The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure by Michael Shaara
When she was gone, the door closing, Clemens sat down next to Grant, peeking around toward the house, the same game played with every visit. He retrieved the cigar, lit it again, and leaned back in the chair.
It was a simple pleasure for Grant now, the wonderful smoke. He could not enjoy his own cigars anymore; the gentle warmth that he’d enjoyed for so long was now a scorching fire in his throat. Julia was considerate of that, had thought it was insensitive of men to smoke around him, a cruel tease. Usually, she was right, but she did not understand that Clemens knew it as well, would smoke only what he knew were Grant’s favorites. If Grant could not enjoy the pleasure of smoking himself, Clemens would do it for him. If the men thought themselves clever, like two boys in some guilty misbehavior, they did not know that Julia understood the game as well. As the cloud rolled up between them, and Grant would absorb what he could of the glorious smoke, she would wait, then move up near the door, watching the two men enjoy their small victory over her stern discipline.
They sat for a moment, and Clemens said, “The voice … all right today?”
Grant nodded, said, a low scratchy growl, “Not too bad. They want me to take the morphine to help the pain. But it fogs up my brain. Can’t do that.”
Clemens nodded, blew another cloud of smoke, said, “You’re very close. How far you gonna take it?”
Grant shook his head. “The war. I don’t see how I can go—”
Clemens held up his hand, said, “The war is fine. Good stuff. That’s what people want anyhow. Hard to get anybody excited about eight years in the White House. Anticlimactic.” He laughed. “Even your White House.”
Grant nodded, thought for a long moment, said, “I never would have done that … if Lincoln had lived.”
Clemens nodded, blew smoke. “You wouldn’t have had to. You may have saved the country, your enemies notwithstanding. We were out of control. Could have been anarchy. Too bad … you could write a lot about that. Teach some people a few lessons.”
Grant shook his head no.
Clemens realized what he’d said, knew well that there would be little time. He said, “No, it’s not important. Stick with the war.”
Grant stared at the birds again. “I had thought, maybe the trip … write about that, what it was like … especially for her. She was in her glory.”
Clemens glanced back toward the house, said, “Never known a woman to be so suited for a man. Pardon me, General, but if not for her, I doubt this visit would be near as interesting.”
Grant smiled, closed his eyes, was feeling very tired now. He said slowly, “If I did nothing else, I made her happy. All the attention, the ceremony … the gowns, the parties. Everywhere we went, she had to tell the world who I was. Didn’t matter much what I wanted.” He paused, took a deep breath, tried to relax his throat.
Clemens was looking at him now, said, “Take it easy, General. Save your voice.”
Grant shook his head. “No, it’s all right. I was just thinking about her … anger, if something came up, some crisis, and we had to cancel a social event. She took it as a personal inconvenience. I would like to have written that … spent more time writing about her, about our lives. There is so much … I have been so blessed.”
He closed his eyes again, and Clemens sat back, said, “Maybe, General, she’ll do that herself.”
JULY 19, 1885
HE HADN’T SLEPT, HAD BEEN UP MOST OF THE NIGHT WRITING. HE was beginning to feel a small panic, the first real fear; there was so much left unsaid. It was not death. He had accepted that long ago, even when the doctors were telling Julia that he was recovering. What he feared was the weakness, losing the concentration, the flow of words, the memories. The fear gave him energy, and when the nights were sleepless, he would move himself to the small lamp in their room, where the pad of paper always waited, and would take up the pen again.
He’d been thinking too much of her, remembered Clemens’s words, the war is enough, but she was there, always, and the memories began to fall together, confused, a jumble of thoughts. He kept an image of her, someplace in Europe, someone allowing her the privilege of trying on crowns, great jeweled headpieces, and her pure joy, the giggling pleasure, and he thought, Yes, she could have been a queen … as if there was any more scandal about me the newspapers needed for their editorials.
He focused on the paper again, blinked hard at the dull lamplight. There had been so many details, so many names, the numbers, and now there was little of that. He’d tried to think about how much he’d already written, some way to bring it all together. He drifted off again, thought now of the people, the crowds outside the house, the kindness. There had been hopeful, supportive letters, even telegrams, from all over the country, every state. Some had come from Confederate officers, men who faced him across the bloody fields, and that surprised him at first. But now he understood, it was more than concern for him, for one man, one old soldier, and it was more than the formal show of respect to a former President. The wounds were healing and the uniform did not matter now. All the old soldiers had a common bond, having been through the great horror. There had been great difficulties, great controversies, anger, abuse, injustice, but that was past, and the country was moving on again, strong, united, prosperous. The letters were thanking him for that, and even if he knew better—that his role was one small part—the sad reality of his illness inspired them to reach out, to thank him.
