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

by Jeff Shaara

  They had toured through the camps all morning, and Grant now turned down a smaller road, a sudden shift in direction, guided the procession along a brief cut through thin woods. He glanced at Lincoln, saw the President ducking under a low tree limb, said, “Excuse me, sir. I thought you might enjoy visiting one of the units of the Eighteenth Corps. They equipped themselves quite well in the last fight, captured a good number of the enemy’s guns.”

  Lincoln nodded happily, was clearly enjoying himself, said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Grant. Whatever you say.”

  The trees now gave way to open ground, and they rode up a short rise, then beyond, rows of tents, and now Lincoln understood, saw for himself why Grant had brought him this way. Through the rows of tents, from around the small fires, men began to move out into the road, filling it, blocking the way, began now to cheer, loud and boisterous, hands reaching out toward Lincoln, his name echoing across the camp like church bells. He touched the hands, reached out as far as he could, and Grant knew, watching them, that Lincoln had already touched each of them, all of them. It was a camp of men who had volunteered as so many had volunteered, to pick up a gun and fight and die for their country.

  But there was a difference. That these men would fight, and fight so well, was a surprise to many, and many still would not believe it. But Grant saw it in Lincoln’s face, there was no surprise at all, that Lincoln had believed from the beginning that war was color-blind. Grant let the horse drift to the side, let the troops move past him, a wave of blue uniforms, the sea of black faces pushing forward, the cries and the joy and the tears filling the air, flowing up and around the smiling face of the President.

  27. CHAMBERLAIN

  JUNE 29, 1864

  HE HAD VERY NEARLY DIED. HE’D EVEN WRITTEN THAT TO FANNIE, A long and tearful letter, words that came from some very desperate place, the part that fights for just a bit more time, enough time to say the right words. He was good with words, but struggled for something more, the sorrow and apology, that somehow she did not know how much he loved her. He’d told himself the letter should comfort her, but when he read it again, he knew he had written it to comfort himself, to relieve the guilt, to make a peace with her for going off to fight, and to God, for not staying closer to the Word.

  The doctors had not thought it possible, the wound so severe, cutting right through him. But the surgeons agreed to try, and they spent long hours working and cutting and patching. When they took him away, loaded him on the wagon that would carry him to the hospital steamer, the men in bloody white coats had stopped their work, just for a moment, watched with shaking heads as this man was driven away, to be put on the small grim boat, set gently down among the long rows of wounded.

  He did not know where they were taking him, slept through most of the trip, had to be told by a nurse, a very round woman with very bad breath, that he was at Annapolis, the naval hospital. And he would be there for a long time.

  In every direction all he could see was white—white walls, a white ceiling, white sheets, women in white uniforms. Next to him there was another man, covered in more white, a man Chamberlain had yet to speak to. When the nurses came around, they spoke in whispers, and it was not because of him. He would lie wide-awake, hoping they would stop and talk to him, break the monotony. But they would only nod politely, and he’d watch their faces, the horrified stares at the bed beside him, and even the whispers would fade away. Now it was beginning to get to him. What was the matter with this man?

  There was no trying to sit up or turning to one side. The wounds were still very dangerous, the surgery very fragile. If he made the effort, tried to see beyond the mounds of white that blocked his view, there would be a blast of pain, and he would apologize to himself, try to relax, let himself drift back into the soft white clouds around his head.

  After a few days the pains were not constant, the sleep not interrupted, and they had stopped giving him the drugs. Now, when daylight began to fill the room, he tried to keep track of time, to measure what hour it was. His mind made it an exercise, and he told himself it might be the only way he could survive this and stay sane.

  He knew it was mid-morning now, he’d been awake for a while, the room brightly lit. He had learned to watch the shadows, a picture frame on the one wall he could stare at comfortably. There was a portrait in the frame, and in the first few days in the bed, when the drugs still clouded his mind, he thought it was Dr. Adams, Fannie’s father, a grim portrait that hung in their living room. The shock of that had given way to acceptance, his price for being here, for allowing himself to be wounded. But when his eyes cleared, the face had grown unfamiliar, and he was still not convinced that the painting had not been quietly switched, that the new face was someone else’s punishment.

