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 HEARD A CHILD’S VOICE, AND THEN FANNIE, A STERN WHISPER, and he looked toward the door. He saw her gently guiding the small boy out of the room, but the child saw Chamberlain looking at him over the thick bed covering, called out, “Daddy!” spun free of Fannie’s grasp, ran to the bed and jumped up.

  Chamberlain wanted to reach out, catch him, but the weight of the covers and his own weakness would not let him move. He did not fight it, smiled weakly, said, “Good morning, Wyllys. Are you helping your mother this morning?”

  With a small groan, Fannie lifted the boy, and Chamberlain saw now how much bigger he was, tried to remember, fought through the fog in his mind, thought, He is four. The boy protested, but Fannie carried him out of the room, and Chamberlain heard her in the hallway, scolding him.

  Now she was back, moving quietly to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried to keep them quiet. Daisy was in here earlier. She just wanted to look at you, but Wyllys … he doesn’t understand why you’re not up playing with him.”

  “Neither do I.” Chamberlain tried to sit, to slide up from under the blanket, but there was no strength, no energy. He closed his eyes, frowned, then looked up at her. “This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be a soldier, a man of action.” He tried to laugh, watched her eyes, and she smiled, could not help it.

  She sat on the bed, put a hand on his forehead. “Well, my soldier, you still have some fever. So, you will not be seeing much action of any kind for a while.”

  He reached up for her hand, held it for a brief moment. She stood, and he tried to hold on to her, to keep her from leaving, but she was away now, at the door. “I’ll bring you something cool to drink. And, you should eat something. I have some breakfast.”

  She was gone, and now he let himself relax, felt the weight of the blanket again. He stared up at the ceiling, then over toward the window, but there was no sunlight, the curtain was down. He flexed his foot, felt the small stab of pain, but knew it was improving. He’d been walking with less of a limp before he stopped walking at all.

  He had always been a miserable patient, had no tolerance for being ill, fought it angrily, thought of the disease, went through this every time he was sick: What right do you have to invade me? It was a rhetorical question, it never seemed to make the sickness go away. He never did understand why he got sick in the first place. Punishment? Was this the hand of God, slowing you down from your own work, telling you, “Stop, you’re not doing it right”? But what if your work was good, of benefit to others? Even doctors got sick. He thought of the bizarre illogic of that. How can You punish a doctor when he is helping cure the illnesses of others?

  He thought of his mother: This was a question for her. He smiled, pictured the stern devout face, the faith of the pious optimist. She would say the malaria is a sign from God, a message: give up this foolishness, this soldiering, and come home and accept the life she had always insisted was his destiny; take up the cloth, preach the word of God. And here he was, at home. Maybe she was right. He felt the impatience again. Maybe this was her doing, maybe she had talked God into giving him this disease. But I won’t take this lying down, Chamberlain thought. It won’t work. Now he relaxed again, felt guilty. No, his mother just wanted what was best. That’s what mothers did. She had never seen him as anything but her gift from God, and the gift had to be repaid. But there were other ways. God did not need everyone to be a preacher.

  He smelled food, was suddenly very hungry. Yes, I am better, he thought. I will fight this thing. He suddenly felt Shakespearean. Plague, be gone! Out, damned spot! He tried to focus, sort out the smells, an exercise. What food is that? Bread, yes, and something burnt; when Fannie cooks, there is always something burnt. He wanted to get up, push away the covers, but his body did not respond, and he suddenly felt depressed, his mind slowed, quieted. I cannot stay here, he thought. And he knew he would not stay here, that this was only a short break, the inconvenience of illness, that when his strength came back, the uniform would be there.

  He closed his eyes. I should rest, sleep, he thought. But there was no sleep, because now he began to think of his men. He thought of the mud, the deep mire of the roads. Still, they had moved eagerly through the rains, always believing they would catch Lee’s army, that there would be another fight, possibly the last fight. Each man had moved as quickly as the man in front of him would allow, and they did not take the time to see the numbers, what was left of the regiment, how many were no longer there. There were no official reports yet, the men did not know how badly their army had been bled. They only saw the men beside them and the man who led them. They looked at him differently now; every one of them carried the memory of the colonel who had stood out in front of them on that bloody rocky hill, and they all had written of it, letters home, had remembered that place, Little Round Top. They would never forget that he’d ordered them to do the unbelievable, the wild bayonet charge through those men from Alabama, the shock so complete that the rebels had simply stopped fighting. Those who could not run had given up, had nothing left inside to resist the small wave of screaming blue troops that suddenly rolled down into their lines.

  For a moment he was there again, running wildly through the rocks and trees. His heart was racing, and seeing the raw shock in the faces of the enemy, he opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling of his room, clenched his fists under the covers of the bed.

  To do it again … another fight. He thought, How can there be another fight like that? Was it not enough? It should have been, we should have hit them again, and on the march, finally, there had been hope, maybe Lee would just … surrender? Surely, with his back to the river … but then it became familiar, and the veterans understood, had been through this before. There would be no attack, they had waited too long, and Lee had prepared, was ready for it. And so they were brought to a halt from behind, from their own commanders, the men under the great tents who alone knew how badly hurt this army had been.

