The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

Lee stared out through the dull light, thought, It has to be in our favor. Men will panic quickly in a night assault, when they cannot see their attackers. The problem is that it would be very difficult to follow up any breakthrough, to move Ewell’s other forces forward in the dark. But we must take every chance. Lee clenched his fist, still stared at the silence, waiting, thought, I wish General Ewell understood that. If Gordon is wrong, at least let him be wrong moving forward.…

  16. GRANT

  EVENING, MAY 6, 1864

  HE STILL WORKED THE KNIFE, SLOWLY, SHORT DELIBERATE STROKES, the wood shavings scattered into a thick pile around his feet. The fires were growing around him now. He glanced up, saw the staff lining up with small cups, a fresh pot of coffee. He saw Porter looking at him, holding two cups, and Grant shook his head, no.

  He carved the last stick into a sharp point, sharp enough for a toothpick, tossed it aside, heard a sound, a small laugh, looked beyond his tent and saw a cluster of bright colors, brass buttons, and gold braid. He was used to foreign visitors. There was always some prince or dignitary, some old soldier from the great European wars. One old Frenchman told stories of his close friendship with Napoleon, another had fought against him in some frozen field in Russia. They were usually the guests of some congressman, someone looking to show off his influence.

  Their first impression of headquarters was often disappointing. Many expected their presence to be the most significant event of the day, as though there should be some elaborate ceremony. Then they would hear the guns, a sound like nothing heard in Europe, not even in the days of Napoleon, and then the wounded would flow past, wagons and ambulances filled with the screams and faint cries of the men who endured the horror of this most modern war. When that experience had passed, the visitors did not venture far from the tents, there was not quite as much boasting of their own heroics and how much more civilized war had once been. Even those from the most remote lands knew they were seeing the new face of war, and when they left, there was something different about them, something subdued.

  Grant had no objection to the visits, but was not as cordial or open as many expected. He had little time for the ceremony of it, and often he would offend them by his lack of attention. He tried to be polite, but many spoke very little English, and if they did, and the accents were strong, he had a hard time understanding them, and it embarrassed them. Even when they were direct, a formal request for information, he’d seen their attraction to the reporters, and so there was very little he would tell them about what was happening. To them, he was just this odd quiet man, and none thought he had the flare, the great ceremonial presence, of the real commander. They would speak among themselves, talking about Lincoln, and smile knowingly, of course, the two men so similar, so symbolic of this young, crude country.

  The group began to move away, stifled the smiles, and Grant looked down at his hands, the small knife, the dirty gloves with the fingers torn away.

  Rawlins said, “They have no graciousness! They should be grateful we allow them here.”

  Grant looked up, saw Rawlins sipping the hot coffee from his tin cup, and said, “They don’t hurt anything. As long as they stay out of the way, they add a little color to the place.”

  Rawlins sniffed. “But, they’re so … rude! Talking about you that way, I overheard them, I know what they’re talking about. It’s the … the knife. Your habit.”

  Grant rolled the knife over in his hand, said, “You mean the whittling?”

  “They think all of us … their papers describe Americans as some kind of savages, as though we have no culture, no dignity. I saw a cartoon, you, the President, and a caricature of Uncle Sam, sitting around a campfire with whittling sticks!”

  Grant thought, So, that’s why the laughter. I fit the image.

  The Europeans had moved away, down the hill toward Meade’s camp. Rawlins said, “I had better … keep an eye on them. They’re heading toward General Meade’s tent. You know how he is. He seems to offend them every time he speaks.” Rawlins hustled away, and Grant watched him move down the hill, catching up to the bright uniforms, the elegant caped suits, Rawlins all smiles and short bows. Grant shook his head, smiled, thought, Old friend, you have a great future after this war. You’re a natural diplomat.

  He reached down, felt for another piece of wood, but his hand touched only the bare ground. He’d worked his way through the small pile. He folded the knife, put it in a pocket, stood, stretched, saw an officer, recognized him, one of Hancock’s men. The man was running up the hill from Meade’s tent, held a piece of paper, and Grant waited.