He understood now, in the dull lamplight, stared at the paper, thought, We have learned, we are moving into a new time, and all of us know what we must not ever do again. He wrote now, thought, There is nothing else I can give them, no wisdom, no comfort. It is only a simple request, the hope I can leave to all of them, to their children, to their future.
“Let us have peace.”
58. CHAMBERLAIN
GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, SPRING 1913
HE HAD COME BACK HERE MORE TIMES THAN HE COULD REMEMBER, would walk the same ground, the same hills. He would find all the special places, stand where Lee stood, watching Pickett destroy his division, wander through Devil’s Den, marvel at the huge rocks, wondering how anyone could have fought a battle there. He would find the place where Reynolds went down, a very good man taken away from a war he might have changed, even before Grant. He’d walk through the cemetery, stand in the place where Lincoln had made the speech, read the words, or say them quietly from memory. He wished he had met Lincoln. How curious a man, nothing to ever indicate he was a master of language, had the brilliant use of words. It was a subject Chamberlain knew as well as anyone, and he still marveled at the simplicity of this one small speech, the finest piece of oratory he had ever seen.
He would cover as much of the battlefield as his time allowed, and always save that one place, that special place, for last. He had to prepare for it, would make the long walk up the long rise, climbing along the crest of the rocky hill, as he had fifty years ago, on that one horrible day. Here, he did not wander, knew exactly where he was going, would ease along the trail made first by his men, now made by generations of visitors. Finally he would come to the big rock, the smooth flat surface, his own private place, would stay for long hours, staring out at the distant trees, the thick woods, his mind hard at work on the memories, the magic of the ground.
There would be a celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the battle, and in Maine there was no one who could better represent the old veterans, the last survivors of this extraordinary place, than Chamberlain. As with every event, there had to be planning, arrangements, conveniences prepared for the fragile soldiers. They were, after all, fifty years removed from the battle.
It had been a long while since his last visit, several years, and it was the pressure from the organizers, from nameless committees, all the attention surrounding the anniversary, that brought him back even now. It would be difficult this time, something he would not explain to anyone else, and it had nothing to do with his age, with any physical problem. This time there were different me
That he outlived her was the most painful experience of his life. She had been through terrible times, her health slowly failing over the years, her eyesight gone completely, and finally, in 1905, the end had come. But for years, even when her health was poor, the blindness nearly complete, she would still come here, hold his arm, move slowly with him through the trees, the small paths through the rocks. If it was a painful ordeal, she would never tell him that, knew how important this was to him, to be here, to share all of that with her. He knew it was a test of patience, the tolerance of a woman who had lost most of her tolerance. Their life together had been long and, more often than not, difficult.
After the war, he’d come home to a hero’s welcome, and his immediate popularity had handed him the governor’s chair, to which he was elected four times. But Fannie did not go with him to the capital, would not be a part of that, and the job was, after all, a job. He had never really understood her anger, what she was missing in her life, why she seemed to be so unhappy. He struggled with the balance, his responsibility to her, and the responsibility he could never seem to escape, to the people, to his state, and later, to the college.
When he came back to Brunswick, it was not to the quiet privacy of home, but more public attention, the presidency of Bowdoin, a notoriety he accepted and she did not, and it was a burden that would follow them to the end. If his private life was overshadowed by the bright spotlight of his fame, that was an observation made by others, never by him. To her last days, he loved her as he had in the first days of their courtship, the young scholar in agonizing pursuit of the girl whose aloofness kept him just far enough from her heart, just far enough so the pursuit would stay glorious. Throughout fifty years of marriage, the pursuit had still been glorious.
The walk was not simple now, not to a man of eighty-four, but he would not let anyone come with him. The reunion organizers were gathered near the copse of trees, conducting their meeting around the high-water mark, the flat ground near the center of the field. It was the most obvious place, flat open ground, where the cameras could get the best shot, where the old men would have the least difficulty. But he had been through these meetings before, already understood what would take place, what the ceremony would involve, the little speech he would be expected to make. It would be an emotional experience for everyone who saw it.
As at every reunion, the Confederates would make the trek, come across the open ground where Pickett and Pettigrew had led the disastrous charge, and they would slowly climb the long open rise, moving closer to the copse of trees, the low stone wall where Armistead had fallen, where the tide of the war slowly turned them back. Along the wall, the old Federals would wait for them, along the same line where Hancock held, where the firepower and strength had been too great. The two sides would come together with hands held out, arms reaching to arms, old men now lost in those days, some crying out loud, some holding their dignity in some quiet place. They would remember their friends, the men whose blood was still in that ground, and they would speak of it all, the memories, the tearful sadness, cleansing themselves again. There would be many fewer than the last time, and they would look at each other with the soft sadness of age, knowing that if there were another reunion, there would be fewer still.