  They had seen bits of Lee’s lines, small skirmishes, often at night, firing only at brief flashes of musket fire, firing back at the brief glimpses of them. Chamberlain stayed close to his men, and they spoke of it, that even if the fight was not to happen then, they realized what Gettysburg had meant, that Lee’s invasion was stopped, that the Army of the Potomac had finally put the right people in the right place. The hard power of the good guns and the good soldiers had been put to the test, and they had prevailed. It was the test they’d always wanted, especially the veterans, the men who had been there from the beginning, from the early disasters at Bull Run, at Fredericksburg, men who carried the fight as well as any soldier could. They never felt they had been beaten by the enemy, by that man over there who pointed his musket at your heart. Their aim was as sharp and as clear as his. Chamberlain knew his own men well, knew they all shared something new, the feeling that this time they had been led by men who knew how to command, the men who let the soldiers decide the battle. On Little Round Top they’d seen the faces of those other fellows, those men in the ragged clothes, faces the generals never saw, and they learned that when the fight came to the bayonet, when there were no trenches and no lines and the enemy looked you in the eye, the uniform made no difference. It was the heart of these men, his men, that had won the fight. And they were ready to do it again.

  HE PULLED THE BELT TIGHTER, KNEW HE’D LOST SOME WEIGHT. But at least he was out of bed, had even gone outside, taken a short walk with the children. He was still weak, and had considered asking for a longer leave. The two weeks had expired, but the army was moving again, and so he would go back and join his men in Virginia.

  He stood in front of the long mirror, looked at the navy blue of the jacket, the light blue pants, saw no dirt. Fannie had cleaned the uniform, and except for the small frayed areas along the cuffs, it looked nearly new. He frowned at that, thought, This is not quite right. He had gotten used to the dirt. It was good dirt, the dirt of the fields, the muddy ground, the spray from the impact of the incoming shell, the close sh
udder of death. He stared at clean knees, elbows, wondered, What will the men say?

  She came into the room, carrying a stack of bed linens, saw him staring at himself, smiled. “There, now isn’t that better? You were quite a mess, you know.”

  He had not asked her to clean the uniform, but nodded, tried not to show his disappointment. “Yes … much better. Thank you.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice.

  She put the linens on the bed, moved beside him, looked at the both of them in the mirror, said, “I have actually … gotten used to this. I never thought I would. My husband, the soldier.”

  He put his arm around her waist, stood tall, posing. “We are a respectable couple.” He coughed, let her go, moved away and sat on the bed.

  “And you, my dear colonel, are still sick.”

  He did not look at her, knew she was right, the weakness was still there. He had tried to make a good show, playing with the children, making preparations for the trip south.

  “They need me. The orders … I have no choice.”

  She folded her arms, said sternly, “I don’t recall hearing the war had stopped because you were ill. My guess is they will go on fighting whether you are there or not.”

  He did not want the argument, felt the energy draining out of him. “They do need me. I’ve been called back. I tried to extend the leave.…”

  “Oh, yes, I know. But Mr. Lincoln’s army cannot stand for one of their heroes to be idle.”

  He knew this was coming. She had nursed him with joyous energy, had truly enjoyed his being home, even if he was mostly in bed. They had not argued, she did not show the anger of a year ago.

  He never knew he would be a soldier, had never thought much about causes and patriotism. There had always been the expectations, the pressure from his father. Chamberlain always resisted, had always believed that his greatest gift was his mind, that teaching was his destiny. But the war had changed that, the causes, the talk of politicians became bloody action, the men with powerful ideas and the force of will and guns that this country had never seen before.

  When it all began, he tried to understand the dangers, felt the new frustration of being far from the loud voices, and then from the fight. Then the young people, the quiet faces he spoke to every day, began to speak back, and soon many of them were gone, had put on the uniform and taken the trains south. That shocked him most of all, the passion of the students, the young men who many of the faculty at Bowdoin considered to be but children. But they had become educated, were listening, hearing all the talk, the rhetoric, the voices of reason and the voices of outrage.

  Chamberlain found himself speaking of it as well, his prepared lessons fading from his mind, losing their importance in the face of the spreading violence. He had never been political, did not understand much about what drove men to become politicians. The politicians were dangerous; the strength and the passion of their voices had pulled the people on both sides toward this brutal fight. The other professors had accused him of undermining the school, encouraging these boys to join the army, would not see beyond the dark halls of Bowdoin. His anxieties were seen as contagious, and so he had been offered a leave of absence, two years, a trip to Europe perhaps, a tonic for his stress. Instead he had gone to the governor and volunteered to join the army, because he knew it was the most important thing he would ever do. But he hadn’t discussed it with anyone, didn’t tell them he was going. And he had not discussed it with Fannie.

  She left the room now. He heard her moving down the stairs, and he let out a breath, thankful. He knew she was still angry about that, and he would always regret that he did not trust her to support his decision. He had been certain she would object, would not allow him to enlist, and when he finally told her what he’d done, she was angry, but it was the anger of love, of fear. Now he would leave her again, and he knew the emotions would be the same.