  The man saluted, said, “General, sir, Major Garrett. Sir, General Meade requested I pass this along to you.”

  Grant nodded, felt in his pocket for a cigar. Garrett waited for a sign, some permission to speak. Grant slowly lit the cigar, said nothing.

  Garrett said, “Um … with your permission, sir, General Hancock wishes to inform you that there is no activity in his front. The enemy has pulled back to his entrenchments. General Hancock has made contact with General Burnside’s flank. But it is General Hancock’s opinion that the enemy has no intentions of renewing his attack.”

  Grant tasted the smoke, held the cigar out, looked at it, said, “Fine. Congratulate General Hancock on a fine day’s work. You are dismissed.”

  Garrett saluted, then smiled, said, “Oh, sir … I don’t know if you have heard. The enemy prisoners are talking about General Longstreet. Some say he is dead. We can’t be sure of that. But there is no doubt he is down, out of the fight.”

  Grant felt a cold stab, stared at the man with his mouth open, the cigar suddenly motionless, and Garrett’s smile faded. Grant said, “No, Major, I had not heard. I want to know … tell General Hancock I want to know if he is alive … how it happened. Go!”

  Garrett saluted again, moved quickly down the hill. Grant walked over to his tent, stared at the dark space inside, thought, Old Pete, you damned fool. Can’t stay out of range … always too close. He remembered Mexico, Longstreet’s wound at Chapultepec, missing the final assault because he insisted on carrying his own flag, the perfect target. Now … what? Someplace he ought not have been. Well, then, good, go home. Stay with Louise, have more children. He thought of St. Louis, of Jefferson Barracks. We were young and stupid, strutting and prancing in those uniforms like we were all heroes. Or would be. And the women … surely they saw more to us than that, the ridiculous boasting of our great military careers, of how we would all be generals someday. Did we really believe that? We surely must have convinced the women, because all of us married, right there, fought the greatest battle of our lives, fought against the will of their fathers, none of them wanted soldiers for their daughters. But it was a fight the fathers would lose, and usually it was because of the mothers. Grant smiled now, thought of his own wedding, Longstreet towering above the others, but perfect, the glory of the dress blues, young soldiers home from the great war with Mexico. But … if we all believed in our own glory, if we had the same dreams, if we really thought we would all be generals one day, it never should have been like this. We should not be killing each other.

  He turned, saw more riders, men moving in all directions. It was near full dark, and the fires were drawing in circles of men, like blue moths around a lamplight.

  He heard his name, men looking for him, messengers from the front. He still stared into the dark, saw the big man’s face, the deep blue eyes, thought, I will not bear this, the fault is not mine. You made a decision old friend, a very bad decision. All of you … He thought of the others, the young men from the Point, all the old friends. Die for your cause, if you have to. I will do what I have to do.

  He squinted at the firelight, saw the gathering couriers, the faces all watching him, and he clamped down hard on the cigar, moved closer to the fire. He nodded to Porter, the silent signal, and Porter motioned toward one man.

  The man saluted, said, “Sir, General Sedgwick sends his compliments, and wishes you to know, si
r, that the enemy is firmly in his barricades, and the general expects no more activity tonight.”

  There was a sudden noise from the right of the line, a roar of sound rolled up the hill, a sudden burst of musket fire, the high wailing scream of men. The officers all turned, looked out into the dark. Some began to move to their horses. Grant heard the shrill whine of a shell. Behind the camp there was a sharp blast and a wagon shattered into pieces. Now the scattered sounds of the lead balls began to zip by them, one punching the side of Grant’s tent.

  Grant said, “I believe General Sedgwick is mistaken.”

  * * *

  IT HAD LASTED ABOUT AN HOUR, AND SEDGWICK’S RIGHT FLANK had collapsed. The enemy could have no grand success, the great surprise had been dulled by the darkness and the thick brush, and so the curtain was brought down on yet another assault. Grant had not seen Sedgwick, but the messages came in quick order, hundreds of blue troops captured, one brigade shattered. The panic had spread down the line, men had poured back through the headquarters, wild-eyed, running from demons screaming after them in the dark. Troops had quickly been pulled from the left, sent to stop the tide, but in the tangle of woods, men were still scattered, some were still running, and there was little anyone would do now in the pitch-darkness.

