“General Longstreet, you are looking well this morning.”
Longstreet made a short bow, held a short pipe in one hand, smiled briefly. He knew Lee’s moods, had not seen this one for a long while, said only, “General Lee.”
Behind Longstreet, Lee saw the others watching him still, and no one would speak until he’d acknowledged them. He was used to this courtesy now, understood the formality of rank, looked to the tall thin man behind Longstreet who was moving forward gingerly on the wooden leg, stepping awkwardly across the uneven rock.
“General Ewell—”
“Sir!” Ewell snapped to attention, saluted, and Lee returned it.
Then Lee saw a smaller man, the red beard neatly trimmed, the old hat propped slightly askew. “General Hill …” He paused, hesitated to use the words that seemed to come naturally when greeting Hill. “Are you well today, General?”
Hill glanced at Longstreet, who did not look at him, and Lee knew this was a sensitive point, that Hill was aware of the talk in the camps of the other commanders, the longstanding feud with Longstreet never really resolved. Hill’s frequent illnesses had become well-known, and many were saying it was only when the big fight was coming that he would withdraw to his cot. Hill stood straight, said, “Yes, General. I am quite well.”
Lee made small greetings to the others, saw the sour expression of Jubal Early, Ewell’s division commander, an outspoken and unpopular man, and more recently the man who was seen as the true commander of Ewell’s Second Corps, the strength behind the weakening control of Ewell.
Ewell understood that his reputation had diminished. Under Jackson, early in the war, he’d led his division with great fire, had built affection from his men by often putting himself where a commander had no business going, right on the line, moving into the fight beside his men. The bravado had cost him a leg, and with that loss something else had gone out of him as well, something unexpected. After Jackson’s death, when Ewell and Hill were promoted to inherit the divided command, Ewell had seen his first great opportunity at Gettysburg, staring down at him from the top of Cemetery Hill. Lee knew, as did the others, that Ewell had not performed, had stared up at the weak Federal defenses on the hill and done nothing. Even when his commanders had offered to assault the key position on their own responsibility, Ewell held them back, suddenly lost the great fire Jackson had always relied on. More recently, Ewell had married, moved his wife into his headquarters, and, if his strength had seemed to drain away with the loss of the leg, whatever control he still held over his staff now came from his wife. It was an odd and uncomfortable experience for his men to realize that Ewell was no longer in command, that he had served Jackson so well because he was best suited to be under the domination of someone else. With Jackson gone, many in the field knew it was now Early. In camp, the staff knew it was his wife.
Lee walked a few steps toward the north face of the hill, raised his field glasses. Hill moved closer, and Lee could feel him there, silent, trying to absorb something from him. It was painful and obvious that Hill’s confidence was still badly bruised by the disaster at Bristoe Station, and at every opportunity now he seemed to hover close to Lee, seeking … Lee wasn’t sure what, but he felt the neediness, the pull at him. Lee gazed through the glasses, thought, You will have your chance, General. There will be time for amends.
The others raised field glasses as well, an exercise of respect since they had already seen what Lee was now viewing. Across the river, a vast sea of white specks, the tents of Grant’s enormous army, spread out over the bare fields. It had been a familiar scene for weeks now, but there was something new, the reason the corps commanders were here, why they would meet on this tall hill. There was a swarm of activity all through the neat squares of white; slowly the neat checkerboard was distorting, the tents disappearing. Grant was preparing to move.
Lee had read reports, some from the northern papers, some from Stuart, that the Federal army was set to begin its campaign. Ewell’s corps was along the river below them, guarding against a crossing that could bring Grant straight at Lee’s army, but Lee knew it would not be like that, Grant would not expose himself to his army’s strength. Grant had two choices. If he moved out to the left, to the west, and came across the Rapidan upstream, he could threaten to move on the Shenandoah, or cut the rail lines that fed the Confederate army. But that would take Grant far from his own supply lines, from the security of the big rivers in the east. The only other route south would be downstream, at the fords that had been used by Hooker’s army a year ago, Germanna and Ely, the routes that led straight down into the Wilderness.
