General, but I must assume you knew of this meeting.”

  “Yes, Colonel, I knew. I also had a fairly clear notion of how you would respond.”

  “Sir, I did not accept the offer. I could not . . . take up arms. . . .”

  “An explanation is not necessary, Mr. Lee. I know your position. You are aware how much I admire you as a soldier. I believe the country has lost an opportunity here, the best use of perhaps its best commander.”

  He stopped, and Lee saw his face grow darker, a sadness he had not seen before. Scott looked at him through red, tired eyes, the eyes of a man whose time is past.

  “I also believe, Mr. Lee . . . Robert, if I may . . . that you have made the greatest mistake of your life, but I feared . . . it would be so.”

  Lee sat down, did not want this, did not want the old man feeling this. “I regret if I have disappointed you. I understand that my duty . . .” He paused, carefully picked the words. “I understand that by stating my reasons for turning down this post, I have compromised my effectiveness as a commander. I have expressed my conclusion that I will not raise my sword against my own people. If I remain in the army, I may be asked, again, to do just that. It would force me to resign under orders.”

  “Yes, Colonel, it would, and your career would conclude with disgrace. The army does not have room for those men who cannot answer the call. You have stated your position. Now you have only one course. I have always known you to be a man who would do what is right.”

  Lee knew the next step, what he must do. He thought of his career, the years, the slow advances and thankless jobs. And Scott could not understand, could not see a soldier’s loyalty replaced by a different loyalty, to his home, his family. Lee thought, I have not been there, for Mary, for the children, but I must be there now.

  “Sir, I will prepare a letter, which I will forward to you as quickly as possible.”

  Lee did not want to look at the old man’s face. The bond that had always been between them would now be gone. He stood, stared down at the desk, bowed slightly, and Scott did not move, stayed back, sunk deeply in the big chair. There were no words, nothing was said, and Lee looked up, saw the old face once more, turned, softly wiped his eyes and went to the door.

  ON APRIL 20, the same day Lee sent his letter of resignation to General Scott, the Virginia convention, in response to the President’s call for troops, voted overwhelmingly to
secede from the Union.

  10. JACKSON

  April 1861

  THEY WERE students, a hundred or more, but Jackson knew it was more like a mob. The flagpole of Washington University now carried the new flag of the rebellion, the Confederate flag, and the students cheered wildly as it waved with a sharp snap in the brisk spring breeze.

  Jackson kept his distance from the crowd, moved past unnoticed, heard young speakers, voices of careless protest, the bravery of the untested, and he continued on, toward the home of the university president, Dr. Junkin.

  There were a few students gathered outside the Junkin home, some calling out rude, hostile remarks. Jackson pushed his way through. They saw his uniform and there were a few cheers. The door was locked, but it immediately opened partway, and he was invited in with a brief greeting. It was Julia, Junkin’s youngest daughter, and Jackson saw the dark eyes, the fear. She took his hand, a brief squeeze.

  “Major, thank you, thank you for coming. Father is—”

  And from behind her, an unsteady voice, the bitterness of a man who has seen too much.

  “Major, glad you could make it. A wonderful day, truly. The enlightened students, the leaders of our intellectual future, are screaming for the destruction of our nation.”

  Jackson watched the old man turn away, walk into the parlor. He noticed a slight bend in his back, a weakness in the bones. The old man had lost three of his children, and Jackson still shared the horror that was in this house, of the terrible black night when his own dear Ellie had died giving birth. He tried to push it away again, but here, inside the house, the memories were everywhere. He watched the old man, thought, You are with this every day . . . always. He shook, a brief, cold jolt. God must be of comfort, he thought. Junkin was a deeply devout man, and they had spent great, long hours discussing their faith. The old man had always been there with the right words, and now, Jackson thought, it is my turn to provide the comfort, the words.

  “Come in here, Major, if you please. Take a seat.”

  Jackson followed, and Julia went away, toward the rear of the house. Jackson wanted to say something to her, something consoling, but she was gone. He moved into the parlor, sat across from the old man, could still hear the calls, the loud voices from outside.

  “Sir, are you all right? Have you been assaulted?”

  “Oh yes, Major, very much so. My university, my students, have assaulted me in ways they don’t even understand. Those children out there,” he waved a thin arm to the front of the house, “they think they know what is best for this country. They read about some fancy politician in South Carolina making some flaming ridiculous speech about revolution, and off they go. They have no sense of what . . . no sense of the reality . . . My God, what is happening to us, Major?” He stopped, put his head down, rested his face in soft, open hands.

  Jackson thought of words, but nothing came. There were not many in Lexington who were still holding on, who had heard of the secession votes and were still fighting it, who did not share the loyalty to the new cause, the defense of Virginia.

  “Sir, President Lincoln is raising troops, says there will be a war, there will be an army sent here, we are to be attacked. . . .”

  The old man raised his head, looked at Jackson with red eyes. “You miss the point, Major. All of that is . . . out there, somewhere. What is right here is our lives, our homes. My home. Right now the students of this school are openly preaching the overthrow of our country. The townspeople here are gathering themselves into militia units. People are talking about Virginia as though she is some sort of Holy Land!”

