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

by Jeff Shaara

  Chamberlain blinked hard, thought of sleep again, the snow, the wonderful dream. “Orders? For what?”

  The man stood, said, “From General Sheridan, sir.”

  His eyes were open now, and he sat up, bumped his head on the horse’s snout. Charlemagne was coming awake as well, snorting, a hot wet breath on Chamberlain’s face. He rubbed a hand over the wetness, rolled over, slowly stood up, said to the horse, “Well, the orders are for you too.”

  The aide held the paper out, and Chamberlain took it, could read nothing in the dark. The man struck a match, held it in front of the paper. Chamberlain tried to focus, saw the words:

  I have cut across the enemy at Appomattox Station … if you can possibly push your infantry up here tonight, we will have great results in the morning.

  Chamberlain looked around at the vast field of sleeping men, said to the aide, “Find the bugler. Sound the call to rise. Let’s move.”

  49. LEE

  NIGHT, APRIL 8, 1865

  THEY WERE CLOSE TO THE STATION, AND EVERYONE KNEW THE railcars were waiting for them. The march had gone well, Lee staying close to Longstreet, riding with him at the head of the column as he had so many times before. He kept the memories away, tried not to think of those days, now so far behind them, when he would ride beside the big quiet man, pushing the hard power of this glorious army into a weak and badly organized enemy. It was so very different now, and it was not just that his army was so weak, so badly used up, but that the enemy was very different as well. Grant’s army had never run, could never have been persuaded to leave by the sheer audacity of Lee’s tactics. He thought of that now, of the fight that had been, the long siege, the chase. He wanted to believe that it was the commanders, that if Jackson had lived, or Stuart, or Rodes, or … so many others …

  But it might not have been. Grant had brought something so different to those people, and whatever they had lacked before, whatever had been so terribly wrong with Hooker or Polk or Burnside, had finally been erased. Lee had always feared that, and even after Grant had been given command, he was not sure what it would mean. Always, from the beginning of his command, when Lee knew the fight was coming, when the great blue wave would slowly move forward once more, he never doubted that his army would prevail, never feared defeat. He always understood the mind of each one of those men Lincoln sent after him. He did not ever wonder about that, never asked himself if it was simple instinct, or superior military skills, or the hand of God. But now, riding in front of a slow column of starving men, he had to think of it, could not keep it away. He still did not believe that Grant had brought some strategic brilliance to the field that he could not grasp, or that his men had been outfought. But Grant had given his army something else, had propelled them forward at a horrible cost. Lee wondered about the numbers, what those boys in blue had given up. He had always believed that would decide the war, that the wives and the mothers in the North would not have that. But still they came, had come into his guns until his guns could not hold them away. It did not make sense, all the loss; the death of so many did not take away their spirit, but instead strengthened it, made them a better army. He had to admit that if he had underestimated Grant, it was because he had underestimated what the people in the North would allow him to do.

  Lee had relieved some of his commanders, made it official, though no one else had thought it necessary. But he knew it was still the army, and there would be protocol. The commanders continued to move with the column, rode beside ragged pieces of their army, but the organization was nearly gone. Many regiments were now so small that they were grouped together with men they did not know, following unfamiliar flags. Richard Anderson, George Pickett, several others, were dismissed from command, and even if the names still drew respect from the men they had led, those men were too few. The army did not need any more generals.

  Longstreet was now moved back, and Gordon’s command was moved out in advance, closest to Appomattox. The greatest threat was still from the rear, from the Federals who were close behind, and Longstreet’s troops were the most prepared for a good fight, now the freshest troops left in the dwindling army. If the race for Appomattox was won, it would be up to Longstreet to hold the blue infantry away. In front of them would be only cavalry. Even Sheridan could not hold his horse soldiers in line against Gordon’s infantry.