Lee said nothing, and the others were watching him again, already knew what the activity across the river would mean. Lee turned, gradually scanned the open ground to the northeast, then down across the river and across the thickets and dense growth of the Wilderness. He put the glasses down, stared out, thought, Yes, it will have to happen there. He did not feel an instinct about Grant as he had about so many of the others, but everything he had read, every piece of information he could find, told him that this man would not use trickery and deceit. His army was too large and too cumbersome, and so they would advance by the shortest route, the straight line. The straight line toward Richmond was down through the Wilderness. There were other reasons as well. As Grant moved south, he would be between the Confederate army and Fredericksburg, and at Fredericksburg the good roads and the Rappahannock could still provide a good supply line for the Federal troops. And if they move quickly and get below us, Lee thought, we will have a serious problem.
Lee knew he would not receive help from Davis, that the president was as concerned as he had ever been with administering the army, about promotions and transfers of officers. Davis had even moved his friend Braxton Bragg to Richmond, put the despised Bragg in the only place where those who so disliked him could not have an effect—right beside Davis as his principal adviser. The defenses of Richmond were now manned by troops that belonged to Lee’s army, including what was left of Pickett’s division, the force that had been so decimated at Gettysburg.
More of Lee’s troops were tied up in North Carolina, even though Lee himself had information that the Federals there had already moved north, to reinforce Grant’s forces on the peninsula east of Richmond. Davis’s response to Lee’s warnings about the new threat to Richmond was to create a new military department, with jurisdiction south of the James River. The command of all the territory below Richmond was given to the one man who had repeatedly shown a clear envy of Lee’s prominence and popularity, and so could not be relied on to lend support to Lee’s effort. The job was given to the man whose greatest notoriety came from commanding the firing on Fort Sumter: P. G. T. Beauregard.
Lee still stared out across the Wilderness, did not search for detail, for any landmark, because even from this vantage point, there was none. It was the same dense mass that had swallowed up Joe Hooker’s army, and somewhere in those vast green thickets, along some dim trail, was the spot where Jackson had fallen. Jackson had taken one risk too many, had ridden too far forward on a night when both exhausted armies held tight to their guns, would respond with sudden manic violence to any sound. One sound had been the thundering hoofbeats of Jackson and his staff.
Lee turned his head to the north again, did not look down toward Grant’s army, just out to the open sky, thought, There is no resting place … no sacred ground. We must do it all again, here. If Grant has the numbers, the strength, we have the advantage of knowing the ground, of knowing how that terrible bloody place can paralyze an army, the unseen enemy, the sounds of the fight echoing across the creeks and hollows, no point of reference, no way to know who is in front of you, or beside you … or behind you.
He still said nothing, and they began to move closer to him, expecting him to discuss the plan, what he would ask them to do. He felt a sudden lightness, felt his mind open up, stared out into the clear blue and felt like he could step out, off the hill, away from it all.
He felt drawn by God, that familiar sense that God was close to them. He had felt like this before, at Manassas, when he could see the panorama of Pope’s army swept from the field by his men, and at Fredericksburg, his invincible line destroying the enemy’s continuing assaults. But there was also the last day at Gettysburg, when he sat on the big horse and watched his men march in those beautiful strong lines across that wide field, moving ever closer to that one clump of trees, a mile of wide-open glory, and he’d felt God beside him as he waved them forward through the smoke and brilliant flashes of light, and waited for the smoke to clear knowing they were up and over the Federal lines. But when the smoke cleared it was not like that at all, and those who had survived came slowly back across the field, shattered and beaten, and God was not beside him.