  Grant was furious. Sedgwick had assured headquarters that the flank had been secured, his line re-fused, the end turned back on itself at a ninety-degree angle. But the order was never given to the right commanders, and now those commanders, Shaler and Seymour, were in the hands of the rebels. He would say nothing to Sedgwick, that would be Meade’s job, to find out what bloody mistake had let the rebels get around the flank.

  Meade had come up to his camp, and the couriers were still coming, most of them directed to Meade. Grant sat on the stump, listened to the reports, kept his anger tight in a thick column of cigar smoke.

  He watched Meade, listened quietly. It was a younger officer, one of Meade’s staff, a man Grant did not know, and he could see that the young man was clearly infected with the panic. His voice rolled through the camp, and those not moving past were stopping to listen. “Sir! The reports are that Lee is moving between us and the river. The cavalry is in Fredericksburg already! By morning we will be completely cut off!”

  Meade waved his arms, yelled out, “Well, who is in charge up there? Have we no troops who can be sent? How did this happen?” Meade leaned close to the man’s face, raised his voice to a full yell, “Captain, we need some answers!”

  The young man paused, tried to swallow, pointed out toward the darkness, said weakly, “The reports … I will try to get more reports … sir.…”

  Grant stood, moved close to Meade, said quietly, “The attack on our flank was small. They cannot move a large army in this country any better than we can. It has not been dark for very long, and if I recall, before the sun went down, we still had Ewell in front of us. I believe, if your young man here walks in a straight line down the Orange Turnpike, he will still find Ewell’s troops. If he doesn’t, then come back and tell me. If he does, then we will know for certain whether or not the enemy is in our rear.”

  There was another rider, a colonel, and the man jumped from his horse, an obvious show of urgency. He had lost his hat, his coat was torn. He stumbled toward them, said, “General Grant … General Meade, forgive me, sirs, but I have just come from the shooting. The enemy is moving into our flank with a large force, sir. The entire line is rolling up. Lee is circling behind the army, right back here, sir. The headquarters should be moved. You are in great danger, sir. Lee is—”

  Grant held up his hand and the man froze. He turned his head, listened, thought, The shooting has stopped. He glanced at the only sound, the winded breathing of the colonel, and the man slowly straightened, also hearing the silence. Grant moved out into the light, glanced again at the winded officer, the man staring at him with wide wounded eyes. Grant said, “Colonel, you are a bit late. Your great battle has already ended. Your timeliness is noted.”

  He moved toward the fire, felt the anger again, said aloud, “Gentlemen … a word, please. General Meade, if I may speak to your staff?”

  Meade said nothing, nodded dumbly.

  “Gentlemen, I am growing tired of hearing about all these terrible injuries that General Lee is going to inflict on this army. If I take all your reports into account, we have the rebel army running over both flanks, in our rear, and probably surrounding Washington. I will say this once. I do not wish to hear any more speculation on what General Lee is about to do to us. I would encourage you to consider another point of view … my point of view. You will speculate more on what I intend to do, on what this army intends to do. Am I clear?”

  There was a silent moment, firelight reflecting on the quiet faces. He put the cigar in his mouth, moved back to his stump and sat down. The faces still watched him, and there was still no sound. He was suddenly exhausted, thought, I do not like making speeches.

  The silence was broken by Meade, his voice echoing over the camp. “Anyone who does not have business here is dismissed!”

  Men began to move away. Grant could see the fires clearly now, saw Meade looking at him, and Meade nodded grimly, lifted the hat slightly, moved away to his own camp.

  Grant looked down, kicked through the wood shavings, saw nothing large enough to attack with the knife. He stood, moved to his tent, thought of Longstreet, said to himself, I hope you are alive, Pete. But we’re coming after you again.

