The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure by Michael Shaara
“Gentlemen, another toast, to our hostess.” “Yes! Hear! Hear!”
Mira had finished her work, had let the empty platters and used glasses gather in the kitchen. Her only distraction now was the children, and she slipped away, back to their room, checking, astonished at the soundness of their sleep, what with the noise from the front of the house. She watched the angelic faces, thought, We will pay for this in the morning, probably very early in the morning.
She went back to the front room, saw the door opened, men saluting with a drunken stagger, laughing and good humor, and the party grew smaller, then smaller again.
There had been piano playing earlier, lively songs and bad singing, and Mira had been right, the men had taken over, some reminiscing about old drinking halls and indiscreet women, brought to life again with poor examples of musical skill.
There were only a few remaining. Johnston sat in the corner, propped up by a firm grip on an empty wineglass, nodding peacefully to the conversation of the others, betrayed only when he could not rise to salute departing guests.
Hancock was closing the door, moved toward the wine bottle, and now Mira saw Armistead across the room, watching him. They had not spoken, had not been together all night, and she knew it would come, that it was too close, too deep to share with the others. Then she remembered, turned quickly and went back to the kitchen. She reached behind the cloth curtain of a high cupboard, brought out a straw basket, white linen, a soft cradle for the batch of cookies. She carried them gently, moved back toward the party, and Armistead was waiting for her.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
“You knew I made these?”
“I smelled them the minute I entered the house. You live around soldiers as long as I have, the smell of anything else is a piece of heaven.” She pulled back the flap of linen, and he reached in,
grabbed one, stuffed it in his mouth, then grabbed a handful, counted the remainder.
“Hmm, there’s . . . six more. Two for Win, two for you . . .” He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one else worthy. “I guess the last two are for me.” He reached for a cloth napkin, wrapped his treasure gently, pulled a small parcel from his coat pocket, making room for the feast. He held the parcel up, stared at it, said slowly, serious now, “My dear Mrs. Hancock, I have something for you. I would be honored if you would be the caretaker of this. . . .” He handed her the parcel, wrapped in layers of white tissue, tied with a small string. “There are some things I wish you to keep. Please . . . would you see to it that this be given to my family . . . in the event I do not survive this war?”
“Certainly, Lewis.” She took the parcel, looked at him, thought, He is not drunk. She had watched him sip from a single glass of wine for over an hour.
“Lewis . . . when are you two going to talk?”
“My dear Mrs. Hancock, would you do us the honor of playing some more? This party seems to have dwindled a tad.” He exaggerated the soft drawl, and she nodded, knew not to push. She looked across the room at her husband, who stood over Johnston, a meaningless conversation so that he did not have to face Armistead.
She moved to the piano, gathered in her dress, sat on the small bench and looked up at Armistead. “What would you like to hear?”
“Something quiet . . .” He looked over at Hancock. “Something . . . appropriate.”
She thought, flipped through the music books that had come with the piano, came to one book, thin and coverless, and the book fell open at her touch. She saw the title, “Kathleen Malvourneen,” and softly touched the keys, began to sing quietly. She did not want to interrupt the others, the conversations. Suddenly, the room was quiet, her voice calling them together:
“Kathleen Malvourneen, the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,
Kathleen Malvourneen, what? Slumb’ring still?
Kathleen Malvourneen, what? Slumb’ring still.
Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years, and it may be forever;
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
It may be for years and it may be forever;
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Malvourneen. . . .”
Hancock moved close to her, stood by her side, and he looked at Armistead, the tanned, rugged face, and saw that Armistead was crying, staring down at the piano, at Mira’s soft hands on the keys. Hancock moved around behind her, put a hand on Armistead’s shoulder, and Armistead looked up. Hancock saw the pain, saw him shake slightly. Armistead fell forward, put his head on Hancock’s chest, and Hancock wrapped his arms around his friend, felt his own tears, could not ignore it any longer, knew this would be the last time.
Mira played the song again, did not sing, felt them standing behind her, heard the soft sounds, and after a minute Armistead took a deep breath, composed himself and stood back, keeping his hand on Hancock’s shoulder.
“I must do what I am meant to do. I hope you will never know . . . you will never feel what this has cost me. If I ever . . . raise my hand . . . against you . . . may God strike me dead.” He looked down, saw Mira’s upturned face, the soft eyes, said again, “May God strike me dead.”
HE RODE hard, spurred the black mule deep in its haunches, leaned forward as the animal strained its way up the steep hills, the rocky ground. Behind him was the town, the tile roofs of Los Angeles, smaller now and far below. He rode up higher, along any trail that led up, any trail the mule could climb. He reached a long crest, could see the other side now, to the east, the wide, flat desert, and he stopped, felt the mule breathing under him, gasping for thin air.
He climbed down from the tired animal, felt better now, relaxed, his anger drained by the long climb. He looked around, was not sure exactly where he was, looked back to the west, over the town, could see the coastline, the distant islands off the coast, and he thought, My God, this is a beautiful spot.
