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

by Jeff Shaara

“Yes, sir.”

  Lee nodded. “I will consider it. I am glad to hear you are well.”

  “General,” Ewell said. His face was not clear in the evening light, the lamplight from inside, the moon from the heavens, but there was a sadness in his voice, regret apparent in the motion of his head, the beak above the wild mustache bobbing. “I think I was too slow today, sir. I regret that very much. I was trying to be … careful. I may have been too careful.”

  Lee was moved. My good old soldier. He was embarrassed. He said quickly, “You won a victory, General.” Ewell looked up. His eyes were strained. “It was not a large victory, it might have been larger, we might have pushed harder. But it was a victory. I am satisfied. The men fought well. This was your first day. It is not as easy as it sometimes appears.”

  “No, sir,” Ewell said.

  “Now get some rest.” Lee sent him off. He went back into the stone house feeling much better. The old man had been a good soldier for too long; you cannot worry about Ewell. And then Lee thought: But sometimes I have seen it happen. A man loses part of himself, an arm, a leg, and though he has been a fine soldier he is never quite the same again; he has lost nothing else visible, but there is a certain softness in the man thereafter, a slowness, a caution. I did not expect it with Ewell. I do not understand it. Very little of a man is in a hand or a leg. A man is in his spirit and he has that in full no matter what part of his body dies, or all of it. But, Lee thought, you may not understand. It has not happened to you, so you don’t understand. So don’t judge. He was a good soldier. He is not Jackson. Jackson is gone—not entirely gone; Jackson was there today watching, and Ewell sees his eyes—but you cannot blame him for not being Jackson. You must make do with the tools God has given for the job. Richard Ewell, old Baldy … and his ridiculous horse.

  Lee went back to the rocker. Midnight came, and he had not yet slept. Headquarters grew steadily more still. Lee thought again of Rooney Lee, wounded, and prayed for him. There was no time for a letter to his wife, that troubled woman. He closed his eyes and thought of Meade, out there, gathering the army. John Reynolds was dead. He prayed for the soul of Reynolds. And in the morning?

  This is the great battle. Tomorrow or the next day. This will determine the war. Virginia is here, all the South is here. What will you do tomorrow?

  No orders were out. Now he was alone. It was cooler. Taylor came and tucked a blanket around his knees and Lee did not argue. He was drifting off. Longstreet would be up in the morning. Pickett would be up by late afternoon. In the afternoon all the army will be here. And we will hit them. We will hit them with everything and drive them right off that hill and send them running back down the road to Washington. If Stuart’s cavalry …

  He woke briefly. Without cavalry in the rear no victory would be complete. Should we attack before Stuart comes? And if he comes with tired horses and weary men? If he comes at all …

  Don’t think on that. Lee closed his eyes. And let himself fall into the bright dark. For Thine be the Kingdom, and the Power …

  7.

  BUFORD

  He came back at last to the cemetery on the hill. All down the ridge they were digging in, all around the crest of the hill. He sat on the horse and watched the picks swinging in the moonlight, listened to the sound of shovels in the earth. The army was still coming in, marching by moonlight. It was almost two o’clock in the morning.

  He rode slowly along the ridge, looking for headquarters. He had been hit once in the left arm and the bleeding had stopped but the genuine pain was just beginning. They had wrapped the arm and put his coat back on and he did not show the injury. He rode stiffly, dizzily, looking for someone to give him orders for what was left of his cavalry.

  He found a small farmhouse, center of many lights, many horses tethered outside. The musk of cigar smoke was heavy in the warm air. He remembered an old Indian joke: follow cigar smoke; fat men there. Bright moonlight, a warm and cloudless night. They were posting cannon along the ridge by moonlight: pleasant looming shapes, rolling caissons. Buford thought: I need a drink. Whisky stiffens. He rode to the farmhouse and stopped in a crowd of horses and sat there. Rather not get down. Men were passing in and out, much conversation. A cloud of officers had clustered by the small lighted door, looking in. One glanced up, saw him, noted the star, turned, saluted quickly. Buford wiggled a finger; the man came forward: a major. Other men were turning. Buford rode the horse almost to the door.

  Buford said, “Who’s in command, and where do I find him?”