  “But the President . . . Lincoln is—”

  “What Lincoln is doing is responding. There are vast numbers of . . . idiots—yes, that’s the word—in these state governments, who believe that they can make a good speech, rouse the people into a rebellion and defy . . . defy the word of God!”

  Jackson sat still, absorbed the old man’s words, felt confused. “The word of God?”

  “Major, this country was founded by good Christian men, on the principles of equality, justice, and all of it under God. That has never been done before, never, in the history of the world! This country is God’s model, God’s message to the rest of the world. ‘Look here! We are God’s chosen land, this is how God intends man to be governed.’ ”

  The old man’s voice cracked, he was losing control, trembling. Jackson waited, leaned forward, caring.

  “Point is, Major—the real point, that is—the reason I wanted to see you: I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving . . . the university?”

  “Leaving Virginia, Major. Going up to Pennsylvania. I have already resigned my position. These young fools outside don’t even know it yet. I cannot live in a place that does not want me. Any control I have in this university is gone. It has been made quite clear to me by a good number of the local citizens that my views are treasonous.”

  “Doctor, you cannot . . . just leave. This is your home, your family. . . .”

  “My family is in shambles, Major. My children . . . those that are . . . not gone . . . my sons are scattered . . . my wife sits now with God . . . and you may be assured, Major, be assured, they understand why I am leaving.” He stopped, wiped at his nose, and Jackson saw the old man was crying.

  From the hallway, Julia quietly walked in, sat softly by her father, looked at Jackson. “Major, my father has been through . . . well, you know. It is not right for him to spend the rest of his life fighting a war. He has given all he should have to give, all God ever expected him to give.”

  Jackson nodded, did not see things the way the old man did, did not see the blessings of God on Mr. Lincoln’s war, but he was not prepared to argue with the old man. If he could not be of comfort, could not say the right words, he would have to just say nothing and let them go.

  “When will you be leaving?”

  Julia looked at her father, and the old man took her hand, smiled weakly at her, turned to Jackson.

  “She’s going with me, you know. So much like her mother . . . I suppose this old man needs to be looked after.”

  Julia said, “We’ll be leaving this week, Major. We have some family waiting for us. The sooner, the better, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Jackson heard more voices outside, louder now, saw Julia look toward the front windows, saw the fear, and he stood.

  “Doctor, we all must do what we believe God wants us to do. I have prayed for this country, I have prayed that God would stop this, would end all this talk of war, of this rebellion. . . .”

  He paused, suddenly realized this would be the last time, that the old man would never come back. But he could not let it go, could not let the old man leave without understanding why he himself would stay. He knelt down on one knee, close to the old man.

  “I have spoken to the church, to Dr. White. Many others . . . We have tried, we have prayed and asked all good Christians to pray, that this might not go any further. How can a nation founded on the principles of the Almighty allow this . . . destruction? I have no answer to that . . . except that we do not make the war. The God-loving people of this country are not making this war. The people up there . . . Mr. Lincoln . . . this is their . . . they are . . .”

  He stopped. The old man’s eyes were not looking at him, he did not hear him, and Julia looked at him pleading no, not this, not now, and Jackson understood, he could not make this fight with the old man. He stood up, held out a hand to Julia, and she rose.

  The old man said, “What, you leaving, Major? Well, my my . . . there it is, I suppose. . . .” He tried to stand, struggled, and Jackson leaned to help him, lifted him under the arm.

  The old man straightened himself, looked at Jackson, stared straight into his eyes and spoke very slowly, deliberately, “Major, I will only say . . . you are wrong. God will damn all those who fight to destroy this country.”

  “Father, please!” Julia said, and looked at Jackson. “He doesn’t mean that . . . really, Major. You must
understand. They have taken his school from him. It’s all he has left. You must understand.”

  Jackson nodded, put out a hand, let it hang in the air toward the old man, a last gesture. The old man looked at the hand, then looked at Jackson’s face, a part of his family still, and he took the hand, gave it a weak shake, let go, turned and walked slowly out of the room.

  Jackson watched him go, did not speak, and gave a short prayer: God please watch over him, he has always been Your good servant. Then he turned to Julia, who was crying silent tears. He wanted to say the right thing, to heal the hurt, but it was not there, there were no more words, and so he turned away and went to the front door.

  The students began to cheer him when he stepped out, and a young voice called out, “Did you straighten him out, Major?” and others joined in.

  Jackson stopped at the edge of the porch, looked at a small sea of youth, said, “There is nothing for you to do here. Go back, join your friends at your celebration.”

  He stepped down through the small crowd, and they followed him. He made his way toward the open green, where the larger crowd still cheered the new flag, and now more people noticed him, the uniform, began to call out to him. He looked up at the flag, and they cheered again, assumed he was with them, and he felt sick, a twisting in his gut. He stepped up on a marble platform, the base of the flagpole, thought for a moment, looked over the crowd, was surprised to see some uniforms, cadets, but then he saw the faces, the fire, the pure untarnished lust for the glorious fight.

  “You are all quite eager for a war,” he said, and there were whoops, a jumble of hot words and the loud cries for blood. He waited, wanting to tell them, to give them some of the wisdom that had been taught to him only where the blood flows and men scream, the horrible sounds of raw death.

  “In Mexico . . . I have seen a war. You do not know what . . .”