Alternate Generals (25 page)

"It is cold out here," Isie said.

Smuts was silent. Over and over he had surprised his doctors by emerging from his comas, appearing to regain some strength, and slipping away again. He felt bad about deceiving Isie, especially with the end so near, but she would have thought that he had gone mad had he told her the truth.

"Bring me a blanket and leave me here a little longer," he said. "Please."

"A few minutes only, Jannie," she said. "I will bring you back outside tomorrow."

I don't think so, Smuts thought, breathing in the jacaranda blossoms one last time. Then he closed his eyes, this time not to bid his past come to him but to pray that this final journey into his past would bring him the answer he sought—

Smuts stood on the campus of the University College of Fort Hare, founded by Scottish missionaries on the site of the largest 19th Century frontier fort in the eastern Cape. The fort was, short of the site of the University of Cape Town which fronted Kirstenbosch Gardens and lay on the lower slopes of Table Mountain, the most beautiful site he had ever seen for a place of higher learning.

It was also a perfect site for its originally intended purpose: military defense.

Built on a rocky platform, moated by the winding arc of the Tyume River, Fort Hare had provided the perfect battleground for the British in their fight against Sandile, the Xosa warrior. Sandile was the last Rharhabe king defeated by them in one of the final frontier battles in the 1800s.

Now, the only battle taking place was that of the faculty in its mission to educate the school's one hundred and fifty students. As part of that purpose, they had invited Smuts, once Prime Minister and now Deputy Prime Minister of South Africa and an avowed believer in the right to existence of all men, to speak at the graduation ceremonies.

Smuts thought about the speech he planned to give. What was most on his mind was his campaign for South Africa to declare war on Germany, against the advocacy of the Broederbond who were firmly on the side of National Socialism and of the country's current Prime Minister, Herzog, who at best advocated neutrality. Should he, Smuts, win, Herzog would be forced to resign and Smuts would once again become Prime Minister.

The students gathered and waited respectfully for their honorable guest to mount the podium and begin his speech. As he stood before them, most of them applauded enthusiastically. He held up his hand for silence.

"Thank you for honoring me with this invitation," he began.

In the far reaches of his mind, the Modjadji's words intruded upon his concentration: "
You will find one task which remains undone, for it had to wait until you could whisper in light of the wisdom you have gathered
."

With infinite weariness, he felt the presence of the day-witch guiding Death closer. Help me, Modjadji, he pleaded silently. What is it I am to do?

"
Speak again as you did the first time and while you do, look for the man who is called Mandela. When you are done, follow him. Talk to him, and your work will be done
."

Trusting that he would somehow be led to the one called Mandela, Smuts gave his speech. When it was over, he searched the faces of the students.

"
He is of the land
," the Rain-Queen said, taking pity on Smuts. "
Find the place which gives you peace and you will find Mandela
."

Slipping away from the post-graduation party on the pretext of needing a breath of air, Smuts made his way to the University's farmlands which lay behind the fort. He was guided by the light of a small fire and by the unmistakable sweet odor of roasting corn toward a small group of students who stood as he approached.

"Which one of you might be Mr. Mandela?" he asked.

A tall, handsome young man stepped forward. "I am Nelson Mandela, sir. It is an honor to meet you."

"Could we walk and talk?" Smuts asked, knowing suddenly what it was he must say.

"Will you not sit here with us?" Mandela asked.

"What I have to say is for your ears only," Smuts said.

Hearing this, the others said their farewells. When they were out of earshot, Smuts sat down upon a log that had been pulled up to the fire. He accepted a
mielie
and crunched into the sweet golden ear of corn. When he was done, he threw the husk into the fire.

"You will forget that we had this conversation," he said, "but you will never forget its intent. To you, the whole future is a tabula rasa; to me, the next already written in concrete. I will become Prime Minister again and we will fight against the Germans in North Africa. Six years from now, I will be forced to pass the Asiatic Land Tenure Act, restricting the free movement of Indians, and you will feel betrayed. You will become involved in, obsessed by, finding the road to freedom for yourself and your people. There will be many times when you think your cause helpless, times when you will be tempted to give up. Men like John Vorster will take over the government and they will laugh at Jan Christian Smuts for having made the blunder of not hanging them all for treason when he had the chance.

