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

by Jeff Shaara

  He had tried not to think of Jackson, of the death, had kept his mind on the papers, but there had to be the moment, this moment, when the distractions would fade, when he must talk to God, to ask, Why? There would be no reply, of course. The answers were all in his faith, that it was all God’s will, and that there was nothing else he could do but go on believing, and accepting that in the end there was a Plan. But he had never thought . . . there were already so many challenges, they had overcome so much, fought the good fight when anything less would have cost them the war, when it all would have been lost. He could not help but wonder . . . have we done something wrong? Has the cause become something else, some misguided effort? And he could think of nothing that had changed, why he was fighting, why the war must go on.

  Now, the face came to him, the clear image, and he let it come, could not block it out, saw the lightning in the ice-blue eyes, the old cap, and he felt something inside him give way, and he leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and began to cry.

  May 20, 1863

  TAYLOR WAS standing beside him, and together they were reading the lists for promotion. They heard the horses, and Lee stood up, moved outside the tent, the sun high and hot, and he saw the big man dismounting, the short cigar.

  Longstreet had returned to the bloody ground around Chancellorsville several days after the fighting had ended, and the ultimate result of the excursion south had not been so positive. He had succeeded in sending sorely needed supplies north, but his own goal of pushing the Federal presence out of southern Virginia was not realized, and he had reluctantly pulled his troops away from the outskirts of Suffolk, which the Federal Army still occupied. It had taken a firm order from Lee to bring him back, but now Pickett and Hood had added to the strength of Lee’s recuperating forces.

  Lee had spent several days in Richmond, had found Davis to be more fragile than ever, infected with a growing paranoia about the defense of the capital, and so Lee now knew there would be no further support, no reinforcements. Davis would not interfere in Lee’s strategies, but any plan Lee had would have to be accomplished with the troops he had on hand. After the difficult fight in the Wilderness, many in the army had gone home, many were no longer fit to serve, and so even with Longstreet’s return, he had little more than forty thousand effective troops. In the North a paralyzed Hooker was still in command. The wheels of change were slow, and so Lee knew the next move would be his.

  “General Longstreet, welcome.”

  “General.” He touched the hat, and Lee suddenly held out a hand, something he rarely did, and Longstreet took it, and there was a short, quiet moment. Longstreet said, “I am deeply sorry for the loss of General Jackson.”

  Lee nodded, motioned toward the tent, and the two men went inside.

  They sat, Lee behind his small desk, and he stared at the piles of papers, said, “We should not regret the loss of General Jackson. He is sitting with God. There is no unhappiness in that.” Longstreet looked down, said nothing, and Lee watched him, said, “Still . . . we may grieve. God does not deny us that.”

  Longstreet nodded, looked at Lee, felt a sudden wave of affection, said, “How are you, sir?”

  Lee saw the soft look, the concern, tried not to look away, felt suddenly emotional, weak, thought, No, there has been too much emotion. He stared hard at the papers, said, “The army is well, General. With the return of your divisions, and the confidence of these troops now, we have an opportunity.”

  Longstreet let it go, knew that Lee would not reveal much, said, “We have had many opportunities.”

  Lee nodded. “Perhaps. Each one is different. And there will not be many more. We cannot continue to win these fights and allow the enemy to escape. We do not have the reserves, the wealth of supply. We cannot continue to fight this war on our own ground, destroying our own land. We have bloodied him and swept him from the field, but there is no victory to be gained by simply pushing him away time and again. He will return, he will always return, with more men and more equipment, and eventually . . . they will find someone, a commander who understands . . . who is capable. They do have many good men. I have been grateful. God has blessed us with their choice of commanders. I have never understood any of the choices . . . not since George McClellan.”

  Longstreet said nothing, thought, We have been very very lucky. If it had been Couch . . . or Reynolds . . . or the reckless Sickles . . . He thought of McClellan finding Lee’s orders, the one time Lee’s luck was bad, said, “We tried moving north. . . .”

  “It was not the right time. God showed us that. But now . . . if we are to end this war, we must win this war, and I believe it is the only way.”

