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

by Michael Shaara

  The faces had turned away from him, were focused more outside. Yes, he thought, look at it, look at this land. See what we have done, what the war has done.

  He could see down the aisle now. Most of the people were up on the seats, staring silently at the scenes of war. Now he saw one man, crippled, a crutch resting between his knees. Lee watched him, but a fog began to fill his mind, he was drifting off toward another nap. Now the man began to move, reaching behind him, trying to pull a coat around his shoulders. Lee’s mind suddenly cleared and he focused on the man, watched as the man struggled with the coat, and Lee could see the insignia on the coat now, Virginia, the First Brigade. The man could not turn himself around, and now Lee saw that he was missing a hand, the arm missing below the elbow. The man sagged for a moment, seemed to give up, then reached behind him again, felt for the collar of the coat. Lee looked past the man, people crowding the seat across from him, on all sides, the faces all turned away. Suddenly, Lee stood, wanted to shout at them, fought to keep the words inside, “Look, look at this man! Look what he has given up … someone help him!” He clenched his fists, moved toward the man, and faces turned, saw him now, saw the soldier.

  The soldier’s eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he said, “Marse Robert …”

  Lee reached behind the man’s head, pulled the coat over the man’s shoulders, then put his hand on the insignia. There was silence now, the only sound the rough noise from the wheels beneath them. Lee said, “Your unit, soldier. Tell them your unit.”

  The man glanced nervously at the faces suddenly watching him, then at Lee, said, “The Stonewall Brigade … sir.”

  Lee looked around, saw the eyes now staring hard at this soldier, and Lee said, “Yes, I know. God bless you, soldier.”

  Lee moved toward his seat, still felt the anger, thought, Yes, look at him, see him, see all of them.

  THE TRAIN BROUGHT HIM CLOSER TO HIS ARMY, THE MEN WHO WERE starving, and the anger stayed hard inside him, a black burning disgust with the arrogance of all the mindless words. He’d kept it inside, hidden deep in that dark place that men in Richmond would never understand. He could not wait to leave the capital, to be away from all the talk. They are very good at talk, he thought.

  When the failure of the peace conference became known, Lee was amazed at the sudden changes, men shifting their loud opinions in mid-sentence. Now they supported Davis again. That had amazed him, the sudden shift not only in the mood of the politicians, but in the papers as well. Davis had been very careful to blame the failure of the conference on Lincoln, making the most of the demand from Washington that the South accept absolute and utter surrender, total defeat, that no principles of the Confederacy would ever be allowed to continue, no sense of identity, no independence at all. Davis had brought his opposition together, maneuvered them into seeing what the peace process meant for all of them. He used skillful tactics, showing how he alone had held tight to the principles that caused the war in the first place.

  Lee had seen the changes, watched the papers with amazement as they all gradually came into line, gave up their reckless calls for Davis’s removal and suddenly seemed to unite against the true enemy. It was the same spirit that brought Virginia into the war from the beginning, the outrage that a President in Washington would make the rules, that the wishes, the way of life so strongly fought for, was of no consequence in Washington, and would be dismissed completely before the war could end.

  Now, when the eyes came back to Lee, it was not with desperation, not to throw Davis out. It was hope, the last true hope, and Lee knew that it was Davis who had engineered it. He’d seen it in Davis’s eyes, saw through the grand speeches in the capital. Davis was more sickly and suspicious of everyone than he had ever been, but he was still a political craftsman. The weight, the responsibility, had been shifted from the president’s weakening shoulders. It was now up to Lee, up to the army. The politicians were united now, spouting new oratory, eloquent speeches. The newspapers filled with a different fire, now vented their wrath northward, as at the beginning of the war, calling for the utter defeat of the invader. To them it was a simple matter for Lee to carry it forward.

