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

by Michael Shaara

  Johnston had to seek out, probe cautiously, wait for the opportunity for Sherman’s army to be divided along the scattered roadways. The chance had come, and Johnston struck out at one flank of the blue force, a sharp surprising fight at a place called Bentonville. But Sherman was simply too many, and the surprise did not last. Johnston could not bring enough power to the field to sweep Sherman away. Now Johnston had to rely again on the small bites, the quick stabs at this great and unstoppable force as it gradually pushed north, deeper into North Carolina, closer to a rendezvous with Grant.

  Lee could see the house now, the yard of the headquarters filled with horses, the distinct gathering of staff officers, men in clean uniforms in an army that barely had uniforms at all. He tried to see the flag, wiped at his eyes, saw the one man who stood out, stiff in the saddle, back straight, and for one brief flash it was Jackson. Lee’s heart jumped in his chest, a cold hard thump. Lee had always been able to spot him, the man never slouching, never bent. It made Jackson awkward on the horse, and no one ever considered him to be a good rider. Lee would never laugh, never smile at Jackson’s explanation, so serious to him, so comical to everyone else. Jackson would explain with complete precision why he sat so straight, why he never allowed himself to touch the back of even the straightest chair. He always thought it would crush his insides, that his organs would be pressed dangerously together. Jackson had a lifelong ailment, always the pains in his side, but he would not complain, certainly not to Lee. When his duty kept him away from the hot springs and the water spas, his only treatment was to stay straight upright, keep everything safely, comfortably in order, no matter how uncomfortable it made him on a horse.

  Lee could see the man more clearly now, the short narrow beard, and he looked down, felt the sadness even more, scolded himself, No, do not do this. This is no time for daydreaming, for behaving like a foolish old man. If Jackson is here, he will show himself at the right time, he will give something to the fight, to these soldiers. But you will not see him at headquarters sitting on a horse.

  He looked up again, saw the men watching him, and the one man moving forward, ramrod straight, the crisp salute. It was John Gordon.

  THE MAP WAS DRAWN IN INK, A SYMBOL OF THE TIMES, OF JUST HOW long they had been in place, on this same ground. Little had changed in a very long time, and now Lee stared at the familiar lines, had listened to Gordon’s plan, a concise and eloquent presentation. He looked up at Gordon, saw a tight confidence, the man completely self-assured. Lee thought, It used to be there, in all of them. He thought of the day’s ride, the gloomy visit with Pickett. Gordon is not a career soldier, has not learned what so many of them have learned, how to make mistakes, how to be defeated. How strange, he thought, this man was never taught to be a commander, and now he may be the only real commander I have left. He doesn’t understand that … not yet. And that may be for the best. This is what we must give the men, this is what we must have, all through this army, if we are to succeed.

  “General Gordon, your plan is very detailed. I commend you. If you are correct, and your men succeed, we may drive those people into a panic. It has been the best way, always. You may proceed, General.”

  Gordon saluted, and Lee nodded, his mind already moving away. Now Gordon’s men filed noisily from the house, and Taylor closed the door, moved to the desk, sat, waited quietly. Lee did not look at him, moved to the front window of the house, watched Gordon and his staff mount their horses, move away into the road. Lee stared for a long moment, thought, This may be the best we can do now, it may be the only blow we can make. General Gordon believes he has found a weakness, and we cannot wait, we cannot allow General Grant to make the first move.

  The cloud of dust spread out from the road, blew slowly into the few trees across the way, Gordon’s men gone now. Lee turned, saw Taylor watching him, always watching him.

  Taylor said, “It is a good plan, sir.”

  Lee nodded, moved slowly from the window, toward the soft silence of his room, said quietly, “Colonel, it is the only plan.”

  38. GORDON

  MARCH 25, 1865

  HE HAD NEVER FELT THIS WAY BEFORE. WITH JUBAL EARLY, YOU came to expect the harsh rudeness, the hostile response at every encounter. He had little chance to deal directly with Dick Ewell; Early had always been there, always in the way. Gordon knew that as long as Early was his division commander, he would rarely know the corps commander at all. But now … He thought of Lee: He looked right into my eyes, and it was as though … I could feel the weight, the responsibility, and the respect.