  “Good evening, sir,” the major said. A very high voice. A lisp? “The officer in command is General Howard, sir. He may be found—”

  “Don’t be a damn fool, Edgar,” another man said. He saluted Buford. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the truth is that General Hancock is in command, and if you’ll—”

  Another major, skinny, grinning. The first major said angrily, “I must remind you, sir, that General Howard is the senior officer on the field.”

  “But General Hancock has orders from General Meade himself.”

  They argued, ignoring Buford. He looked down in wonder. Other officers voiced opinions. Oliver Howard was the commander of the Eleventh Corps. He had arrived this morning with Reynolds. He had fought on the right and been broken, just as he had been broken at Chancellorsville. He was a one-armed man for whom Buford had no admiration. The majors confronted like wispy chickens; it was very strange. Behind them Buford saw suddenly a familiar face: John Gibbon, of Hancock’s corps. Infantry. A cold, silent man. His brothers fought for the other side. Buford nodded. Gibbon nodded. A major was giving a lecture on military precedence: Howard could not be relieved except by written order or by Meade in person. Gibbon came up and took the reins.

  “Evenin’, John.”

  Buford bowed.

  “A hard day?”

  “Long,” Buford admitted.

  “Hancock’s inside, if you want to see him.” Gibbon led the horse out of the crowd. The argument went on behind them. Buford watched it with awe. Never get used to it, the mind of headquarters, not if I live a thousand years.

  Gibbon said, “That’s been going on all night.”

  “I gather Meade’s not here yet. Who’s in command?”

  “Take your choice.” Gibbon grinned. But he was one of Hancock’s fanatics. Good soldier.

  “I have to refit my outfit,” Buford said. “I need orders.”

  “Hancock got here late this afternoon, just as Howard’s corps was falling apart. They ran, them Dutchmen, just like they did at Chancellorsville. Hancock took command and re-formed them on this hill, along with the First, and ever since then everybody’s been coming to him for orders, and not Howard, and he’s hopping mad. Kind of funny. He claims he’s senior officer.” Gibbon chuckled. “But Hancock has a verbal order from Meade. It’s all very funny. Thing is, when Hancock’s on the field the men naturally turn that way. Old Howard’s really steamed.”

  “I just want orders,” Buford said. “I’m kind of weary.” He was thinking: need the long quiet again, want to get away from here. He dismounted, held briefly to the horse.

  Gibbon called a man to take the reins. He said, “I’ll get your orders. Why don’t you wait out here?”

  Buford sat on a rail. The arm was alive with pain. He said, “Is the army here?”

  “Just about. All but Sedgewick. We’ve got Sykes and Geary and Sickles, along with Hancock. And Howard. Sedgewick will be here tomorrow, but he has a long march.”

  “Good,” Buford said. He nodded, closed his eyes. Can relax now. He felt the beginning of sleep, even among the pain, the quiet dark coming, the soft rolling dreamless rest.

  Gibbon said, “They’re all inside.”

  Buford stirred, began to head toward the door. Gibbon said casually, “Why don’t you stay out here?”

  Buford moved sleepily toward the door. Need one last order, then a good long sleep. The aides near the door were parting, but something in Gibbon’s voice caught him.
He stopped, turned. Gibbon was there.

  “Howard has made a complaint against you, John. He says you should have supported him on the right.”

  Buford nodded dumbly, then blinked. He raised the pained arm. Gibbon said, “He lost half his strength. Most of them got taken prisoner. He’s mad as a hornet, lookin’ for somebody to blame it on. I think he’s picked you.”

  Buford felt nothing for a moment, a sort of sodden silence all through his brain, then the anger began to rise like a metal wave, like a hot tide in the dark. Buford could say nothing. No words came. Gibbon said softly, “Stay out here, John. I’ll tell Hancock you’re here.”

  He moved past Buford into the room. Buford blinked and blinked again and then began moving, pushing his way into the light, the smoke of the room. It was jammed with officers, all the brass. The anger made Buford dizzy. He tried to push his way through and the pain went all the way up his arm and into his chest and shocked him stiff. He could see faces: Sickles, the bully boy, the bright politician, a fat cigar clamped in a fat mouth, the man who was famous for having shot his wife’s lover. Geary and Sykes were sitting, brooding; that damned Howard was making a speech. And there was Hancock against a wall, writing a note, talking to aides, issuing orders. Buford’s vision blurred. The room was very hot and there was too much smoke. He had to push his way back out of the room into the open air. He kept saying aloud, God damn him, God damn him. He sat on a rail. In a moment he looked up and there was Hancock.