  He stood, straightened stiff legs, stepped around the small desk. Longstreet watched him, and Lee said, “President Davis has agreed . . . we must not only take the fight out of Virginia, but we must take it out of Tennessee and Carolina and Louisiana as well. In Virginia we are winning the battles. Elsewhere, it has not gone as well. The more time that passes, the more we are simply used up, and so, General, we are losing the war, and that will not change unless we take the war . . . unless we strike them right in their heart. We must point our guns straight into Lincoln’s door, and then it will end.”

  “Attack Washington? Directly? Sir . . . the fortifications—”

  “No, General. We do not have to attack the city. We just have to convince them that we can, that if they do not end this war, we will! Lincoln is already under pressure . . . great pressure. Their own generals hang their heads in public and ask forgiveness as the dead fill their cemeteries. The people have had enough of this. We have paid a terrible price, and so God has opened the door. We must march through it.”

  Longstreet stared at him, was surprised at the show of anger, sat quietly for a moment, said, “We can move up, as we did before, Maryland, then Pennsylvania. They will not know where we intend to strike.”

  Lee looked at him, waited, had hoped he would finally agree to the plan.

  Longstreet thought again, said, “All we need is some luck . . . didn’t have it last time, McClellan learning about the plan . . . but we can push the army fast, good roads, good time of year, move around to the northeast, cut off Washington from Philadelphia . . . New York. Even if they react, move to meet us quickly, we will be on their ground.”

  “Yes, General. And the civilians in the North will not stand for that, nor will the politicians.”

  Longstreet nodded, and now he glanced toward the opening in the tent, said, “General . . . forgive me, sir, but have you chosen a new commander for the Second Corps?”

  Lee moved around the desk, sat again, pushed through the papers, held up one, studied it, said, “It is a difficult situation, General. We have lost so many. I do not believe we have one man who can assume that level of command. This is what I have proposed to President Davis, and it will become official very soon.”

  He handed the paper to Longstreet, and Longstreet studied it. His eyes widened. “Two corps? Dividing it into two corps? A. P. Hill . . . Dick Ewell. Ewell has returned?”

  “Yes. He is healthy again, has a wooden leg now. General Jackson placed great confidence in General Ewell. And General Hill . . . there is no denying that he is a fine commander . . . in the field.”

  Longstreet nodded, a small laugh. “Now the only superior officer he can aggravate is you.”

  Lee had no humor, was weary of the conflicts with Hill. “That is the new system, General. There will now be three corps. General Stuart will resume command of the cavalry.”

  “Have you told him that? He might not be too happy—”

  “General Stuart understands that he is better suited for that command. He acquitted himself adequately in General Jackson’s absence, but he is eager to return to the cavalry. And if we are to succeed, we will require General Stuart’s talents.”

  Lee stood, the signal that it was over, and Longstreet was up, ducked out through the tent. Taylor moved up, saluted, said, “Sir, the newspaper repo
rters are waiting . . . they keep asking about the rumors, sir. I don’t know what to tell them.”

  “Rumors?” Longstreet looked at Taylor, and Taylor said, “Yes, sir. There’s talk in the North . . . the papers, that General Lee is going to invade Washington, that the capital will be under siege.” He looked at Lee. “Please, sir, will you speak to them? Or . . . please tell me what to say to them. They are mighty persistent, sir.”

  Lee looked at Longstreet, smiled slightly, said, “Major, tell them I am too busy at present to speak with them, and that it is . . . imprudent of us to discuss our plans.”

  “But, sir, what about the rumors? Do I tell them not to print—”

  Lee raised his hand. “Major, I would never tell these men what they should not print. There will always be rumors. Sometimes, that is not all bad.”

  June 1863

  THEY DID not spend time in Maryland. There were no longer hopes that the neutral state would provide help to their army. So he rode the tall horse, and they moved quickly and with purpose. The papers in the North began to tell of the new invasion, and the Federal Army drew in closer to Washington, but Lee did not move that way, drove north, crossed the border into Pennsylvania. He led a great column of men who understood it would end soon, they were moving up to strike the deciding blow, and there were none among them who doubted they would do it. This was an army that had never been beaten, and that knowledge made them all stronger still.