"You must not let them win, Nelson Mandela, for upon your shoulders rests the destiny of our country—"

Surprised and happy to find himself alive this Monday morning, Smuts asked twice to be driven into the countryside, and was. Though the car was not as comfortable as the big Vauxhall he had used in the old days, it was, he thought, a reasonable mode of locomotion now that he could no longer take his long walks alone.

That night, he took his place at the head of the table and ate dinner with an appetite such as he had not felt for some time. Around seven o'clock, he asked his two daughters to accompany him to his room and help him remove his boots.

Feeling suddenly that life was good, he recalled one of his favorite Shakespearean quotes: "Be absolute for death; for either death or life shall be the sweeter." Then he felt himself losing consciousness. One of his daughters was a physician; he knew she would do all she could to no avail. A clot had wedged in his brain.

The day-witch's job was done. And so, at long last, was his.

Brigadier General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, CSA, flinched involuntarily as a shell flickered overhead, airbursting over an artillery limber wagon. Above the thunder of the cannonade the screams of the wounded horses, cut down by the burst, tore into his heart. He spared a quick glance back over his shoulder, watching as a gunner walked down the line of thrashing animals with revolver drawn, and put the bests out of their misery.

Damn war. Loved working artillery but what happened to the horses always bothered me.

"General Chamberlain, are you still with me?"

"Sir?"

He looked back into the cold dark eyes of James Longstreet, "Old Pete," they called him.
Funny, never did know how he got that name. Grand army for nicknames . . . Grumble Jones, Gallant Ashby, and of course Stonewall. Thomas never cared for that one, but still better than Fool Tom, what the boys back at VMI called him. Yankee Josh, that was my name at VMI
, he thought with an inward smile,
professor of rhetoric, philosophy and history with my best friend Thomas Jackson just down the hallway, teaching tactics and artillery.

Ah, the wonderful days then
, he thought wistfully.
Seemed to spend more time on the VMI drillfield than in the classroom . . . watching Tom drill his boys with the guns, and the battery practice firing, now that was a delight. Never thought we'd see the day when it would be real shot and canister shrieking down range, tearing into boys who were fellow Americans.

Then it was more of a game, my playing soldier like my friend Thomas with battery practice, followed by a supper in the basement of the Presbyterian Church and prayer service together afterwards. Jack—a veteran of Mexico—always seemed to have that cold fire in his eyes when the guns fired; for me, it was make believe. Make believe until Manassas when the boys poured double canister into a Wisconsin regiment at fifty paces. God, how could we?

"General, I do hope you are paying attention."

Joshua forced his thoughts to stay focused on Pete.

"Sorry, sir, the heat, just the heat," Joshua offered.

Pete nodded.

"Joshua, if you don't feel up to this . . ." Joshua looked over at his division commander, John Bell Hood. He knew that Hood was not really happy about Joshua's assignment to command a brigade in his division. The assignment to brigade command had been Jackson's doing, a request for Joshua's promotion made on his death bed, a request the Old Man, Robert E. Lee, felt honor bound to fulfill. For after all, in the hours of turmoil after Jackson went down at Chancellorsville it was Colonel Joshua Chamberlain, Stonewall's adjutant, who briefly commanded Jackson's entire corps, pushing the attack in until Stuart came up to take over.

Joshua flinched involuntarily at the flash memory of Jackson lying in the road. Joshua looked down at his uniform, flecks of dried blood still staining the arms where he had flung himself over his fallen comrade to protect him after he had fallen. The new stars of a brigadier were on his collar, and he wanted to reach up to touch them but knew that would be too self-conscious an act.