He climbed a big rock, pulled himself up with his hands, found a flat place on top and sat down. It was cooler now, he was far above the choking heat of the summer sun. He looked at the mule, grateful, and the mule seemed refreshed as well, began to poke its nose around the rocks, looking for anything green.
He turned back to the east again, to the dull flatness, thought of the Indians, the only people out there, wondered how far you would have to go to see a white man. But you would not go, because before the Indians would bother you, the desert itself would take you, bake you in suffocating heat. He turned slightly, could see more to the south, long rows of mountains fading, smooth and round, not like the stark roughness he had seen in Wyoming, in Utah. He gazed over the smaller peaks, toward the far trails that had carried some of them back East, the long routes through Arizona and Texas where the new soldiers of the South would be welcomed to the new war.
He reached into his coat, pulled the envelope from his pocket, opened it again, held the letter up to the sunlight behind him, read it again, calmer this time, no surprises.
Captain Winfield S. Hancock, Chief Quartermaster, Department of Southern California.
You are hereby ordered to report to the Quartermaster General, Washington, pursuant to your assignment as Supply Officer, the Department of Kentucky, General Robert Anderson, Commanding.
He read it again, stared at the words “Supply Officer.” He looked up, stared out at the wide, clear space, said aloud, “Damn!”
He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, thought of Mira. She had always been right, always said, “You are too good at your job.” He wondered how many old soldiers, former soldiers, friends of politicians—anyone looking for a place in the new pages of glory—how many had volunteered to be supply officers? And worse, Hancock knew that without good supply officers, the army would not function, and so, of course, that was where they would send him. But it was not wh
He thought of Mexico, of his long fight to be sent there. He had been assigned as a recruitment officer, to sign up new volunteers for the war, and he was too good at that as well, made himself indispensable. Finally, after long months of tormenting his superiors, he had been assigned to the Sixth, and had accompanied some of his recruits south to join Scott’s army. He’d been in the good fight too, the key battles around Mexico City, had led infantry into stupid assaults, ordered by bad generals who did not understand that you did not push your outnumbered troops straight into fortified positions, and so many had died. Hancock had brought that home with him, would always know what it was like, out there, in front of the lines. And so it was difficult to live with the peace, more difficult than he could ever admit to Mira. He tried not to see Armistead’s face—he was gone, probably in Virginia by now—but Hancock knew: Armistead would fight, it was all he was, and unless Washington noticed him in the great crowd of the growing army, Hancock would have to settle for being a supply officer.
He stood up, high on the perch, felt a sudden breeze, balanced himself, could see down, through a small canyon, sharp, steep rocks. Steady, he thought. No need to end up down there. He eased himself down from the big rock. The mule was ignoring him, had found a small patch of coarse grass, tugged at it noisily, and Hancock put his hand on the animal’s back, looked back to the town, thought, I suppose we will miss it here, the weather, good friends. But I have never been in one place for long, that’s just not the way the army works.
He climbed up on the mule, which raised its head and turned to look at him. Hancock saw something that looked like annoyance, and he laughed, patted the animal’s neck, said aloud, “Yes, my friend, you have your duty as well. Now, I would appreciate it if you would remove us from this big damned hill without any major injury. Then you may carry me home. I have to tell my wife we’re leaving.”
15. LEE
July 21, 1861
LIEUTENANT TAYLOR moved with noisy haste, bounded up the stairs to the old office building, his boots echoing in heavy steps down the wide hallway to Lee’s office. Lee heard him coming, looked up from his writing to see the young man stumble around the corner, supporting himself against the doorway, gasping for breath.
“Lieutenant, are you all right?”
“Sir . . . the War Department . . . it’s an attack . . .”
“Slowly, Lieutenant. There’s been an attack on the War Department?”
“No, sir . . .” Taylor panted, then adjusted himself, took a long, deep breath. “Sir, I was just at the War Department, delivering the dispatches as you requested. There is a great deal of . . . activity there. I stayed as close as I could, and heard the staff relaying messages from General Beauregard. It seems, sir, that he is being attacked. I heard them talking about General McDowell moving against our forces at Manassas Gap, sir. Beauregard . . . that is, General Beauregard, is calling urgently for reinforcements from General Johnston.”
Lee stared at the young man, who was still trying to catch his breath.
Lee knew the attack made sense, the Manassas Gap Railroad was a key strategic position below the Potomac. McDowell’s Federal forces had stayed to the north far longer than Lee had expected, and he assumed that the same political pressure that the Confederate Army had endured, the wild calls for mindless attack, had been just as loud in Washington, and so McDowell’s forces finally were moving southward.
Joe Johnston had withdrawn out of Harper’s Ferry, south to Winchester, protecting the Shenandoah Valley, but now it was apparent that McDowell had focused closer to Richmond, on Manassas, and so Johnston would be called to move in next to Beauregard.
Lee thought it through, glanced up at the map on his wall, the markings of troop placements. If McDowell’s troops pushed through the Confederate line, there would be little to stop the Federals from marching straight into Richmond. Lee stood, closer to the map, went over the defensive lines again, thought, We are in place, we have the ground. Now we will find out if we have an army.