  It was hot now, and even the green hills did not give them relief, but they carried the memory of Jackson, and they knew how he would have pushed them, and so stragglers were few, and the strength of their morale gave them a shield against the hot march.

  It was late in the day, long shadows crossed the road, and in front of them was the town of Chambersburg. He had ridden with Longstreet, had sent Ewell and Hill on a parallel route, farther east, and though they had met no opposition, he was beginning to feel concern, to wonder about the movements of the Federal Army.

  Longstreet had ridden back, had sent word down the line, Keep a sharp eye, had sent his own scouts away, into the countryside. Now Lee heard him coming, pushing the horse quickly along the edge of the road. Then Longstreet slowed, moved beside him.

  “Still nothing from Stuart. Not a sign, not a word!”

  Lee heard the anger in his voice, said, “We will hear from him soon. I am certain of that. He understands the importance.”

  “He is not where we need him to be.”

  Lee stared ahead, did not answer, thought, General Stuart understands his orders. . . .

  Far to the east, Stuart’s cavalry raced northward, separated from Lee’s army by the advancing column of Federal troops. He was trying, again, to make the glorious ride, encircle the blue army, reclaim the reputation, now that he was again with his own beloved horse soldiers. But Lincoln had moved again, and the Federal Army now had a new commander, George Gordon Meade, a man who did not suffer from the heavy burden of defeat, whose troops withdrew at Fredericksburg because they had not been supported, who had withdrawn at Chancellorsville because Hooker had collapsed. But now the army was his, and they were on the move, above the capital, moving with a new energy to confront the invasion. And this time Stuart could not ride fast enough. It was no longer a weak, lethargic army around which he was playing.

  Lee rode out, toward the edge of the camps, looked across the church steeples and small buildings of the quiet town. He stared out to the east, to the deep and quiet darkness, thought, Any time now, there will be horses, the high yell, and he will ride in, jump down in front of me like a small excited boy, bend over and sweep the ground with that hat. But there was still the quiet, the dark, and somewhere, deep inside, he felt a dark hole, small but growing, the enthusiasm for this army’s great mission, the final crushing blow now slowly slipping away. He reached down, patted Traveller on the neck, then pulled on the reins, turned the horse back toward the camp. It will be tomorrow, he thought. He will certainly be here tomorrow, and then . . . we will know: where the enemy is, what is in front of us.

  Miles beyond the trees, past low hills and thick green woods, another army was in its camp, and their cavalry was already out in front, feeling out, seeking, and tomorrow they would ride forward again, probing the roads in front of them. They would crest a long rise and pause at a small cemetery, high above the peaceful farms and quiet streets of a town called Gettysburg.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INSPIRATION FOR a work such as this is a deeply individual experience, yet my own adventure in bringing this story from some unknown and unexplainable place to the printed page suggests that there is much more to be said.

  I am deeply indebted to Ronald Maxwell, who was the first to suggest that I could, and should, continue the story that my father began. Ron held the torch high for The Killer Angels for fifteen years, until his own dream of bringing that story to film was realized. His screenplay and his directing talents gave the world the film Gettysburg, and so he too is continuing my father’s legacy.

  For assistance with the considerable research for this project, I must thank the following:

  Patrick Falci, of the Civil War Round Table of New York, who is a tireless source of information and materials, and whose willingness to open doors for this project is most appreciated.

  Lieutenant Colonel Keith Gibson, of the Virginia Military Institute, and his wife, Pat Gibson, who opened up their home and allowed me to explore their considerable insight into these characters.

  Ms. Michael Anne Lynn, of the Stonewall Jackson House, in Lexington, Virginia, for her gracious hospitality, and her willingness to impart her own suggestions for research materials.

  Dr. Jeffrey Pasley, Department of History, Florida State University, for his enthusiastic assistance in providing valued sources of reference.

