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

by Michael Shaara

  41. LEE

  MARCH 31, 1865

  THERE HAD BEEN A STRANGE AND CONFUSED FIGHT ALL ALONG THE White Oak Road, the Federal troops pushing forward again. Confused and uncoordinated, their attack was made more difficult by the rain, the difficult crossings of the creeks, the small swamps and bogs that were now an impossible barrier to troop movement. Lee’s men had broken the first wave of Federal assaults, sent the blue troops racing southward, back across the torrent of Gravelly Run. But he knew this was the Fifth Corps, and to the east there was help from part of the Second, and so Lee had been forced back again, the blue troops finally establishing control along the valuable road.

  Lee’s men still faced southward, and the White Oak Road would give no one an easy passageway. The men who had fought so well there were now in motion, moving slowly westward, lengthening their trenches. There was a wide gap between the end of the line and the critical crossroads of Five Forks, and Lee knew that the great strength below him would not just sit and wait while he made his defenses strong.

  There had been a good fight to the west as well, and he’d waited for it, knew that what had happened at Five Forks was more important than the loss of White Oak Road. The sounds meant that Pickett had arrived, his division nearly five thousand strong, and linked up with Fitz Lee’s cavalry, to hold Sheridan away.

  Lee had spent most of the last two days along the White Oak Road, and now rode in the rain toward the dull sound of musket fire. The firing had mostly stopped, except for scattered pops, skirmishers getting in the last word. The blue troops were tight against the White Oak Road, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it for now.

  He thought it strange that it would be Pickett’s division, circumstance moving out of Lee’s control, directed by a much stronger force—the hand of God—deciding that Pickett would be in the best position, the fastest way to reinforce the far flank. Pickett’s division had been close to the trains, was able to move to the flank quickest. Lee thought hard on that, did not ask why; there was no answer. But if there is some Divine plan, he thought, I can only carry it through. He considered the man himself; he had not seen Pickett again before the move west. What will he do? What kind of fight will his men make? It will matter, after all. Pickett held the flank, the most important position on the long line.

  Fitz Lee had been reinforced as well, as much cavalry as could be moved. There were now nearly four thousand horsemen, as strong a force of cavalry as Lee could still assemble. He thought of his nephew, the man who had tried to step into the shoes of Stuart, and had learned to walk with the swagger, the heroic dash, of the horseman. Fitz Lee had proven he could match Sheridan, had fought him all over central Virginia now. But this was not a fight between horse soldiers. Sheridan was supported now by two corps of infantry, forty thousand Federal troops, and Fitz Lee had only the five thousand men of George Pickett.

  Traveller moved through the mud, and Lee focused down, the rain flowing off the brim of his hat. It had always been about mathematics, something he’d had to absorb from the beginning, to make the best use of the poor numbers. In front of Petersburg, facing east, John Gordon had barely five thousand men. If Grant knew that … but it may not matter now, he thought. Grant is moving west. The forts and trenches that Gordon held was the toughest ground, the strongest defensive position on the field. Grant would know that. No, he realized, I would do the same thing, move out this way, get around the flank, cut the railroad. We must not let him cut the railroad.

  The numbers were a blur, and he thought of Davis: You have never understood. If you had used the energy, made the speeches, worked on bringing the states together, uniting their strength … But Davis had only alienated those who could have helped, the men in the Carolinas, Georgia. Soldiers continued to drift away, draining the numbers from the army.

  He closed his eyes, listened to the rain, the sound of the horse’s steps. Did it matter, after all? He had been shocked to hear the numbers from Joe Johnston, had assumed that down south there was good strength, enough force to hold Sherman away. But Johnston could not organize the mix of forces, lost many to the temptations of home, many who simply walked away. Now Johnston could report barely thirteen thousand men in the field, and Lee knew that Sherman had better than sixty thousand.

  The staff had put together the best intelligence they could, estimated Grant’s numbers at better than eighty thousand, more than double what Lee had left. In Richmond there were still the loud calls from the papers, from the politicians, that together Lee and Johnston could whip either one of the Federal armies, then turn in one great wave and defeat the other. He still considered that, but when the reports came from Johnston, Lee knew that if Sherman simply drove hard to the north, there would be nothing he could do to prevent him from linking up with Grant.

  The letters still came into camp, mindless and boastful, advice on military strategy from men who had never seen a fight. Lee had stopped reading them, left it to Taylor to sift through the correspondence, to screen out what was important. He’d hoped to hear more from Davis, but there had been nothing of substance, no help to the army. Davis was holding on to the one piece of the Cause that meant more to him than any other. He was surrounded by it, clung to it with a failing mind, saving it to the end. Lee thought, He believes it, truly believes that if we hold Richmond, we are still winning. If I tell him, he will not hear me. Richmond is a liability, a drain on our strength. Longstreet is there, holding on with what little he can, strengthened only by old men and boys, displaced sailors and crippled veterans. And I need Longstreet here.