  He felt a chill, the excitement had been in him all night long. It was still very dark, and he stood high up on a barricade, looked out into blackness, could barely see the outline of the earthworks across the way. It was very close, less than two hundred yards, a fat mound of dirt. He could see nothing else, did not have to, knew the place well, had studied the ground, had scouted as closely as he could, talked to the pickets, the cavalry, put together every piece of information he could about the place. He knew what they all knew, that it was just one more focal point on the long Federal line, was filled with big guns, infantry support spread out in both directions in a line that led to other forts like this one, like fat knots in a long rope. The other ones carried numbers mostly, Battery Ten, Battery Eleven, but this place had a name, a custom for the Yankees, honoring one of the fallen generals, a man killed during the slaughter at the Crater. It was called Fort Stedman.

  Behind him the hill fell away, a long slope, and he turned, listened, heard nothing, not even the small sounds of men. Good, he thought. Quiet, there must be quiet. It is the only way this can work.

  The field in front of him had been a cornfield, still had a few rows of standing corn, left in haste by a nameless farmer, a man long forced out by the spread of Grant’s lengthening lines. The field was cut now by small trenches, quickly dug to conceal the single line of riflemen, the skirmishers of both sides, facing each other only a few yards away. There had been the occasional shooting spree here, but not lately, the men now close enough to speak out, the voices becoming familiar. There were no names, all along the line the men were simply known as Billy or Johnny, the common name for the Yank or the Reb. There was little actual contact, no truces, none of the trading of goods that had gone on before. The rebels had nothing left to trade. The talk now was brief, but there was a kindness to it, small questions, brief answers, home, family. But then someone would make a mistake, violate the unspoken etiquette, and a musket would flash, and if the ball did not find its mark, there might be an angry protest, there might even be humor, the playful warning, and none of them could forget that this was still a war, and when the time came, those boys over there would still put the bayonet into your heart.

  Gordon knew that right now the Federal pickets were spread out in the field in front of him, knew that if the alarm went up, even one shot, it could alert their entire picket line, and that would alert the fort. If the big guns came alive, the attack would be over before it began.

  He had ordered the barricades in front of his own lines to be taken apart, slowly, discreetly removed, allowing his men a clear pathway into the open field. The work was mostly complete, but there were still obstacles, and a few workers were slowly slipping by him, quiet steps, whispered voices, pulling and lifting the timbers and wire aside, clearing the open trails for his men to follow.

  Close behind him, the first fifty men waited, armed with nothing more than axes, but they understood their part in this. They were hard strong men, and the axes were sharp, and their only job was to cross the field and cut a quick opening in the piled logs and felled trees that pointed out at them in front of the dirt walls of the fort.

  Tight behind the fifty axemen were three hundred infantry, each group of one hundred led by a senior officer. They were veterans, hand-picked men who had been hardened by battle, and so would move forward without hesitation when the fire flashed in their faces. Their assignment was basic as well. They woul
d immediately take out the skirmishers, quietly, no shooting, and then, when the axemen had done their job, the three hundred would launch themselves straight into Fort Stedman, and there the shooting could begin. Their first goal was the big guns, not just to quiet them, but to take them, hold them so that the next men in line, the great mass of Gordon’s infantry, could use them, turn the big guns to the side, aim their charges straight down the lines of the Yankees, in both directions. Once the main body of infantry reached the breakthrough, they could push outward, sweeping the enemy out of their trenches, pushing farther down the lines, capturing more of the batteries, more of the big guns. Those guns could be turned as well, widening the breakthrough, driving a deep wedge through the Federal line, cutting off Grant’s left flank entirely, panicking the men in blue into a rout.

  The three hundred-man companies had another duty. Once the breakthrough was secure, each hundred men would continue to drive straight back, beyond the rear of the Federal line, each company assaulting a fort, a nest of big guns that Gordon believed supported the main blue line. This could not be done by brute force, but only by deception. The officers understood that they would approach each of the forts, identify themselves as retreating Federal officers ordered back out of Stedman. In the dark it could be all they would need to slip into the forts, to surprise the enemy before any defense could be made.

