He rode toward his camp, thought of the railroad, the shipments moving south from Washington, supplying Meade’s army. He felt a black anger, gripped the reins tightly, did not hear the men he passed, the bright salutes, the small cheers. He did not look at them because he knew he’d see gaunt faces, rags, bare feet. From the south, the railcars did not bring the supplies that Meade received so easily from the great factories and farms of the North. The supplies were simply not there to send, the farms depleted, the citizens of the small towns and the larger cities, choked by the naval blockade, fighting their own war of survival.
Always when he moved north, he repaired the railroads as he went, fixing what a retreating Federal army had destroyed. But now, instead of repairing the damage, Lee was creating it, destroying the tracks himself. He did not share the enthusiasm for the job that his men had shown. They did not understand, not yet, that the war had changed. The defeat at Gettysburg had cost them too much, and there would be no more invasions north. With Meade in pursuit, even a hesitant pursuit, Lee knew he could not simply make a stand or drive forward into the enemy. He had to rely on maneuver now, draw Meade into a vulnerable place, allow Meade to make a careless mistake. The only way to do that was to bring Meade south with them.
It was nearly dark, and he saw his campfire, saw Taylor signing a paper, handing it to a courier. The man moved away quickly, efficiently, and Lee climbed down from the horse, handed the reins to an orderly, moved to the fire.
There were other men waiting to see Taylor, the daily routine of the headquarters, but when they saw Lee, staring quietly, alone, into the fire, they did not approach. He watched the flames, heard nothing but the soft sound of the burning wood, did not hear Taylor send aides toward the soldiers, telling them: later. Taylor moved into the firelight, and Lee looked into the boyish face, saw the major’s uniform, knew Taylor would not be self-conscious; the promotion had just been announced, and the new coat would be slow in coming, the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel.
Lee said, “Colonel, we have destroyed our own railroad.”
Taylor nodded, said quietly, “Yes, sir.”
Lee looked back into the fire. “We are backing away from an enemy we could have beaten. We must wait for him to come to us. We do not have the means … to press the attack. The men … we are not providing for the men.”
“Sir, it is a disgrace. Richmond must be made to understand.…”
Lee saw the anger in Taylor’s face, knew that his aide shared his frustrations. He is so young, Lee thought. He does not understand … you must find the control, you must not let the darker emotions surface. Lee raised his hand in a calming gesture. “No, Colonel. Richmond cannot help us. It has been clear for some time … we must do with what we have. The president has assured me that all that can be done is being done. But the men do not receive shoes, the rations are disgraceful. I have begun to fear … it seems there is treachery. Someone in the quartermaster’s office does not want us to prevail.” He paused, thought, No, I should not … we must not be a party to rumor.
Taylor was watching him, wide-eyed, and Lee said, “Colonel, this is in confidence … do not speak of this to anyone. I must depend on you, as my chief of staff. You must understand the importance in not allowing the business of this army to reach beyond this headquarters. It seems that principle is not being followed elsewhere. There are those in the government who find it necessary to discuss our strategy with the newspapers. I have learned more about our troop movements in Tennessee from the Richmond papers than I have from the president.” He looked up, above the fire, toward the shadows, men moving through the camp. Taylor said nothing, still watched him. Lee now looked at the young man, and Taylor stood upright, a reflex to Lee’s quiet anger.
Lee said, “Colonel, from this point on I must examine any dispatch that goes to Richmond. We will have to be more … discreet about what we tell the president, the secretary of war. And, especially, the quartermaster general.” Taylor nodded slowly, absorbing Lee’s words, and there was a silence. Lee thought, He is so young … he may not understand the importance …
He suddenly felt the absence of Longstreet. Lee could talk about any subject, the politics of Richmond, the dark troubling doubts, and Longstreet would always listen, patient, watching him with sad dark eyes. Then Longstreet would always offer something of his own, might even make an argument, but always respectful, only enough to make a point. Lee knew that lately, since Gettysburg, the disagreements between them had been deeper, less was said face-to-face, that Longstreet’s dark moods had taken him further away. With Longstreet now in Tennessee, Lee did not think on that, on the disagreements, the controversies about Longstreet’s sluggishness. Lee had seen the newspapers, knew that many were now blaming Longstreet for the defeat at Gettysburg, but Lee would not hear that, would not support anyone who spoke out, offered an indiscreet opinion. That kind of talk was not good for the army, and he knew that Longstreet was still his best soldier, the man he would have to depend on as the war went on. The bloody fields at Bristoe Station, the image of Hill’s careless attack, had driven deep into Lee. He knew he would have to rely on Longstreet more than ever now, that even if Longstreet moved a bit slower than Hill might, he would not make that kind of mistake.
Lee did not know when Longstreet might return. In Tennessee, Longstreet had taken his men into the fight with as much fury and skill as the fight had needed, had driven the Federals hard at Chickamauga. But now Longstreet was under the command of Braxton Bragg, and Lee had heard only bad reports from that command, disgruntled officers, an angry Longstreet most of all.