  But the frame now held his attention, ornate and gilded. The morning sun cast a shadow on the wall to one side. He had not seen the window, but by now guessed how tall it must be, enough to let the sunlight hit the frame for just so long. The shadow would disappear while the sun was overhead, but sometime in the afternoon it would return, the other way, until finally it faded away with the light in the room. He even began to believe he could see the shadow move, just slightly, shifting as the sun rose and set. It was his secret, his one guilty pleasure. He was beginning to get pretty good at it; it became his game. When the nurses came around, he would ask them the time, and before they could answer, would tell them himself. By now they reacted with feigned surprise, patronizing him, and he knew that, but he also knew they had no idea how he’d figured it out. And so it was still his game.

  The shadow was growing weak as the morning went on, and he heard rain. He stared at the picture frame, began to feel a small panic, the shadow fading in the dull light. Scared, he thought, My God, this game is more important than I realized. His mind began to roll over, images flashing as the daylight faded, his concentration not held by the picture frame. Hold on, he thought, what is going on?

  The sounds of the rain were growing, the wind began to rattle the windows, and suddenly there was a bright flash and a sharp crack of thunder. He made a sound, a loud short scream, stared at the white ceiling above him, then heard more screams, all down the rows of beds, the storm bringing out the memories, the fear, the horrors of what brought these men to this place. He could feel his heart beating, each pulse a small stab of pain low in his gut. He heard the rain again, the soft sound above him, took a long deep breath, then another. One man was still screaming, no words, just an awful sound, and Chamberlain wanted to sit up, to say something to the man, “It’s just rain, just a storm. There are no guns here.”

  The nurses were moving past him, and now the screaming stopped and he heard women’s voices, soft, comforting, and closed his eyes, relaxing again. He tried to imagine how the rest of this place looked, had no idea there were more men in the same room with him, a row of men that stretched out … how far, past the one man next to him?

  He opened his eyes, heard the voices of the women again, closer, and suddenly was missing her, feeling as empty and alone as he’d ever felt. Then the voices were beside him, and he blinked through damp eyes, tried to see, abruptly saw her face, her hair dripping wet, small drops of water falling on him, and he thought, No, this is a dream, like the portrait on the wall, and he cleared his mind, blinked again. He felt, then, her soft cool hand on his, wrapping around, holding him tightly. She kneeled down beside the bed, a small voice, tears. “Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence …”

  He tried to squeeze her hand, and there was no strength, and he tried to see her, but his eyes were filled, and he closed them, felt the tears on the side of his face, heard the soft sounds of her voice.

  “You’re alive …”

  JULY 3, 1864

  SHE SAT WITH HIM FOR LONG STRETCHES, AND HE FORGOT ABOUT the game, about the shadow on the wall. He still could not lift himself up, the pain still waiting with every motion, and so he lay on his back. He could not see the man beside him. Fannie sat with her back to the man, sat bet
ween the beds, would only glance at him when she arrived, a brief look of horror, would sometimes say something, “Oh my,” and then turn away, quickly turn her back.

  He wanted to know, and some part of him already did, that even if he never saw the man, he had seen the wounds, men shot into pieces, men surviving, amazingly, pieces of them gone, taken away in a horrible moment. The arms and legs were commonplace now, but the doctors were learning, had gotten better, would now try to save men they had always thought could not be saved. It was these men who had the worst time, trying to go home, missing an entire shoulder, or hip, men who had to be carried, or would never leave a wheelchair. Or the faces, men who lost more than an eye, or some teeth. Chamberlain tried not to think on that, fought against it, the faces of scared children, what that would be like, feeling the stares, the horror of your own appearance. But the doctors were saving lives, and men were going home who two years ago would have been left for dead on the field.