  Gordon had explained it all to Lee, every detail, every piece of this amazing plan. Lee had listened intently, had asked a few questions, and Gordon had a good answer to every one, had left nothing to chance. But now, standing alone in the dark, staring out toward the low mound of Fort Stedman, Gordon did not think on details, on conversation, did not remember anything more than Lee’s face, the eyes still in his mind. Gordon had believed that he could design an opportunity to push the Federals back, away from Petersburg, shorten their lines, make Grant pull troops back toward City Point.

  But there was more in Lee’s eyes, and Gordon still felt that, the weight, that Lee had given him something he did not yet understand, some responsibility he did not expect. He had left the meeting with an uneasy stirring, a nervous twist in his gut, that Lee was putting too much into this plan, the hope, the need for absolute success. Gordon had confidence in the plan, would never had taken it to Lee unless he felt it would work. But he did not realize until he left the headquarters how important the plan was to the army, to Lee himself. The Old Man’s image was with him now, the white hair, the grim tired eyes. Lee had not offered any suggestions, had made no changes, had given just the simple instructions to proceed. Gordon carried that away from headquarters with a great deal of pride, that he had the faith of the commanding general. Now he thought of that pride, thought, No, it comes down to more than … me. Lee believes in these men, in what this army can still do. Now it is up to me to see that this plan is a good one.

  He opened a small pocket watch, tried to see the face, knew it was still early. He heard a small sound behind him, saw a brief glimpse of white, the small strip of cloth each man wrapped around his arm, the one piece of identification they would carry into the dark confusion of the enemy.

  There was a low whisper, “General Gordon, the men are ready. At your command, sir …”

  Gordon tried to see past the man, but there was nothing but the hollow darkness, and now he looked back beside the barricade, could see the dim shape of one man, the one soldier he had picked to fire his musket, the only signal to the men behind him to begin the attack. The man was waiting, climbed up on the barricade now, slowly, quietly, knew better than Gordon himself that they were both now in the open, that if there were any light at all, they would be completely visible to the muskets of the enemy only a few yards away.

  Down in front, a man was carrying a long piece of timber, one of the last obstructions now removed. The man suddenly stumbled, the timber fell against the barricade, a sharp crack. The man froze, waited, and then there was a cold silence. Gordon stared down at the man, clenched his fists but could say nothing, did not have to say anything. No one had to be told of the value of silence. Gordon looked now into the dark field, felt his heart exploding in his chest, the excitement of the moment now crushed by a sudden fear, discovery. For a long moment there was no motion, no sound at all, even the breathing of the men had stopped.

  Suddenly there was a man’s voice, out in front. “What’re you doing over there, Johnny? What’s that noise? Answer quick, or I’ll shoot.”

  Gordon felt a stab of ice in his gut, looked at the soldier beside him, and the man took a deep breath, said aloud, “Never mind, Yank. Lie down and go to sleep. We’re just gatherin’ a little corn. You know rations are mighty short over here.”

  Gordon stared into the darkness, felt himself pulling together, his shoulders hunching low, bracing himself for the shot, the one horrible sound that would alert everyone on the field and end the attack.

  The voice came back, relaxed, a small chuckle, “All right, Johnny, go ahead and get your corn. I’ll not shoot at you while you’re drawing your rations.”

  Gordon stared at the direction of the voice, felt a smile now, the hard knot inside of him loosening, and he wanted to laugh, looked at the man beside him, thought, A card-player, you must be a very good card-player. He leaned close to the man now, whispered, “All right, soldier. It is time. Fire your musket.”

  He could see the man looking at him, a small hesitation, and the man now raised the musket, pointed it first toward the voice of the enemy, at the spot where that one man had nearly ended the day. Gordon waited, felt his heart surging again, but the man did not fire the musket, raised it up now, pointed at the air, still hesitated. Now the man lowered the gun.

  Gordon said, an urgent whisper, “Fire your gun, soldier!”