He felt a sudden shock, blinked hard, sensed the men around him again. He felt his breath choke in his throat and put his hand on his chest, focused, brought himself back to this place. He turned, saw Longstreet beside him, watching him, concern in the blue eyes. But Longstreet said nothing. Lee thought, He does not believe God was with us that day. They were his men, and he did not want them to go. But I believed they would prevail, they could do anything. It had to be something in us … in our will. We cannot lose that, it is what God wants from us. We must not lose faith. Grant is just another test. God is watching us to see if the will is still there. It is still there.
He took another deep breath, said, “General, you know this man. Will he do what we suppose him to do?”
Longstreet took the pipe from his mouth, seemed surprised at the question. “Grant? Well, yes, I don’t believe Sam Grant is a very complicated man.” Longstreet stared out toward the north, thought for a moment, said, “I believe there is one thing we may depend on. Once he begins to move, once he is in front of us, we had better be prepared to stay there awhile. He will not go away until we make him go away.”
Lee said nothing, looking out to the north again, thought, If Grant is not complicated, then our job will be easier. We do not have the strength to strike him where he sits, so we must let him come to us, commit himself, at a time and place of his own choosing. But there has always been a mistake, sooner or later, with all of them. It does not matter if Grant is different from McClellan, or Burnside, or Hooker. He will make a mistake. God will provide.…
Lee raised his arm, pointed out to the east, toward the Wilderness. “He will cross there … at Ely’s or Germanna. We must focus our attention there.”
There were nods, low comments, and they waited, expected him to say more. But he did not feel like making plans, issuing the orders, the small details that these men would need. He felt something much larger was already in motion around them, the plan already in place, inevitable and certain. Abruptly, he turned, moved to the horse, mounted. They watched him, silent, curious, and he looked away, out toward the place where Jackson had fallen, and he felt the glare of the sharp blue eyes, knew Jackson was still there, would still help them. Yes, slow them down, General, he thought, hold them there and it will not matter if he has the numbers and the guns. It will not be a fair fight. The advantage will be ours.
9. GRANT
MAY 4, 1864
THERE WAS MOTION EVERYWHERE, HORSES AND WAGONS, GUNS and men. He rode past a row of supply wagons, each marked with the insignia of their corps, the three-leaf clover of Hancock’s Second, the Maltese cross of Warren’s Fifth, Sedgwick’s Sixth with the St. Andrew’s cross.
He passed the wagon train now, the wagons moving farther to the east, the route that would take them out of harm’s way, down across the river closer to Fredericksburg. He could see the river now, the thick columns of blue soldiers crossing on pontoon bridges. He pulled the horse off the road, moved to a small rise. The staff followed, settled behind him, with only Rawlins close by.
He glanced up, saw the stark bright sky, the blazing sun. It was a perfect day, and he looked again at the river, could even see the reflection on the water, the line of troops magnified, the river sparkling with the reflections from the rows of muskets.
He was between the Fifth and Sixth Corps, watching them cross Germanna Ford. He knew that to the east Hancock was crossing at Ely’s, and it was just like this, quiet and efficient, the men moving at a good pace, that they would soon be south of the river. Even Burnside was in position above them. The Ninth Corps, waiting for the order, would guard the north side of the river until the rest of them were across. Then Burnside too would move down, strengthening the army, which was already very strong. Grant thought of the numbers, nearly 140,000, the same number Joe Hooker had a year ago, but Hooker had spread them out, an elaborate plan that relied on coordination and communication, and the result was a disaster.
No, he thought, we will pass by Chancellorsville, and it will mean nothing at all, there will be no footnote in history to mark that place, not this time. This time we are one great fist, and Lee must respond to that. There can be no games, no elusive stalking. We are here, and if he avoids us, we will just keep going until we march into Richmond. But he will not allow that, and so we will have a fight. It does not have to be complicated.