  And maybe that’s a good thing, he thought, not just for those men, but for everyone. Take the war back home, show the citizens. He had often seen the coffins, waiting for the trains to take them home, thought, Dead men in boxes bring grief and crying, gravestones remind us of those we once knew, give us the memories, hold them for us in stone. But these men, still alive, would bring the horror of this war right into their towns, their homes; not some fading memory or sad empty space at the table.

  He didn’t have to see the man beside him now; the expressions from the nurses, from Fannie, told him all he needed to know. He began to feel he knew the man, and felt affection for him, the man with no voice, who never spoke, and it did not matter why. Go home, he thought, good luck. You gave as much as those who gave their lives. You have to endure, you are the living face of this war, a symbol we must look at and not turn away from. God bless you.

  HE AWOKE TO HER SOFT HANDS, TURNING HIM GENTLY, AND HAD TO force himself to relax, to let the movement come from her. The soft cloth rubbed his back, the cool dampness soothed him. Above him, a nurse waited, would help her if she had trouble. But Fannie had learned, was helping whenever they would let her. Now he was turned back, closed his eyes again, relaxed into the pillows.

  “Well, what have we here, some kind of hero?”

  He opened his eyes, knew the voice, and Fannie stood up, there were hugs. He tried to see, then the face leaned out over him, smiling, the rough beard, the clear blue eyes. It was his brother.

  Chamberlain smiled, said, “Tom … how … you desert?”

  Tom stood straight, wounded at the comment, said, “Most certainly not. I’ll have you know that not only am I not a deserter, I am now a captain!”

  Chamberlain wanted to reach up, to grab his younger brother around the shoulders, to feel that young energy. He lifted one hand, and Tom took it, held it for a moment, said, “We were worried about you, Lawrence, the whole regiment. Just ’cause you command those Pennsylvania boys don’t mean the Twentieth Maine forgot about you. Colonel Spear sent me a message for you, said even if you ain’t fit to command, there’s always a place for you in the Twentieth. You can be our mascot, maybe.”

  Mascot? Chamberlain didn’t know if he was serious or not. He glanced at Fannie, said, “I assure you, young captain, I am no one’s mascot. All I need is a bit of rest, and I’ll be back on the field.” He looked at Fannie again, and she was smiling at him, shaking her head. He knew she didn’t take him seriously, that she believed he would never go anywhere but home.

  She said, “Lawrence, you have another visitor.”

  He heard a throat clear, and another man stepped up close to the bed.

  Chamberlain saw a familiar face, said, “Well, Major Gilmore, how are you … my word, it’s been a while.”

  Gilmore was smiling, said, “Actually, it’s Lieutenant Colonel Gilmore, sir. The army seems to enjoy promoting men from Maine.”

  Chamberlain was feeling very good now, would always remember the stern face of Gilmore, the first combat veteran he’d met, the first day the regiment was organized. Gilmore had been sent to Portland to help organize and drill the new recruits, an efficient and disciplined officer who showed a subtle tolerance for Chamberlain’s lack of experience.

  “Colonel Gilmore, I congratulate you on your promotion.” He looked at Tom again, said, “I congratulate both of you. I have no doubt the promotions were well deserved.”

  Tom looked at Gilmore now, made a small impatient gesture. Gilmore said, “Colonel, whether Captain Chamberlain is here with permission or not is something I cannot be certain of. However, I am here on official business.”

  Tom started to protest, and Chamberlain said, “For what? Who—”

  “For you, sir. The Department has sent me here to read you … this. If you will permit …”

  Chamberlain felt a sudden dread, thought, A discharge, they’re sending me home. “Go on, Colonel, read it.”

  Gilmore unrolled a piece of paper, read, “To Major General George Meade, Commanding the Army of the Potomac, Major General G. K. Warren, Commanding Fifth Corps, Brigadier General Charles Griffin, Commanding First Division. Colonel Joshua L. Chamberlain, Commanding First Brigade, First Division, Fifth Corps, for meritorious and efficient services on the field of battle, and especially for gallant conduct in leading his brigade against the enemy at Petersburg, Virginia, is hereby appointed Brigadier General of Volunteers, to rank as such from the eighteenth of June, 1864. As provided by Special Orders Thirty-nine, Signed, Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, Commanding.”