  “How are you, John?”

  Handsome face, watching. Buford focused. Hancock looked down with bright dark eyes. Buford said, “I’m all right.”

  “Heard you were with John Reynolds when he died.”

  “I was.”

  “Tell me.”

  Buford told him. Hancock would write the letter. Good, very good. Hancock was older since last time Buford saw him. Calm and cocky, damned good-looking man. Buford felt suddenly better. Cool, clean air.

  Hancock said, “I’m sending the body back to his folks in Lancaster. They might appreciate a note from you.”

  “I’ll send it.”

  “How’s your division?”

  Buford told him. Hancock was surprised. He hadn’t known Buford was that involved. Buford said, “We were involved.”

  “Well, get yourself refitted. May need you in the morning.”

  There was commotion behind him. A mass of aides were riding up. Somebody blew a discordant bugle. Hancock stood up, grinned. Buford noted: why, Hancock’s wearing a clean white shirt. Isn’t that amazing. Clean as a whistle. Hancock said, “Here’s Meade.”

  They all came out to meet him, the angry man with the squeaky voice. They gathered around him as he dismounted. Buford was pushed to the side. He heard Meade greet Hancock.

  “Damn dark. I can’t see a damn thing.”

  Hancock said he was very glad to see the General. Meade said, with great disgust, “Well, I hope to God this is good ground, General. Is it good ground?”

  “Very good ground, General.”

  “Well, by God it better be, because we’re going to have to fight here sure enough in the morning.”

  Buford was pushed too far away. Meade went on into the house. Flocks of officers gathered at the windows. Buford had enough; he had his orders. He got back on his horse and rode slowly back toward the cemetery. He had not much strength left. He called for one of his aides, but the buck-toothed boy was dead, and the yellow-haired boy was dead, and the sergeant was down and would never recover. Buford stopped in the cemetery. He could not find the white angel. But he looked out across the town and he could see a great ocean of Rebel campfires, flooding the town, with fire burning all over those ridges to the west, flooding fire right up to the base of the hill. Buford took off his hat, looked up to the stars. He said to John Reynolds, “Well, John, we held the ground.” He wiped his eyes. He thought: Have to get some more lieutenants. Then he rode off down the hill into the black beneath the trees.

  THURSDAY,

  JULY 2, 1863

  THE SECOND DAY

  He hath loosed the fateful lightning …

  1.

  FREMANTLE

  Awake in the dark, the stars still brightly shining. Fremantle, a slow riser, staggered into the dawn not quite knowing where he was. These people might conduct these things at a civilized hour. Three in the morning. Incredible. He washed in dirty water. Came vaguely awake. War!

  The army awakened around him. He could sense the red battle forming today, coming like the sun. His senses shocked him awake. He expected cannon at any moment. He saw the first light of dawn a dusky rose in the east, the sun coming up from the direction of the enemy. He felt sleepily marvelous. He bid a cheery hello to Sorrel, Longstreet’s aide.

  “Major Sorrel, sir, good morning! I say, could you direct me to the battle?”

  Sorrel, a neat and natty person, smiled and bowed. “Would you care for a bite to eat before the assault? We can serve Yankees done to order, before or after breakfast.”

  Fremantle could not suppress a yawn, smothered it politely with his hand. “I suppose there is time for a bun or two. How’s General Longstreet this morning? My compliments, and I trust he slept well.”

  “Doubt if he slept at all. He’s gone over to speak with General Lee.”

  “Does the man ever sleep? Amazing. He rarely even sits down.”

  Sorrel smiled. A bird, annoyed at being awakened early, began chattering in the tree above him. Other officers began stepping out into the dark of the morning. There was Ross, the fat Austrian with the Scotch name. He was all aglow in the powder-blue uniform of the Austrian Hussars, complete with shining silver chamberpot for the head, waving a blue plume. As he came closer Fremantle observed with alarm that the man was spotlessly groomed; even his mustache was waxed, the ends slim and sharp like wiggly rapiers.