  MAY 7, 1864

  BREAKFAST WAS OVER, AND HE HAD BEEN THE FIRST TO FINISH, walking away from the tents into bright morning sun, the mist already burning away. He still enjoyed the sour taste in his mouth, rolled his tongue around, the first cigar of the day would wait a few more minutes. He had secured a box of cucumbers, and no one gave much thought to the request. The staff was always alert for the possibility of eggs, or even white flour, and the quartermasters would do what they could to accommodate them, would furnish whatever could be had for the commanding general, but the staff never revealed that the luxuries were not for Grant, but for them. He was quite happy with the cucumbers.

  They had watched him in silence, slicing it into a mound of neat green circles, then pouring the vinegar over the top. Quickly, he would eat the small feast, and while the others enjoyed the smells, the roasting of bacon, the hot bread, his breakfast was done.

  There had been no sounds from the front. No assault came from Ewell, and below there was no faint thunder from in front of Hancock. He knew the skirmish lines were strong, had moved out as far as they could, and the enemy was hard behind his works. To the north, Sedgwick’s lines had been adjusted, pulled back slightly, turned to the right. Now a squad of cavalry patrolled up toward the river. There would be no more surprises from that part of the field.

  He moved down the hill, could see a long line of wagons behind the camp, the wagons that many had said were captured, Lee’s phantom success from the night before.

  He was feeling restless, but better than he had since the fight began. He had actually slept, deep and long, dreams of Julia, the children. He’d woken with the bugle, jarred out of some wonderful memory, childhood, very small, riding a horse down the long narrow roads of home. It was the most comforting memory he had, being so very alone, except for the horse. He did not have many friends, had always been shy around the other boys, but after a time, when he’d learned to ride, the people in the small town had come to know him. He had an instinct, a skill for breaking the wild horses, a small boy on a great dangerous animal, holding tight and letting the horse lash out with all its anger. He would feel the horse testing him, would speak to it, and soon the animal would change. The boy could hand the reins to its astonished owner, but the boy would know the horse had no owner, and he always believed the horse knew that as well.

  When he was older, at the Point, it was not his quick wit, dry humor, or skill with the lessons that made him friends, but his ability to ride. They had always thought of him as a natural for t
he dragoons, the cavalry, but he did not have the grades, could not choose where he would serve. The system did not reward the skill of the cadet, just the standing in the class, and his was of no distinction.

  He kicked down the hill, through thick grass, and there was a sudden violent flutter, an explosion of small wings. A covey of quail blew up around him, flew away into the trees below. He felt his heart beating, laughed, heard a voice behind him.

  “Where’s your shotgun, General?”

  He turned, still smiled, saw the bulky figure of Elihu Washburne stepping carefully down toward him, the dark formal suit out of place on a grassy hillside.

  “It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t hit them anyway.”

  Washburne reached him, was breathing heavily. He was a large round man with long white hair streaming back from a high, broad forehead. He put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, laughed through the heavy breaths, said, “No, I never knew you to show much inclination to hunt. However, your secret is safe with me.”

  Grant was puzzled. “Secret …?”

  “Your dismal marksmanship. If the men knew, might not be good for morale.” Washburne laughed again, and Grant smiled.

  He had asked Washburne to come along, to travel with the army on the move south and leave behind the dusty walls of the capitol. Washburne had been a congressman from Illinois for years, and it was Washburne who had seen something in this young man that the state of Illinois had sorely needed. When the regiments were organized, the first response to Lincoln’s call for volunteers, there had been no one else around Galena qualified to command, to put the regiments together.

  Washburne had only known him from those weeks before the real fighting began, had met him the same time as Rawlins met him. Grant’s only importance to the people of Galena was that he had been in the Mexican War, but there was celebrity in that. Rawlins was consumed by the romance of it, had come to Grant with boyish enthusiasm, wanting to hear the stories, the exploits, but Washburne had seen much more. He had an instinct for character, saw beyond the shy seriousness, believed that Grant was a man who could give something to his country beyond service in a war that had long faded in importance.