  There had been no delays, another hard march, and no one in the ranks thought they should stop. There was no food, except what waited for them up ahead, and the column was consumed by the forward motion, men sleeping on their feet, driven only by the slow rhythm of their own fading strength. If the rhythm failed, the men simply dropped away, fell to the side of the road. Those who remained did not notice, still moved forward because there was nothing else for them to do.

  Lee had felt more energy since the morning, moved the horse along the column now, toward the front, knew that somewhere up ahead they would make some sort of camp, a place for the business of the army. Behind him some of the staff stayed close, Marshall, Venable, and Lee knew that Taylor would have the camp ready when they arrived. Traveller moved slowly, stepping carefully, moving around the men on foot, blinded by the darkness and their own exhaustion. Lee could see the ones who had fallen away, some just sitting on the side of the road, heads low, faces down. He thought, I must still rally them, say something, give encouragement. He called out, “Up, men … to the march!” They did not seem to hear, and he realized his voice was only a whisper, barely a sound at all. There was nothing he could say to replace what they had already given up.

  Lee rounded a curve, a short rise, could see the moon, bright, bathing the open ground around him in white light. The road was still full of troops, the last of Gordon’s men, pushing closer to the town, to the rail station. He spurred the horse, just a bit, a gentle prodding, and Traveller climbed the rise, another curve, reached the crest. The moon was off to the side now, and he could see his shadow, felt the coolness of the air, a slight breeze, and suddenly, far out in front, he could hear the sound of big guns.

  He stopped the horse, listened, thought, It is down below, along the river, the cavalry.…

  He looked that way, toward the south, stared into the dark, but the sounds would not let him turn away, and now he could hear it plainly. The sounds were in the west, from the one place they could not come, where there could not be anyone to block his way. He looked again to the south, thought, No, it’s the wind, the lay of the land, the echo tricking me. He moved the horse a short way along the road, pulled off, moved into the wide field, crested another small rise, halted the horse … and now he could see the flashes of light, the sounds rolling toward him in louder bursts, sharp waves of thunder. He thought, Gordon has found them … cavalry, there is cavalry at Appomattox. He moved the horse quickly now, the staff following closely, his gut closed up tight in a cold ball, and he thought, They cannot be there … they cannot take the railcars.

  MIDNIGHT, APRIL 8, 1865

  THEY WERE BARELY TWO MILES FROM APPOMATTOX COURT HOUSE, a small town whose existence was defined by the railroad. The fight had quieted, a hard encounter between blue horsemen and an advanced line of Lee’s artillery, big guns put into place by Porter Alexander, men who were suddenly the front line in a fight they were not expecting. Fitz Lee’s horsemen, helping to guard the rear of the column, had quickly been sent up, and the fight was softened now by the late hour, the big guns holding the blue cavalry back. But they did not leave; there was nothing about the rebel line in front of them to drive them away. It was George Custer’s division, men who had ridden hard for this opportunity. They had won the race, had come hard into the rail center, seen the great prize strung out on the tracks before them, and now the railcars were in Federal hands.

  Lee’s camp was quiet, many officers spread out on the ground, most just lying flat, staring up at the thick clouds that drifted past the moon. They were mostly staff officers, serving what remained of the command of the army. The men they served—Fitz Lee, Longst
reet, Gordon—were all close around the fire, sitting on the ground themselves, faces lit by the glow, staring up at the one man who stood. Lee could not move from the fire, not yet, and they waited, patient, no one speaking. He stared down into the flames, listened to the crackling sounds, and felt the weariness, the energy of the day and of the cool night drained out of him. He turned, saw Longstreet sitting on a log, the small pipe in his mouth, watching him.

  Lee looked down at his nephew, made a small motion with his hand, said, “Who is that up there?”

  Fitz Lee was looking into the fire, said, “Custer. Maybe Devin.”

  Lee waited for more, but the young man still stared at the fire, and there were no more words. Lee was now annoyed, felt his patience suddenly fall away, said, “Cavalry? Is that all … just cavalry? Are you sure?”