  Gilmore lowered the paper, and out across the white room there was a sudden burst of applause, a few small cheers, from men Chamberlain had yet to see. Gilmore handed him the paper, and he read it over, ran his finger over the seal of Grant’s official signature.

  He raised one hand, said aloud, “Thank you, gentlemen. I cannot see you yet, and I hope some of you are not here because of me.”

  He looked up at Gilmore, then at Tom, saw the smiles, and he read the words again, his eye now settling at the top of the page. He said, “This is addressed to General Griffin. His name is at the top. Why?”

  Tom looked at Gilmore and began to laugh. Gilmore cleared his throat, leaned down, close to Chamberlain’s face, said quietly, “I had hoped not to tell you, actually. You would find it out eventually. Um …” He stopped, and Chamberlain could see he was searching for words.

  Now Tom leaned over, said with a broad smile, “Lawrence, they think you’re dead!”

  Chamberlain looked at the paper again, saw the order, all in the third person, not addressed to him at all.

  Gilmore said, “It seems so, sir. I was told that General Grant has never promoted anyone on the field before. Ever. The first reports from the Fifth Corps seemed to indicate that you did not survive. When General Grant heard about that, he issued the promotion on the spot.”

  Chamberlain began to feel sick. He looked at the paper again, said, “This looks official. Can he change his mind?”

  Now Gilmore was smiling, said, “Not hardly, sir. It’s been approved by Congress, by the War Department. I believe that by now General Grant is aware that you are among the living. The promotion is official. May I be the first, sir.”

  Gilmore stepped back, snapped a salute, and now Tom did the same. There were more voices from the room, the applause again.

  Chamberlain looked up at the two men, lifted his hand, returned the salute. He stared up at the ceiling then, felt weak. It was the most exertion he had experienced in a while, and he was drained. He closed his eyes, could hear the voices of the women again, whispers, heard the boots on the hardwood floor, moving away. He felt a hand wrap around his, knew it was Fannie. She said in a soft voice, “I am very proud of you, Lawrence. My soldier …”

  The voice drifted away above him, and now he saw one more face, the old man looking him in the eye, something he rarely did. Chamberlain still felt the piece of paper in his hand, wanted to show it to him, felt suddenly very young, very excited, remembered the quest
ion, his father asking him, “You got a chance at bein’ a general?” He looked at the old face, the hard eyes, and Chamberlain smiled, said only, “Yes,” and now the old face was smiling back at him, something he had never seen, and he felt the old man’s hands now holding him, a tight grip on both arms, and Chamberlain said it again.

  “Yes.”

  28. GRANT

  JULY 27, 1864

  HE SAT ALONE WITH THE CIGAR, A SMALL CAMP CHAIR LEANING against a thin oak tree. He was in Meade’s camp, waiting for Burnside to arrive, but he was thinking about Sherman.

  He remembered the conversation with Lincoln, he thought of it often now, what he’d said, the phrase coming to him whenever there were quiet moments like this one. It is only a matter of time.

  Sherman had said the same thing, had pushed and pursued Joe Johnston from Chattanooga all the way to Atlanta. The pursuit had come when the good fights did not, because Johnston was skilled at retreat, at the careful maneuver, had kept his smaller army away from a general engagement with Sherman’s power. Johnston had learned the value of the trench, the heavy mounds of dirt, and his men made good use of the shovel. Grant smiled at that, thought of Sherman’s angry impatience. He’d received a steady flow of reports from Georgia, all rippling with the frustration of a commander who wanted the fight, wanted it now, and Johnston wouldn’t give it to him. Each time Sherman brought his great strength into line, Johnston would simply back away, sometimes with obvious and distinct movements, sometimes quietly in the night. But if Sherman was frustrated, he also understood that he was in fact winning, that with the constant movement forward, the closer he pushed his army toward Atlanta, it was only a matter of time.