  He heard voices now, from the front of the house, the unmistakable cries of the children for their “Grampa.” Chamberlain stood, felt his way along the bed, straightened, took a deep breath, tried to find the energy. He heard his father’s voice now, the booming sound he only seemed to make around the small children. Chamberlain glanced in the mirror, checked the uniform, then moved toward the stairway.

  He heard the sounds moving into the parlor, the children still bouncing around their grandfather, and the subdued voices of the women.

  He paused, listened, heard his father ask, “So, when is he leaving?”

  Fannie hushed the children, said, “Tomorrow morning, the first train.”

  “Oh my dear. So soon …” It was his mother, and Chamberlain smiled, had mouthed the words exactly as she spoke them. He moved down the last step, went to the parlor, and his father rose, had a child on either side of him, holding tight.

  Fannie reached for them, said quietly, “Not now … let Grampa be for now.” There were mild protests, and then his father was free of the small hands, and Chamberlain looked into the old face, and his father moved beside him, past, went into the hall. Chamberlain knew what this meant, knew to follow, that the men would be alone now. He followed his father out to the front porch, and there were no words.

  They sat in the creaking chairs, and Chamberlain waited, would let his father have the first word. There was a long minute, and his father rocked the old chair slowly, then said, “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. The leave’s up. They called me back.”

  “I hear there might be a fight … Lee’s on the move.”

  Chamberlain nodded, had not heard anything that specific, wondered, How does he always seem to know what is happening?

  “The regiment holding up? The boys doing all right?”

  Chamberlain said, “None finer in the army. Just … not as many of us now.”

  “Part of it. Always has been.” The old man stilled the chair, stood, walked to the porch railing and stared out across the green yard.

  There was a pause, and Chamberlain said, “Tom’s fine. He’s a good officer. He’ll command his company soon.”

  The old man said nothing, and Chamberlain could not see his face, knew he would not say much about his youngest son, had never expected Tom to volunteer.

  Chamberlain stood now, moved to the railing, waited, sorted the words, then said, “In the last fight … we were in a bit of a jam. I had to use him.” He paused, had been thinking of this moment for weeks. “There were men going down, the line was weakening. I sent him in, ordered him to fill a gap in the line. Didn’t even think about it … until later. If something had happened to him—”

  “You won the fight.” The old man did not look at him, and Chamberlain wanted to say more, to explain.

  “I’m sorry … it would have been hard to tell you that, if he had—”

  “You won the fight.” The old man looked at him now, a sharp hard stare. “You did what officers are supposed to do. You would have learned that at the Point.”

  Chamberlain sagged. He’d heard this before. That he had not gone to West Point, but stayed in Maine to finish his schooling, was something his father had never understood, had never seen the value in. Even when he was young Chamberlain had heard this, great stories of his ancestors. His father believed the military was the only way a man could measure himself, could find the respect, something to carry with you all your life. They did not argue; his father’s disappointment was subtle, quiet. But Chamberlain had always known it was there, and after his graduation, when the first teaching appointments came, when Chamberlain accepted the position at Bowdoin, there was little pride from his father.

  His mother had dreamed of the glorious day her oldest son would serve God, seek the ministry, and she still hoped. But his father never spoke of that, the ministry would not bring honor to the family, no matter how devoutly his wife disagreed. When Chamberlain had volunteered for the army, there had been few words between them, but he could feel the quiet attention, that his father was suddenly interested.

  By now the people ha
d learned of Gettysburg. Word had spread all over Maine, through letters and newspaper stories, that Chamberlain had done something truly extraordinary. Fannie had written him that his father had begun to take long walks through Brewer, even went across the river, to Bangor, the town he never cared to visit, because now he could talk of his boy the soldier, and the people would come to him to hear all they could of this man’s son, the hero of Little Round Top.

  The old man stared out again across the yard, said, “This Meade fellow … you expect he’s ready to wrap this up?”

  “General Meade is a good commander. He’s finding his way, learning what his army can do. He’ll be fine.”

  “Damned well better be. Gone on long enough. Lee’s given all he’s got. Time to finish the job.”

  Chamberlain said nothing, thought, Lee is not whipped, not yet. The old man glanced at Chamberlain’s shoulder strap, the silver eagle. “Full colonel. What do you hafta do to be a general?”

  Chamberlain smiled, said, “Not sure … it would take a few more good fights, I suppose.”

  The old man said nothing, and Chamberlain watched him, waited. After a minute the old man turned, looked past him toward the front door, moved that way, said, “I better check on those youngsters.…” He moved past Chamberlain, then stopped, and Chamberlain waited, felt the old man struggling silently. The old man stared down at the floor, then reached out his hand, touched Chamberlain’s arm, still did not look at him, but wrapped his hard fingers around the blue cloth, a tight sharp squeeze. He held it for a brief moment, then moved away, to the door and into the house.

  Chamberlain still felt his father’s grasp, smiled, felt something move inside of him, knew it was the first time; that if the words were not there, if the old man did not know how to tell him, Chamberlain knew now the barriers were behind them, that finally he had made his father proud.