  The man raised the musket again, and again hesitated, lowered the gun, said in a low hushed voice, “Sir, I can’t lie to him. I talk to that Yank every night. It’s not right, sir.”

  Gordon stared in amazement, the excitement changing now to fury. He could not see the man’s face, thought, This is not the time. He leaned close to the man again, said, “Soldier, fire your gun! Now!”

  The man hesitated again, then raised the musket, pointed up at the sky, said, aloud, “Hello Yank, wake up! Look out, we’re coming!”

  The musket exploded through the silence, the flash ripping the darkness. Now the man jumped down, moving out into the field, where the rest of the pickets lay low. Gordon could not see them, but he knew that they were already moving, fast and silent, heard only small grunts and quick shouts, the bayonet and the butt of the musket doing the deadly work. In the openings on either side of him, Gordon could feel the men surge past, a silent wave, moving as one mass, the axes held against the chests, men with one purpose, one job to do. Now he jumped down as well, began to move with them, felt himself carried along by the great surge, closer, felt himself pushed through the corn stalks. It was a short distance, and he could hear the breathing, the excitement in the men around him, close to their target, then suddenly there was the sound of axes, like a wild beating of drums. The wave had slowed, waiting for the obstructions to come down, and now the men could hold their silence no longer, and the sounds began to swell, the darkness filling with the high terrible scream, the men pushing forward, up and over the dirt walls, driven hard now by their own voices, by the sound of the rebel yell.

  THE GUNS WERE SHAKING THE GROUND, GORDON’S MEN NOW handling them like their own. He could not see far, but the gray dawn was slowly spreading on the barren ground, and as far as his eyes could focus, the men in blue were gone, a quick retreat away from their trenches, or swept away by the sudden blasts from their own guns. The three handpicked companies had already moved to the rear, were gone from view, and Gordon looked in all directions, felt the pure hot excitement, the hard shouts of his men still close, still filling the fort, spreading out in a widening hole in the strength of the enemy, the new ground that was now their own.

  Muskets were firing all along the
walls, men seeing their targets now. Some of the infantry support had moved into the fort, held there by their officers, waiting for the order to move out.

  Gordon was moving forward, could see the faces of his men, the raw excitement, eyes wide, faces red. Now he saw a mass of blue, some men in white shirts. It was the prisoners, the men dazed, stunned by the sudden assault. They were slowly moving belowground, herded into a “bombproof” by the men who had been so effective at interrupting their sleep. He saw one officer, saw the star on the man’s shoulder, moved that way, and the man looked at him, wide-eyed, his dirty face now full of the shock of what had happened to his stronghold, his Fort Stedman.

  Gordon said, “My compliments, sir. May I know who you are?”

  The man nodded formally, said, “Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte McLaughlen. My compliments to your operation, sir. You have humiliated a fine command.”

  Gordon said nothing, thought, Napoleon Bonaparte …? Well, then, your namesake would not be pleased this day.

  McLaughlen said, “If you permit, sir, I am your prisoner, and wish to remain with my men.”

  Gordon motioned to the shelter, said, “By all means, sir. We have work to complete.”

  McLaughlen disappeared into the mound of dirt and timbers, and now Gordon moved quickly toward the rear of the fort, stared out at the growing daylight, lifted his field glasses, searched for the three forts, for the men who would occupy them. He expected to hear more big guns, the men adding to the firepower that was around him, throwing the deadly charges farther down the lines, farther into the rear. He gripped the glasses, turned, swept the horizon, could see some earthworks, flashes of musket fire, but nothing like he had expected, no distinct earthworks, no clear targets for the thrust of the foot soldiers, no sign of the three forts.

  There was a sudden blast behind him, the ground ripping under his feet, and he turned, saw men scattered, bodies torn, timbers and dirt smoking from the impact of the shell. Now more shells came overhead, the high screams from guns far down the line. The ground began to bounce him, more blasts against the dirt walls, then the sharp blow of shot exploding overhead. Now there were screams, men wounded, men with nowhere to go, crouching low, leaning against the dirt walls. He climbed up on the embankment, looked for the three companies through the glasses, for some sign that they had found their own big guns. Where? he thought. Where are you? What is happening?