He had made the simple request, a lone walk, had to be firm with the volunteer, a giggling woman who insisted on escorting him. He would have no one with him, and moved away with purpose, a show of strength, of good legs, leaving the disappointed woman behind. Now his legs were stiff, his breathing hard, and he sensed the soft green around him, the air damp with the spring. He walked with slow purpose, saw a sign, something new, a small wooden plaque: LITTLE ROUND TOP.
He was alone, there were no onlookers, the attention focused back at the center of the great long line. He stopped, took a long breath, felt the pains, small reminders, and he blew out a hard, disgusted breath, said aloud, “Go on, old man!”
He climbed again, found the small trail he’d used before, and now he was among the big rocks, stepping carefully, his focus on that one familiar place, where he could sit, finally, and stare out across the peaceful ground.
He felt his legs, the soreness, thought, How many of the old veterans will come up here? He could see out over the peach orchard, the wheat field. He thought of the old men, the reunion, how many stories, where they would go. He could see the great rocks in Devil’s Den, thought, There, they will certainly go there. After the ceremony, old men will lead their grown children and impatient grandchildren, will point at the special place, tell the stories. The children will shake their heads, had heard it many times before. But up here there will not be many, too hard a climb for so many old legs. He felt a pride in that, how he could still come up here, the difficult climb. But then he thought, If they do not come … the children might never know. Someone has to tell them what happened here, what we did, how important this was. They cannot forget. He looked to the left, toward the bigger hill, Round Top, looked down into the thick green woods between the hills. Right there, he thought, it was right there. We held the rebels away, and it was important. We must not lose that, can’t forget about that. How different it might have been, if not for those men from Maine.
He had grown accustomed to the attention, the individual fame. They had finally awarded him the Congressional Medal of Honor in 1893. He’d humbly accepted it, knew they had to put one man’s name on that piece of paper, to identify the great deed with a man, to have someone to make a speech, to go to these reunions. But he knew better than any that it was not the generals, not some singular work of genius or valor. If the men, the privates, the men with the muskets, did not want to go forward, there would be no great fights, no chapter in the history books, no generals to wear the medals.
He still recalled the names, the men who died there, and he’d been adamant about the monument, that the piece of marble would not be some generic statement about location, but would name them, all of them. In all the fights that came after, it had never affected him quite the same way, and he wondered about that, thought, Maybe when I was wounded, I started worrying more about me. But, no, maybe there were simply too many to remember. He thought of his promotions, the larger commands, had always wondered if learning how to lead a large group of men meant learning how to be a better fighter. If my regiment made the good fight here, and my brigade made a good fight at Petersburg … yes, then that’s probably true. If the war had gone on, they might have offered me a division, and sooner or later I could have had Griffin’s job.…
He did not like thinking of Griffin. If he missed the men in his command, Griffin was the only one above him who left a painful hole. Griffin had not lived long after the war, had gone to Texas, where he was killed by yellow fever. Texas was a long way from Maine, but Griffin’s attachment to Chamberlain was stronger than Chamberlain himself understood. The package came one day in 1867, the dying man’s request, and Chamberlain was astonished to receive Griffin’s hat, and the sword, the same sword Chamberlain had given him at Five Forks. Of all the artifacts of war, it was the most cherished possession Chamberlain had.
He thought of their last meeting, Griffin’s disappointment that Chamberlain would not stay in the army, would not accept a peacetime command. He had tried to tell Griffin, “I’m not a soldier,” and Griffin actually shouted at him with raw frustration, told him, “You are the finest soldier I have ever known.” It was a compliment that meant more to him than he would have expected, because somewhere, deep inside himself, he knew it was the goal, the reason he’d gone into the army in the first place. There was nothing he’d ever done that mattered as much as that, as leading men into the guns. Picturing his father, he thought, Yes, you were right after all. You knew it from the beginning. I should have gone to West Point.
He had thought o
He had always believed in the Divine Light, the lesson from his devout mother, that all men held a piece of God somewhere inside, that always, given the chance, that small piece of goodness would prevail. Even after the war, when the country was exhausted, the great wounds still open and bleeding, he had expected the kinder instincts to prevail. But the cruelty, the inhumanity, did not stop with the great fight. He could still see the Irishman’s face even after fifty years, the cynical disgust, Buster Kilrain’s bitter words, Where have you seen the divine spark in action? Perhaps, Buster, it just takes … time.
For a long time he had believed, hoped, that surely mankind would learn from that war, would carry the lesson into the future. Our war was different, after all, he thought. Something new, something besides the amazing bloodshed, the horrible efficiency of the weapons. This time, there were pictures. If the lesson had never been learned by hearing the stories, or by studying numbers, or even walking among the small white gravestones, this time we could gaze at great thick books, awful collections of photographs. If we start to forget, then look, see it, the blood, broken pieces of men, the horrible things we can do to each other. That should be enough.