Bragg’s only support came from the president, and so when calls began to flow in from the field for Bragg’s replacement, incredible reports of incompetence and friction with his commanders, nothing changed, because Davis would not remove a man he liked. Lee thought, How can Bragg … manage? What must that be like, the constant grumbling in headquarters, intrigue and protests? How can any man run an army if he does not have the respect … if he is so far removed from his command? Good fighting generals did not have to be popular generals, but it was clear now from the reports, from Longstreet’s own letters to Lee, that Bragg was neither.
Taylor was still watching him, was shifting back and forth with idle energy. There is none of that here, Lee thought, the harsh words, the jealousies of great egos. And I have this young man …
Walter Taylor was the most valuable officer Lee had, a fiercely loyal and protective chief of staff who alone could do what Lee did not have the strength to do. Lee’s staff, among the very best, had always been small. There were many who had sought the prestigious positions, but they learned they could not bear the strain, the quantity of work nearly impossible. Taylor never complained, was clearly in charge, was always where Lee needed him to be.
Taylor was still moving, rubbed his hands together, seemed nervous. Lee knew the young man had something to say, that it would come out in a burst of indiscretion, the impatience of youth.
“Sir! Surely they must know the harm … we must make them understand. If the quartermaster … if General Northrop is responsible, sir … we must do something!”
Lee thought, Do something? Do … what? He’d grown weary of asking, of explaining the army’s great needs, of calling for new troops. As each request went south, he had only felt a greater sadness. Richmond could not even send them shoes.
“What we will do, Colonel, is limit the flow of information, limit the correspondence. We will reveal what is necessary to reveal, and nothing more.”
“I understand, sir. We will limit the correspondence. It is … most regrettable, sir.”
Lee took a long breath, stared deep into the fire, felt the heat now, felt it move through him, ball up in a tightness in his chest, a dull hard pain.
“Yes, Colonel. It is most regrettable.”
6. LEE
DECEMBER 1863
HE WAS CLOSE TO RICHMOND NOW, COULD SEE PEOPLE ALONG THE dirt roads, wagons moving slowly
, some stopping briefly to watch the train. They were used to the trains now, but a few spotted him, saw the white hair and the uniform, the old familiar face gazing at them through the window, and they would wave. A few hats would go up, cheers and shouts, and later they would tell their friends that he’d been there, that they had seen him with their own eyes.
He did not respond, saw patches of snow, the mud on the roads, thought now about the winter, and the men with bare feet.
There had been one more push from Meade. Once more he’d come south, across the river, crossing at a place where Lee had made preparations. Lee had thought the place defended, but the defense did not work. Meade moved quickly and with power, surprised Lee’s troops, moved across the bridge that should have been protected. It was another mistake.
Lee pulled back to the west then, beyond the edge of the Wilderness, the place where Jackson had nearly destroyed the Federal army that past spring. Lee did not think of those days, of missed opportunities, of the pain of that night, when the courier brought him the news, the unbearable image of Jackson falling from his saddle, shot down by his own men. Lee had learned that in this war there were many strokes of what some called luck, but he did not believe that, thought: God has His reasons, and sometimes the tide turns against you, but there will be a balance. If we were victorious that day, we would pay a price another day. He saw Jackson’s face again, the sharp blue eyes, and he could not help it, thought, Why? Was it necessary to take him? He had asked that question often, prayed long for an answer, for some understanding, but it had not come.
Now when Meade pushed toward him, Lee ordered them to put up defenses through the deep woods, a place called Mine Run, and the dirt had flown and trees were felled. It was a great change from the earliest days of the war. When he’d first suggested the digging of trenches around Richmond, he received hoots of derision in the newspapers, was called “Granny Lee,” or the “Queen of Spades.” Wars should be fought by men standing straight, facing the enemy, and no honor would ever be won by men who hid behind cover. But the soldiers themselves did not care what the papers said. They had seen the horrors, the bloody reality of what that kind of honor could do to the men around them, and they welcomed the trenches. When the order came, every man sought to put his hands on a shovel.
Meade had come up close, but there was only scattered fighting, no great attack. A freezing rain had soaked them all, and for several days the two armies crouched low in the brush. Then word came from Stuart that Meade’s flank was exposed, vulnerable. So it was Lee who made the decisive move, pushed his army quietly around Meade’s flank. But in the dawn, when the orders came to advance, Lee’s troops swept forward and found no one waiting. Meade had pulled away again, a long head start for the protection of the big river, and Lee knew he’d let Meade escape, that Mine Run had been another lost opportunity.
With Meade safely away, Jefferson Davis asked him to come to Richmond, and Lee agreed. He did not like to leave his troops in the field, but there would be no more fighting now; the winter had come hard into Virginia, and the men began to build the huts and shelters that would be their winter quarters. There was another reason Lee agreed to make the trip. Mary was there, the family had rented a small house, and Lee hoped there would be an opportunity to share the Christmas holidays with at least part of his family.
He could see the church spires, the tops of the taller houses, and the train lurched around a curve, rattled on worn tracks. The railroads were in ragged condition, overused, and there was little time or manpower to make repairs. He felt the train slow, saw more buildings and more people. Sitting back, he laid his head against the seat, thought of Mary, of the children, of the tall Christmas trees, those times long ago when he could leave his post and share the warmth of the celebration, of the church services and fireplaces, snowfalls and great feasts. He closed his eyes, felt a hard weariness come over him, and the images began to fade. But he wouldn’t let them go, not yet, still tried to feel the warmth, the soft love of home.