  Ms. Clare Ferraro, publisher, Ballantine Books, for her extraordinary support, and her belief that this book could stand beside The Killer Angels.

  Mr. Doug Grad, editor, Ballantine Books, who has listened with much patience and has lent a skilled hand to guiding a first-time author through this process.

  I give most special thanks to my wife, Lynne, who proofread my hasty typing, and always, always gave me unqualified support throughout this often unnerving process.

  Finally, there can be no greater acknowledgment than to my father, Michael Shaara. His long career as an accomplished writer, the highs and lows, are strong memories from my earliest years. Ultimately, his greatest achievement, The Killer Angels, opened an enormous door for me, allowed my apprehensions to be set aside, and brought forth the first words of this book. His greatest wish, what drove him through a difficult career all his life, was the desire to leave something behind, a legacy to be remembered. Dad, you succeeded.

  AFTERWORD

  “. . . And Thou knowest O Lord, that when Thou didst decide that the Confederacy should not succeed, Thou hadst first to remove Thy servant, Stonewall Jackson.”

  — BENEDICTION GIVEN BY FATHER HUBERT, OF HAYS’S

  LOUISIANA BRIGADE, AT THE UNVEILING OF THE JACKSON

  MONUMENT IN NEW ORLEANS, 1881

  Mary Anna Morrison Jackson

  She is the widow now of the South’s most beloved hero, and readily accepts the responsibility of that role. From the first memorial services in 1863, throughout the rest of her life, she represents her husband’s memory at ceremonies, presentations, statues, and monuments for Jackson and for the Confederacy. Her daughter Julia survives only to age twenty-six, dies of typhoid fever, leaving a husband and two children. Anna retires finally to North Carolina, and never considers remarrying. While covering her invited visit to President Taft in Washington, D.C., in 1910, a Washington newspaper reported:

  Those who had the great honor of meeting Mrs. Jackson found her a fragile little woman with keen bright eyes, and the alert air which characterizes those whose interest in life and its best endeavors is undimmed by sorrow or the passing years. Time seems to have passed over her lightly
. Having known her worst grief when life was young, she had been enabled to take up the thread again and to weave some brightness into what was left. She delights in recalling old days and she speaks now with calmness which comes only from Christian resignation.

  She dies in March 1915 of heart disease and is buried beside her husband and her two children beneath the Jackson Memorial in Lexington, Virginia. (Jackson’s first wife, Ellie, and her stillborn infant are buried nearby.) One of Anna’s funeral party is the Reverend James Power Smith, the final surviving member of Jackson’s staff.

  Mary Randolph Custis Lee

  She outlives her husband, maintains a home in Lexington, Virginia. The great mass of the memorabilia of George Washington had been confiscated by the Union occupiers of Arlington, is stored after the war in Washington. She petitions the government for the return of her family’s cherished heirlooms, but Congress still regards Lee as the enemy, and refuses. Widowed by her husband’s death in 1870, she yearns for one last visit to the old homestead of Arlington, and even as an invalid, makes the difficult journey with her youngest son, Robert, Jr. In 1872, returning to Lexington, she is with her daughter Agnes when Agnes is stricken ill and dies. Mary Lee thus outlives not only her husband, but two of her daughters (Annie had died in 1862). Her grief at this irony is overwhelming, and Mary dies soon after, in November 1873.

  Almira Russell Hancock

  Left nearly penniless after Hancock’s death in 1886, she receives an outpouring of generosity from his many friends of influence, and is provided several homes, finally settles in New York City, where she writes her own memoirs of her remembrances of Hancock’s life and career.

  Hamilton Fish, an old friend, and the Secretary of State to President Ulysses Grant, wrote of her that “she was always so bright, so gay, so full of sunshine.” Known always as a woman who stood close beside her husband throughout his extraordinary career, she is considered the shining ideal of the Soldier’s Wife. Thus, when she dies in 1893, it is a strange and unexplained contradiction that she is buried not beside her husband, but in the Russell family plot in St. Louis.