  The young man looked up at him, heard the anger in Lee’s voice, glanced at Gordon, who said, “There has to be infantry.”

  Lee looked at him. “Do you have information? Is there something I do not know?”

  Gordon said, “No, sir. But they’re out there. If they’re not up ahead right now, they will be by morning.”

  Fitz Lee nodded, said, “Probably right. Custer didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a probe. He meant to dig in, hold his line. He’s expecting support.”

  Lee looked at the fire again, closed his eyes. He had not done this, not in a very long time. He did not believe in councils of war, in calling everyone together at one time. If they were alone, one on one, he could depend on honesty, could feel out each man himself, read the face, read the heart, had always felt they would open up to him. But there was no time now, and after all, it was only these three who really mattered, who really controlled what would happen in the morning. They had spent little time together, had very little in common except that they were the best commanders he had left. He thought, No, that is no accident, there is something of God in this. The weak, those with no heart for the fight, are gone, taken away by Your will. You have left me with the men who can still do this, who can save us yet. Your hand still guides us. If we are to go on, if You will provide for these men, show me … something, show me a Sign.

  He turned, saw Longstreet, who still watched him quietly. Lee looked out to the officers spread all around them. He moved away from the fire, looked at Longstreet, then the other two, said in a low voice, “Can we break through?”

  Longstreet leaned forward, took the pipe from his mouth, said quietly, “We can always break through. If it’s cavalry, we can break through easily. If it’s infantry, it will be a bit tougher. But we can do it.”

  Lee nodded, thought of the strange mood, reading the letter from Grant. Longstreet was still criticized by the papers, too slow, too much defense. Even I thought him too stubborn, he thought, and now he understands what I want, what we need to do. Maybe he always knew. Maybe stubbornness is what we need now, more than anything else.

  He looked at Gordon then said, “It will have to be up to your men, General. If they are in force … if General Grant has infantry blocking the road … we may not have an alternative.”

  There was a silent moment, and Lee waited, could not use the word, had not thought of the word all day, but he had to see it in their eyes, if they understood what he meant—that if they could not break through, the only alternative would be surrender.

  Gordon sat up, looked at Fitz Lee, said, “If the cavalry can hold the road, move them back, we can push through.”

  There was another quiet moment, and Lee looked at Gordon, thought, He believes that. But it is not enough. If those people have moved infantry in front of us, if they have won the race … we are not strong enough.

  He looked at Longstreet, said, “General, we must march the men now. We cannot wait until morning to see what is in our path. Your corps must close up the ranks, hold away those people in your rear, and stay close behind General Gordon.”

  Longstreet was looking at him strangely, and Lee suddenly understood, thought, Corps. No, do not think of numbers. It does not matter that we do not have the strength. It is God’s fight now … we will take our strength from Him.

  THREE A.M., APRIL 9, 1865

  THE MEN WERE MOVING AGAIN, THE ROAD A SOLID MASS OF DULL sounds, shuffling feet. The lines were compact, Gordon’s men near the town, moving out into open ground. Close behind, Longstreet’s troops faced to the rear, prepared to hold off anyone who came in from behind.

  Lee walked away from the small camp, the moon now far to the west, settling toward the horizon. He moved out that way, stepping through soft dirt, fields that had been planted, the seeds trampled by the bare feet of his army. He could see a few stars, but only a few, small flickers of light washed away by the brightness of the large moon. He kept moving toward it, tried not to think of all this, of what was happening, of what had already happened to his army. The commanders had been enthusiastic, were ready for whatever the day would bring them. He felt a great sadness about that, moved in a soft gloom, thought, They will do their duty, as long as I do mine. Their men will follow them as long as they lead. The war can still go on, and they will still fight as they have always fought. I do not understand that.