  He could not see the crippled soldier now, the people again filling the aisle. There would be no nap, the train was coming into Petersburg. He felt his pocket, touched the folded paper, the official document. He had not even read it completely, all the flowery words, the grand pronouncements. He ran his hand along the edge of the paper, thought, I am supposed to feel a great honor. These people … they will read about this in the papers, and they will know why I was here, on this train, and … maybe they will find some excitement in that. I suppose that is a good thing.

  Lee had been named General-in-Chief, now commanded all the armies throughout the South, had full authority over Beauregard, Joe Johnston, all the rest. He accepted it with mild protest, but knew his feelings made little difference. It was ultimately for Davis’s benefit. It was Davis’s compromise, a concession to the loud voices. Though the opposition had united behind the government, behind Davis, the president’s power was still at issue. Lee knew it had been difficult for Davis, but it was a fight he could not win, a price for quieting the voices, for securing his office. The compromise called for a piece of the president’s treasured authority over the military to be taken away and placed carefully in Lee’s hands.

  Lee had been polite and gracious, but the title meant very little to him. His war was still right in front of him, the dismal ground around Petersburg, and he knew that as the weather improved, Grant would come after him again.

  THERE WAS NO DIFFERENCE IN THE CAMP, THE STAFF. HE WOULD allow no ceremony, moved quickly and without fanfare away from the train. It was almost desperate, the anxiety growing in his gut, to get back here, to the headquarters, to the familiar.

  He had not yet changed his clothes, stood alone in the bedroom of the house, the door closed, felt the blessed quiet washing over him, the jerking motion of the train slowly fading away from his mind. He had spoken to no one, other than a brief word to Taylor. He knew the young man would understand, would keep them all away, at least for now, for a while. The business of the headquarters would wait.

  He pulled the scroll of paper from his pocket, held it up in the dull light of the window. He still wouldn’t read all the words, the grand formality, the gold seal splashed across the bottom. He shook his head, moved to the foot of the thick bed, rolled the paper into a neat tube, stabbed it down into his trunk.

  He stood straight, stretching his back, looked toward the window, saw the wind ripping at the trees, blowing snow now, another gathering storm.

  He thought of the newspaper someone had given him, the first mention of his new title. Someone had called for some elaborate—he thought of the horrible word—coronation, as though his new position had given him some sort of royalty. They still look for symbols, he thought. I suppose it was always that way. Wars were fought for flags. We still hold tight to that, the men still go after them, the colors of the enemy, as though that is the most important thing. If you take his flag, you take his pride, his honor.

  He moved to the side of the bed, sat, looked down, realized that he was still very dusty from the trip, had put a dirty shadow on the white linens. He sagged, let out a long breath, stood up and looked at the dusty impression he’d made. I should not be here, he thought, not in a house. These people … so kind. But I should not be in a bed. This is the army, and I am not entitled to any more than what those boys have. He felt the anger coming back, closed his eyes, thought of those men in Richmond. Eat your peanuts and chew your tobacco, pass out titles and pronouncements. But leave the war to the men who understand it.

  He glanced down at the trunk, at the rolled-up paper with his name on it, thought of the words “General-in-Chief.” Is it too late for that? What does that do for these men? He would not go to the West, or the Carolinas, or anywhere else, no grand tour of his new authority. He would not gather the commanders and issue profound
new orders, would not do anything differently than he had before. Beauregard was in Mississippi, commanding a department that was little more than a name on a map. What remained of Hood’s battered forces had been assigned to Richard Taylor, who still held control of much of Mississippi and Alabama. Joe Johnston was without a command, and Davis would not even speak his name, the feud now complete and incurable. That is a mistake, Lee thought, it was always a mistake. Johnston might even have held Atlanta, understood what Hood did not, that you must maneuver and outwit a powerful opponent, not throw yourself at him with complete abandon. Now Sherman will have nothing to stop him, will have nowhere else to go but north, and if he reaches Virginia, we are surrounded. Johnston must be used, can still be of great value.

  Lee looked at the paper again, felt suddenly awake, thought, I believe … I can do that. I have the authority. He smiled, thought of Davis. This will not make you happy, but it is the one thing they have given me. If I am to command this army … all of this army, then I need Joe Johnston.