LEE LOOKED AT THE EMPTY WHEELCHAIR, PUSHED INTO THE CORner of the room, facing the wall. Mary would not use it, would still try to get around the small house with the crutch, and he knew not to argue. The arthritis had gotten worse, a slow deterioration that the doctors could not stop, one arm now curled and useless.
Hearing voices, he moved into the small parlor, saw his son Custis helping Mary slowly down onto the couch.
Custis glanced up at him, smiled, said, “There now, here’s Father … perhaps you would prefer if he read to you.”
“No, Custis, please. I love the sound of your voice.” She smiled at the young man, and Lee saw the two of them as one, so much of her in his face, the gentleness.
Lee said, “I see you are in good hands. I thought … maybe some tea.” She looked at him now, and he waited, could not predict how she would respond to him, what her mood would be.
“That would be fine, Robert. Is there anyone else home this morning?”
“No, it’s just us. A bit peaceful this morning.”
Custis said, “Father, sit here on the couch. I’ll get the tea.”
Mary began to protest, raised her hand, but Custis was quickly out of the room, and Lee smiled, knew what his son had done. He moved to the couch, said, “Might I sit? We have not had much time alone.”
She nodded, smiled now, said, “Sit down, Robert. You treat me like I’m your schoolmistress. Is this how you act around your generals?”
There was humor in her voice, something he had not heard in a long time. He sat, gently, stayed apart from her, was always careful about hurting her, knew how frail she’d become, how often the pains came. She turned to face him, and he saw the effort, leaned forward to help, put a hand on her arm.
“Thank you, Robert. It’s all right.”
She looked at him closely, the white hair, the lines around his eyes. He understood the changes, the absence, that when so much time had passed, the effects of the war would show in his face, and it had depressed her. He’d always held the image of her from those times when she was the Belle of Arlington, cared for by her father, spoiled certainly, and it was the memories of youth, before her pains came, that Lee carried with him.
He was the same with the children, saw them as small, scurrying about the old mansion with noisy glee. He had to make himself see them, each of them as they were now, and it was difficult. Annie had died over a year ago, suddenly and without warning, and Lee had never recovered from the shock of that, of the impact of disease. It was a reminder that God was still watching over them, that no matter how much death was brought by the hands of men, the tools of war, God would decide when each would be called away.
His son Rooney was in a Federal prison, captured while recuperating from wounds, hauled away by blue soldiers while his pleading wife looked helplessly on. Robert Jr. was still on the line, manning an artillery battery. The girls would stay away in school or with friends over the holidays, and Lee was sad to hear they would not be home, but he did not speak of it, could not complain of his children’s absence when for most of their lives his own absence had been felt so deeply. Lee heard Custis in the kitchen, heard the rattle of teacups, spoons.
Mary looked away, was gazing toward the small window that faced the street, said, “He is … wonderful to me. It is good that he can be here.”
“I am grateful for that. We are fortunate his position … his duty is here.”
She looked at him, and he knew what was coming. “Have you heard from Rooney? Is there any word?”
He shook his head. “No … they won’t release him. I have tried … it is a difficult situation. He is considered a … prize.”
“Of course. He is a Lee.”
“I will keep at it. There might still be some negotiating, we do have several important prisoners. Perhaps there will be a trade.”
“Charlotte is not taking it well. She is very ill. Even the baths, the springs, have done her no good. To watch him carried off like that … the
cruelty. I am worried about her.”
Lee looked down, did not want to think of his son that way; saw the beaming face, the huge young man, always a bright smile. His eyes followed the dark pattern in the rug, the deep purple of a rose. “I will do what I can.”
There was a silence, and Mary said, “So, where are you off to today?”
“The president … I have been asked to meet with him.”
“The president …” She made a small frown. “Well, we must not allow the president to get lonely. He cannot seem to run this country without a Lee beside him. At least he permitted Custis to have this day at home, to spend some time with his mother.”
There was another rattle of china from the hallway, and Custis entered, carefully holding a tray and teacups. “So, you are talking about me when I’m not in the room?” He set the tray down on the small table, carefully handed a china teacup to his mother.
Lee reached down, stirred at his own cup, said, “Your mother is grateful the president has allowed you to spend some time … with your family.” He paused, knew those words held great irony for Mary, for all of them.
Custis moved toward the window, looked out into the dull gray of the morning, shook his head. “He is … a complicated man.”
Lee waited for more, knew Custis was careful with his words. Lee said, “He carries the weight of this war, the weight of the country on his shoulders. It may be too much for one man.”
Custis began to pace in the small room, and Lee could see a dark anger in the handsome face. “Father, he will not listen … he will not accept any help. He busies himself with trivial details, spends half the day arguing with cabinet people, legislators, even generals, about … personalities. He wants to fill every position, every post, by himself. It is most frustrating. I don’t know what my job is, what it is he expects me to do. He says just … be there.”
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 98