Taylor watched Lee, knew when to be quiet. Finally, Lee turned to him, said, “I suggest we make our way over to the President’s office.”
“Yes, sir, right behind you, sir.”
Lee led the young man through the hall, down the steps, and immediately there was a sense of action. The street was alive, everyone was in a hurry. He moved quickly, felt the energy, began to run now, a bouncing step up into the administration building. Taylor stayed close behind, marveled at Lee’s enthusiasm, smiled a wide grin, felt, finally, this was what it was about, the real duty of a soldier.
Lee approached the wide doors of Davis’s office, saw couriers, a steady flow of men moving from the office, new orders and fresh legs, and finally made his way through the noise and activity. Davis was standing tall above the others, and Lee waited, thought, Wait for the right moment.
Then Davis saw him, his eyes fierce, flashing, and he shouted above the others, “General Lee, we are in a fight!” Lee moved closer, and the office began to clear out, quieter, and Davis said, “I’m heading up to the front, to Manassas. I can’t just . . . sit here. I have a train leaving immediately.”
Lee waited, felt the intensity, knew Davis shared his anxieties, which most of the others did not feel—that they were an unorganized, untested force, and that one great battle could decide the issue; the entire rebellion could end here.
Lee felt a strange urge, suddenly held out his hand, a warm gesture, affection for a man who did not show affection. Davis took the hand, political reflex, did not look at Lee, passed by him, hurried out. Lee turned to Taylor, saw a puzzled look, and then they both knew what was happening, that Davis was gone.
Lee moved out, past Taylor, into the outer office, and saw the last of Davis’s staff close the broad door.
“Sir, we must . . . we can’t stay here.”
“Lieutenant, it is clear that this is our post. Our duty is in Richmond.”
“But, sir, there is an attack. . . .”
“We have good men in command, Lieutenant. It is their battle now.”
Lee felt the energy drain from his body, the familiar hollowness. Do not focus on this, he thought. This was, after all, not the issue. He walked outside, saw wagons and horses moving, streams of people, all moving toward the trains, all rushing to the great battle.
“Sir, with your permission.”
Lee turned to Taylor, saw the youth, the wounded look, knew he had to go, to be a part. He nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant, you are authorized to join in the fight. Find an infantry unit, give the commander my compliments. They will find a place for you.”
“Sir!” Taylor saluted, made a high yelp, turned and ran toward the depot. Lee watched him, all long legs and wild leaps, and he turned toward his office and walked across the wide street, against the flow of people rushing out from his building.
THERE WAS a deathly silence. Lee stood at his window, above the empty street, felt amazingly alone. The city seemed abandoned. He had spent the day in feeble attempts at work, could not sit, went to the window every few minutes, and when there was nothing to see, would return to his desk and try again to attack the papers.
He stood back from the window, went, again, to the map, considered the lines, his lines, the defensive design he had put into place, now being commanded by others, others who would receive the credit if the positions were good, if he had chosen the right ground. No, he would not think of that. It does not matter who does the duty, he thought, if the duty is done. I am here because God wants me here, I will serve in other ways. He repeated that, had repeated it all day, trying to ease his feelings, the sense that he was out of place.
The long day began to dim, and he watched the sunset all the way to the darkness, and still there had been no news. He realized for the first time that there were people still, downstairs, in some of the other offices, but no one brought him any information. They probably did not know he was there. Hungry, he decided to go back to the Spottswo
Spotting a uniform, a young bearded man covered in dirt, he asked, “Soldier, do you bring news of the battle?”
The man looked exhausted, regarded Lee with wild joy. “We whipped ’em, we whipped ’em good. They’s a-runnin’ back to Washington, hee hee.”
Lee put his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Please, can you be more detailed?”
Lee felt the man squirm, itching to get away, to join the growing celebration in the street around them, but he stilled under Lee’s grasp.
“Yes, sir. It was General Jackson. Saved the day, he did. Drove them bluebellies all the way back to Washington! They’s sayin’ he stood his men up like a stone wall!” The man slipped away, a quick turn and Lee could not hold him. He let the man go, but he could not celebrate, had to know more than rumors.
He left the street, went back up to his office. Through the window he could see wagons now, crowds of people returning from the battle. He heard another train whistle, knew this would go on all night, and he would have to wait till tomorrow to find out the details. He sat back in his chair, stared at a dark ceiling, thought of the lone soldier, his only piece of news, and kept hearing the words: General Jackson saved the day.
THE FEDERAL forces had fled from the first major battle of the war in a complete panic. The troops under Beauregard and Johnston did not pursue, ordered into inactivity by generals who did not understand how completely they had won the day. The lack of action now spread over the armies like a thick blanket. Thousands of spectators had lined the edges of the battlefield at Manassas, only to view incredible horrors that none had anticipated. After the battle both sides seemed infected with a gloom, a sense that this was now very real, the abstract political rhetoric replaced with the clear, sickening knowledge that many men were going to die.