  He moved quickly now, opened the door, moved out of the bedroom, saw Taylor sitting at the desk in the main room of the house, said, “Colonel, I need to know where General Johnston may be reached. We must send a wire.”

  Taylor looked at the papers on the desk, thought a moment, said, “Um … sir, I don’t know where he is. It might be best to ask Richmond.”

  Lee nodded, said, “Yes, yes, Richmond.”

  Taylor said, “I can wire the president right away, sir.”

  Lee looked at Taylor, slowly shook his head. “No … not the president. The Secretary of War. Send a wire to Mr. Seddon.” His mind began to work, and he thought of Johnston now, was beginning to feel the old energy, that it was possible, that if Sherman could be stopped, hit him while he’s strung out on the march, Grant might have to help him, pull troops away from Petersburg. Lee began to move with slow rhythm, his fists slowly clenching, thought of the message, how the wording should go, ran it through his mind, thought, Maybe it’s time to play the politician. Johnston … no one has the confidence of the people … or the army, and I request he be ordered to me … for assignment. Yes, good. He moved closer to Taylor’s desk, said, “Colonel, if you please, send a message to the Secretary of War.…”

  MARCH 1865

  WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE SCATTERED FORCES IN THE DEEP SOUTH were slowly brought together, and even the few troops that followed Beauregard came with their commander to join the odd mix that Johnston would command.

  The roads were still thick with the soft mud of an early spring, but Sherman was already in motion, pushing his powerful force northward toward the Carolinas. Johnston understood what Lee needed him to do, would wait for the moment, probe and seek the opportunity, and Lee believed it would happen, that Sherman could be trapped, held in the mire of the swamplands and slowly cut to pieces. Grant would have to respond, could not just allow Sherman to be crushed piecemeal, and that was the opportunity Lee would need. There would be a weakness, somewhere, an opening in the long line around Petersburg. The response would have to be sudden and complete, but the breakthrough could be made. It might not take much, it might not require a total defeat, just a hard shocking blow. Those fellows are on foreign soil, far from home, he thought, and surely, surely, they have had enough of this, of missing their wives and children, of the blood and the cold and the loneliness.

  He rode the lines again, felt the wind drifting across the muddy fields. The snow was melting, the roads now worse than before, but soon, very soon … He saw the faces again, watching him, men peering out from the soggy slop of their muddy shelters, the sickness in their faces, the rags barely hiding the signs of starvation. But still they looked at him, saluted and called out. They know it too, he thought, they feel the change, the spring. We are still here, we are still an army. It is not up to politicians and conferences. It is right here, it is in these men. He could hear cheers now, echoing down the lines, more men rising up, pointing, and he straightened in the saddle, knew that they felt it, drew it from him; that feeling, he thought, that they are not beaten, that this is not over until we end it. He thought of those other fellows, across the bare soggy fields: No, you do not have this, you do not feel what these men feel. This is our home, this is our land. And God willing, we will make you leave.

  37. LEE

  MARCH 23, 1865

  GRANT HAD NOT YET MOVED, THERE HAD BEEN NO REAL PRESSURE against the defenses Lee could mount around Petersburg. There had been some activity down below, the slow and painful lengthening of the line, the Federal troops gradually pushing out to the west. Lee’s lines now spread out nearly forty miles, and in many places the soldiers stood better than six feet apart, and no one had any illusion that if Grant knew that, if the blue troops across the way understood how thin the lines were, all it would take was one great thrust.

  When he rode the lines now, it was more to the south, and he could see the effects of the lack of food, the weakness of the men. They stared at him with dark hollow eyes, and the officers would tell him, quietly, that the work details, the men who must dig the trenches, were simply collapsing.