They had not met resistance at the crossings, just the potshots of a few skirmishers. He was surprised at that, had expected Lee to guard the fords, at least try to slow down the march. But Lee was still far away, the reports from the lookouts said there was simply nobody down there, the roads around the burnt ruins of the Chancellor mansion were clear, and so Hancock would move with good speed. Below Germanna, the two main roads pointing west—the roads that pointed straight at Lee’s army—were clear as well. Sheridan had sent a division of cavalry under James Wilson far to the south, scouting the vital roads, the Orange Turnpike, the Plank Road, names that were familiar to the veterans, the men who had fought on this ground once before. They had not heard much from Wilson, but Grant had confidence that Sheridan knew his man, would rely on him to keep them informed when Lee began to move.
The other scouts still reported that Lee was well to the west, dug in even beyond Mine Run, the same ground where Meade had escaped last November. Grant marveled at that, thought, Surely he does not expect that we will make that mistake again? Yet there was no other word, and so they would see no rebels this day, would march down into the thickets of the Wilderness, past the small clearings where the flowers spread across the deep green in a glorious blanket of color, past deep winding creeks, the sound of the unseen water flowing all around them. The men who had not been here, who were seeing these woods for the first time, would stare up at the sky, marching in quiet rhythm, feeling the delicious heat on their faces. The others, the men who remembered Jackson, would glance nervously to the side, trying to see into the thick brush, peeking instinctively at the small gaps where you could see a bit farther, a place where a man might hide until his target came into view. But as the river disappeared behind them, and the bright day grew warmer, even the veterans began to relax, lightening their load along the way, dropping the blankets and knapsacks by the side of the road.
Grant still watched from above the river, felt the sweat now on his face, held the cigar away, wiped at his brow with the back of his gloved hand. He did not like the gloves, the dull yellow cotton, preferred the feel of the leather straps in his bare hands. They were a gift, and Rawlins had insisted they would make the necessary impression. He wore a gold braid on his hat, another change, never thought much about the uniform, but that was Rawlins again, the concern for appearances. Grant had to tell himself it mattered, that the men would look to see the dashing figure of the commanding general, and they would expect some pomp, some excess of finery. The gold braid was his only grudging concession to that. He tasted the cigar again, also a gift, the dark aroma filling him, the wonderful smoke drifting to his eyes, his nose, and he thought, Yes, there is one good thing about being the commanding general, beyond the pageantry, the ridiculous vanity, something few of them would ever understand. You can get the best cigars.
There was moti
on in the water, a row of horsemen splashing across the river, the soldiers on the bridges calling out, wet protests, some laughing. Grant watched them come, saw now it was Sheridan.
There had been comments about the appointment, this small man with the small round face. He wore a strange box hat and looked more often like an Italian street vendor than a commander of troops, but Grant knew his habits well, had seen him take his division up the hill at Chattanooga, climbing the ragged face of Missionary Ridge, and they did not stop until they were at the top, Bragg’s army melting away in front of them. There had even been a question about following orders, whether Sheridan had ignored his instructions, should never have pushed his men that far up the hill; but Sheridan made no excuses, no explanations. The question quickly faded away, because Grant understood that when the fight is in front of you, and the enemy is handing you the high ground, there is great value in a commander who does not halt his men to clarify his orders. Grant never doubted that Sheridan could handle command of the cavalry corps, that nothing would be lost by the new assignment. He was a superb horseman, and was grateful to be brought east to confront Jeb Stuart.
Sheridan rode toward Grant, his men filing out neatly on either side of him. Sheridan saluted, and Grant could see he was furious. “Sir! We have been ordered … General Meade has ordered …” He was red-faced and looked down for a moment.
Grant said, “General, please proceed. Is there a problem?”
Sheridan closed his eyes, clamped down, seemed to be fighting for control. “Sir, General Meade has ordered most of my men to the east, toward Fredericksburg. There are reports that some of the enemy’s horsemen have been located in that area. General Meade seems to believe that the wagon trains may be in jeopardy.” Sheridan took a deep breath.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 103