His new brigade had been McIver Law's command, a friend of Hood's, but Law was down with typhoid when the Army of Northern Virginia started its move north and Joshua was slotted in to fill his place. Jackson had trusted him. After all they had been friends for years; it was Joshua who had led Jackson to the Lord and they had prayed together nightly through two long years of war.
But Jackson was gone and I'm the only northern-born man in this army in command of a brigade.
Now, he realized, was the moment of challenge, to prove that he could fight and was not just a favored staff officer who had won position through the dying wish of the legendary and eccentric Jackson.

Joshua stiffened when he realized that Longstreet was staring at him appraisingly. He knew the Hood had been pushing for Joshua to be shunted off to Corps staff, regardless of Jackson's dying wish, and his illness of the last few days might be the excuse.

"Just a touch of sunstroke on the march up here, sir," Joshua added hurriedly. "Never could get used to the sun," and his voice trailed off.

Were they still wondering? Even after two years of hard service he knew he was an outsider, sensing that more than one silently asked why he's in their uniform rather than the blue which waits for them on the other side.

Maine, how I do miss Maine. Guess after all this I'll never be able to go back there again. No, not after this. Funny how fate turns.
A professorship at Bowdoin was offered but then came the one from VMI which also provided two hundred a year more.
Mother wanted me for the ministry but the fantasy of war, or at least playing at war, was the lure of taking the professorship at the West Point of the South. After those years at VMI how could I go any other way but to throw myself in with the boys I had taught? Slavery aside, Virginia was my home. Like Lee, I could not raise my sword against my adopted state. Then of course there was Jackson, how could I ever bring myself to fight against him? Stood as godfather to his daughter, formed a prayer group with him and so many nights discussing the bible and, of course, the power of artillery.

"General, you know your orders. Now the question is, can you take that hill? This is not an artillery battle, it's a straight-in infantry charge."

Pete looked at him closely, ignoring the nearby burst of a shell that sprayed them with dirt.

"Sir, if any brigade will carry that rocky hill it will be my unit," Joshua snapped as he pointed across the smoke-clad fields to the dark hill rising three quarters of a mile away.

Directly ahead, out in front of the Peach Orchard, Barksdales's Mississippians were going in, a thunderous crescendo of rifle fire greeting their advance.

Longstreet, nose quivering as if smelling the battle, turned away from Chamberlain. Hood, Chamberlain's division commander, looked over at Joshua imploringly, nodding for him to press the argument one more time.

"General Longstreet, sir."

Longstreet looked back, distracted.

"Sir. My brigade forms the rights of this assault. Sir, I implore you, let me maneuver my brigade around that large hill." As he spoke Joshua pointed to the larger cone-shaped hill to the south of the rocky escarpment. "Just thirty minutes more, sir, and we can be on their flank."

Longstreet shook his head angrily.

"Damn all, Chamberlain. Lee himself ordered this attack
en echelon
against their left, not a full maneuver against the flank. There is no time to wait!" With a wave of his gauntlet-clad hand he pointed straight at Little Round Top. "There is your objective, sir, now go and take it!"

Joshua looked over at Hood who lowered his eyes. Drawing himself up in his saddle, Joshua saluted.

"As you order, sir."

Longstreet, without another word, spurred his mount forward. Though ordered by Lee to stay to the rear, the fury of battle was upon him and he rode in the ranks of Barksdale's advance which was swarming up towards the Peach Orchard. Hat off, he urged the men forward and disappeared into the smoke.

"Old Pete, there he goes," Hood sighed, shaking his head, "hope he doesn't get himself killed. Can't lose him now, especially with Jackson gone."

Joshua nodded, saying nothing. That was still too close.
My best friend gone from this side forever. Crossing the river . . . Will I cross as well before this day is done?
he wondered, raising his field glasses to scan the hill one more time.
Still no troops up there. Can't count on that now, we've sprung the attack, should have waited to flank.

What would old Thomas say about this?
Joshua wondered.

"Two book learning professors," Jackson had called us, "the philosopher and the gunner."