  He moved off the road, saw familiar flags, moved the horse toward the one tent, the small command post, saw faces he recognized now, men he had not seen since Gettysburg. He reined the horse, slowly climbed down, and he saw a man, a sergeant, hurry toward the tent, ducking inside. Lee waited, said nothing, could hear his aide behind him dismount. Around them it was quiet, no one spoke, no salutes, no cheers. Now there was motion from the tent, the sergeant first, and then the commander. It was George Pickett.

  “General Lee. Welcome to my headquarters, sir.”

  There was cold formality in his voice, and Lee returned a salute, said, “General Pickett, I hope you are well.”

  Pickett nodded, unsmiling, said, “Yes, sir. I am quite well. My division is ready for a fight, sir.” There was no change in Pickett’s voice, no life in the words.

  Lee felt a sudden wave of gloom, felt it pouring down all through him. No matter the rank, no matter the solemnity of the occasion, Pickett had always been the spark, the man who would make the inappropriate comment, draw the laugh from stern faces. He had always been Longstreet’s favorite, exuded a bright and carefree gaudiness, in contrast to the serious warrior that was John Bell Hood. Pickett’s behavior had always infected his troops; he was the most popular division commander in Lee’s army, and spread a childlike charm over his men. But all that was before, and all that had been changed by Gettysburg. There was no humor in the man now, and Lee saw the eyes looking at him, looking through him, an empty gaze. Lee felt suddenly very out of place, uncomfortable, unwelcome. He turned to the horse, climbed up, said, “Carry on, General. We may need you before very long.”

  Pickett seemed to rock back, a small reaction to Lee’s words, and he saluted again, said with cold seriousness, “General Lee, my men have always been where you needed them.”

  Lee said nothing, turned the horse, began to move, thought, He will never be the same. I cannot remove him … he has earned the rank, the command. But he will never be a leader. I must remember that, not to use these men in a critical place.

  He rode slowly back toward his headquarters, climbed a long hill, the road straight and dusty. He was very depressed now, thought, No, do not let that man affect you this way. He is not the army, he is one man whose heart is gone, who has had the fight taken from him. We still have the spirit. We can still make the good fight.

  He knew he was trying to convince himself, but what had happened to Pickett had happened to many others, Dick Ewell, even Anderson. They would not speak of it, would never say anything to Lee, yet it was there, in their faces, in the way they carried out their orders. If the men on the line gave up, drifted away, they were nameless to Lee, a small dark piece of a much larger picture. But when the spirit left the commanders, it was something he could not ignore. If any general lost the will to fight, he had to be removed. You had to treat him as though he carried a deadly
disease, a disease that would infect the entire army. Ewell had been sent to Richmond, Anderson was back under Longstreet’s control, north of the James.

  Now Pickett has lost the will too, he thought. He felt the sadness of that again. No, give him the chance, he has always been good in the field, can still lead troops. We must not be too quick to judge. And we need all of them, every man. He thought now of Hill. He will still be there; even in his sickness, he has the fight. Hill was gone again, the illness flaring up, but his own home was close now, and so Hill would have the soft care of his family. And he will be back, he has always come back.

  Lee could not avoid it now, had tried to keep it from his mind, focusing instead on his problems right here, along these lines. But it was all his concern now, and he could not keep it away. He could see the mound of paper, the strange and unexpected flood of dispatches and wires from Joe Johnston. The line of communication was wide open, and with Johnston that was a surprise. But there was a great difference now, and Lee knew it immediately. Johnston accepted his new command and Lee’s authority over that command without complaint. Johnston’s title was Commander of the Army of Tennessee, but Tennessee had little to do with what was happening now.

  Lee had underestimated Sherman, his strength, and his ability to move troops. Johnston had done the best he could, had gathered the scattered remnants of whatever units could be brought to the field, Hardee and Harvey Hill’s men, even some of Hood’s people. But they counted barely twenty thousand troops, with a wide variety of experience and skill, and now the difference in numbers became clear. The port of Wilmington had finally fallen into Federal control, and the Federal forces there had united with the men who had marched across Georgia. Sherman’s army was nearly one hundred thousand strong.