  I had thought it would never come this far, that it would pass on and be done, and we could go home, and be with our families. But Fitz believes … probably many others as well, we should take to the hills, keep fighting in every town, every railroad, a guerrilla war. Anyone can shoot a musket, kill someone, a soldier, a politician. You can terrorize civilians, burn crops, destroy tracks … but that is not what this is about. We do not fight to simply … destroy. There is nothing different now, nothing different from four years ago. The cause is the same, the reasons for this fight are the same. If it is meant for us to stop this, to go home, if God gives us that message, then we must listen, we must obey.

  He stepped down into a shallow depression, began to climb up. It was very cool, and he pulled his coat around him, thought, We can still win this … we can still pressure them to give up this fight. Grant cannot just make a war against us until we are all dead. There must come a time when they will have had enough, when they will not want any more trains filled with their young men, men in wooden boxes, or worse, masses of men pushed into great scars in the earth. There has always been a simple solution … stop this, just take your soldiers and leave our land. That’s all we have wanted. It should never have been up to the guns, to these men who march on that road, who must still kill their enemy, or die themselves.

  He felt a great wave of grief, felt himself letting go, pulled at it, thought, No, not even here, alone in the dark, you cannot lose control. He looked up at a faint star. God is here, right here, and He will grant us what we must have. He glanced out toward the road, could hear faint sounds still, one horse, moving slowly, but he could see nothing. He walked that way, climbed slowly up a rise, thought of the men, of the great fights, the power of the army, the quiet excitement that had filled him, the victory, the cheering of the men, the loyalty, the love. He had to see them, thought, Yes, we are still an army, and we can still do this, and there is nothing but the hand of God that can stop us.

  He stepped through the soft dirt, reached the crest of the low hill, looked up at faint stars, then down, all along the horizon, could see more stars, many more, and they were large and bright. He stared, confused, and his eyes began to focus, and now he could see that they were not stars, the horizon was not lit by the glow from the heavens, but by the glow of campfires, a vast sea of light spread along the horizon, a glow from a vast blue force that spread all along the west, then down toward the south, a wide arc extending far beyond where his ragged army was pulling itself together.

  He stood for a long moment, stared at the horizon, felt the glow rolling toward him like some hot wind, a sickness boiling up inside of him, pulling his breath away. He knew what the fires meant, thought, They are in front of us now.

  He looked out toward the road, toward the small town where barely ten thousand men
would wait for the dawn, would wait for him to lead them to the desperate fight.

  50. CHAMBERLAIN

  DAWN, APRIL 9, 1865

  IT WAS BARELY LIGHT, THE CHILL OF THE MORNING BROKEN BY THE sweat of men who had moved forward in a steady rush. They were in column again behind Ord, and this time the wagons did not slow them, there was no bogging down in soft mud. They were pulled forward by the guns, by the great hard sounds that grew louder as they moved closer, louder still with every cresting of every small hill.

  Chamberlain was wide-awake, felt his eyes burning now from the drifting smoke of the field, a light haze flowing through the treetops. He watched it, thought, It is not mist or fog. It is smoke, cannon, musket fire. He was excited now, as excited as he had ever been, held the horse to the side, waving his hand, spurring his men past him. He moved the horse alongside the column, rode up in front again, saw Ord’s men keeping good time ahead, thought, Yes, excellent, don’t slow us down, don’t get in our way.

  He felt a strange energy this morning, and for the first time he did not hear the small voice, that small angry place in his mind, the voice of reason, of pure survival, that says, “No, do not do this.” The voice was there in all of them, had to be, yet it was the strength in his heart, his own will, that held it away, kept it silent. He had heard the voice many times, always in the face of the guns, and he’d seen the panic, the wild faces of the men who had listened to it, whose will had been swept away by the sound of that voice. He had always feared that one day it would happen to him, feared it even as he rode right into the fight, into the vast clouds of smoke, the horrible sounds. It had angered him, his own lack of faith in himself, that no matter how often he had done this, how many of the great battles and small sharp fights, he could still give in to the panic. But once the fight was hard in front of him, once he was a part of it, the voice was always silent.