  Ross boomed happily, patting himself fat-handedly across the stomach. “C’est le sanglant appel de Mars, eh, old chap?” He popped the slender Fremantle on the arm, unsettling him.

  Fremantle said with distaste, “Early in the morning for that, old friend. Could you wait until after tea?”

  The others were gathering around the breakfast table. Scheibert, the beardless Prussian, moody, prim, was dressed all in white, white coat, floppy white hat, the inevitable glittering monocle. While most of the officers of the army could speak French, few could speak German, and Scheibert’s pride was continually offended, but he went on stubbornly using German military terms in conversation, was not understood, would not explain, sat fatly, whitely to the side, a rare sight, oddly comical in that company. Lawley, the correspondent, seemed ill again and had not made up his mind whether or not to ride today. There were the three medical people—Maury, Cullen, Barksdale—and others of Longstreet’s staff: Latrobe, Goree, and the charming little Jew, Major Moses. They sat down to a splendid breakfast, and although Fremantle continued to wake up slowly, coming alive as the day came alive, warmly, brightly, with no clouds anywhere, the wind beginning to pick up and rustle the trees, the light beginning to sift down through the cool leaves, the dark branches, still Fremantle remained vaguely asleep.

  The morning at war. Marvelous. Good men around a table. What a joy to be with the winners! All these men had nothing but contempt for the Yankees, whom they had beaten so often. There was even an air of regret at the table, a sense of seize the day, as if these bright moments of good fellowship before battle were numbered, that the war would soon be over, and all this would end, and we would all go back to the duller pursuits of peace. Fremantle enjoyed himself enormously. Southerners! They were Englishmen, by George. Fremantle was at home.

  He ate hot eggs, warm bread, reveled in steaming tea, although the water from which the tea was made left an aftertaste in the mouth, afterthoughts in the brain: from what nearby barn? The men all chatted, joked. Fremantle was sorry to see breakfast end. But the sun was fully up. Now once more he could expect the big thunder of cannon. Must not miss it today. Sorrel prom
ised to keep him informed. They rode together toward the lines, hoping for a good view.

  So Fremantle came to Gettysburg, saw the bodies unburied in the fields, beginning to become offensive in the heat of the morning, poor chaps. They turned off to the right and rode up through a grove of trees to higher ground, and through the trees Fremantle could already see the blue ridge to the east, soft in the morning haze, where the Yankees were camped. But he could see no troops, no movement. He felt his stomach tighten, his breath grow sharp. In the presence of the enemy! In range of the guns! He passed a battery of Southern artillery, mixed Napoleons and Parrots, served by wagons stamped USA.

  Sorrel said, “We get most of our wagons from the enemy. Many of the guns. Their artillery is very good. But ours will get better.”

  The Austrian, Ross, had ridden up beside them. One of the gunners, a lean, barefoot man in dusty brown, stared at him unbelievingly as he passed, then bawled in a piercing voice that carried all along the line, “Hey, mister. You in blue. What you do, man, you look like you swallowed some mice.”

  Sorrel put his hand over his mouth. Ross stared back, uncomprehending.

  Fremantle said cheerily, “The fellow is referring to the waxed mustache, old friend.”

  Ross grumbled, twitched the mustache, stroked the ends lovingly, glowered. They rode to Lee’s headquarters, then beyond, up the ridge to where the generals were meeting.

  There was a gathering of officers, too many men. Sorrel suggested that if Fremantle wanted a good view, he should find a convenient tree. Fremantle wandered forward, with Lawley, through the cool green woods, to the same commanding position he had the day before, climbed the same wide oak. There below him, not fifty feet away, he recognized Longstreet, then Lee. The officers were in consultation.

  Lee was standing with his back to the group, bareheaded, the white hair flicking in the breeze. He was gazing out toward the Union lines, which were clearly visible in the east. He put his field glasses to his eyes, looked, put them down, walked two or three paces south, turned, looked again, slowly walked back and forth. Longstreet was sitting on a camp stool, whittling slowly on a stick, making a point, sharpening the point, sharpening, sharpening. A. P. Hill, looking much healthier than the day before, was chatting with another officer, unidentified. Sitting next to Longstreet, on a stump, also whittling, was a tall slim man with an extraordinary face, eyes with a cold glint in them, erect in posture even as he sat, cutting a stick. Fremantle asked, impressed, “Who is that?”