  It was late in the day, and what fighting there had been was growing silent, held down by the weather and the exhaustion of the men. Lee knew Sheridan had been pushed back to Dinwiddie Court House, good work from Fitz Lee’s horses. If we can move out that way, he thought, spread out the line …

  He could hear the workers, the axes and shovels. He did not ride along the trenches, did not want to see the faces. Not today. The work was more difficult, the men weaker still, the rations even worse than they’d been before. They would still cheer him, but he did not want that now, thought, They cannot do this for me. They must do it for themselves, draw strength from that. I cannot be the cause.

  Lee moved east, toward Anderson’s headquarters, knew that beyond, between Anderson and Gordon, Hill was in place, probably the largest group of fighting men left, the Third Corps numbering about six thousand men. Hill had come back, had left the comforts of his home, the care of his wife, was now somewhere along the lines. Lee thought, Yes, we still have them, we still have good men, Longstreet, Hill. We will need the best they can give, the best fight their men have left.

  He reined the horse, turned in the road, the staff gathering around him. Looking out to the west, he thought, With Pickett and Fitz Lee anchored above Dinwiddie, the lines have been stretched another six miles. All we have left to the east is Gordon.

  The rain had stopped, the dull gray sky was breaking up, and now there was a glimpse of color, a sunset. Lee straightened in the saddle, pointed, the staff turning to look. Lee said, “There. It is a sign. God is still with us.”

  Marshall was beside him, the young man behind the round spectacles, and he said, “Yes, sir, God is with you, sir. Always has been.”

  Lee shook his head, wanted to say something, thought, No, we must not do that … not anymore.

  There was a rider, moving up fast, coming from the west. Lee watched him, forgot about the sunset. The man splashed up, breathing heavily, his face and clothes soaked in the dense mud of the soggy fields.

  “Sir, compliments from General Pickett, sir.”

  Lee returned the man’s salute, his chest tightening, said, “Go on.”

  “The general reports that he was unable to move the Yankees out of Dinwiddie, sir. The general has withdrawn our forces north, to Five Forks. He reports, sir, that the enemy has not followed him, that he is in a strong position there, sir.”

  Lee stared at the man, waited f
or more, but the man sagged in the saddle, the report complete. Marshall had pulled out a map, handed it to Lee, who scanned it, thought, I had hoped … they could have defeated General Sheridan’s cavalry. Even the cavalry would have been a major victory. Now they will have time. Sheridan will receive infantry support. He folded the map, handed it calmly to Marshall, felt his gut turn, his jaw tighten.

  He said to the courier, “You may return to General Pickett. Remind him that the Southside Railroad is close to his rear. He must not move any further north. Advise General Pickett that he must hold Five Forks at all hazards.” He took a breath, felt a hard thump in his chest, looked down, saw a dull reflection in the mud, the last splash of color from the fading sunset, repeated in a low voice, “At all hazards …”

  42. CHAMBERLAIN

  APRIL 1, 1865

  THEY HAD MOVED IN THE DARK, CHURNING THE ROADS INTO DEEP glue, then, off the roads, following the straightest line, moving through the misery of quicksand and blind trails. The orders from Sheridan and Grant and Meade had come in a confusing stream, the lines of communication tangled in the web of Federal command, the structure clouded by divided authority. Grant had given Sheridan command of the field, but where that field began was something Meade did not clearly understand. Finally, word had come, the Fifth would march to support Sheridan, would now be under his command. But orders still came into camp from Meade, and Chamberlain had seen Warren, watched as the small dapper man was slowly beaten down by confusion and contradiction.

  They were close to Sheridan’s horsemen now, and the sunlight was drying the roads, again. The men were eating their rations, had been given three days of food to carry on the march from White Oak Road. The food was not very good, not what they were normally issued. The long line of wagons mostly carried ammunition, and it was a plain, simple message. Cartridge boxes were clearly the priority, certainly to the commanders, if not to the men themselves.

  He sat on a log, finished a cold cup of coffee, stared down into the muddy flow of a creek. Hearing a horse, he turned, saw Griffin, who dismounted and walked slowly toward him. Griffin lifted his hat, rubbed his face with his hand. Chamberlain noticed Griffin’s belt, and that he wasn’t wearing his sword.

  He began to stand, and Griffin said, “No, General, stay put. Drink your coffee.”

  Chamberlain motioned with the cup, said, “Your sword, sir.”

  Griffin put a hand on his belt. “Lost it, all the ruckus last night. Some reb probably wearing it this morning.”

  Chamberlain put the cup down, quickly unbuckled his own sword, held it out to Griffin. “Please, sir, I insist.”

  Griffin took the sword, looked at it appraisingly, nodded, said, “Thank you. Most generous of you, General. It will be returned.”

  Chamberlain nodded, thought, More men will follow your sword than mine. “I will find another, sir.”

  Griffin sat now, and Chamberlain waited, knew there was something happening, could tell from the grim clench in Griffin’s jaw that he had something to say.

  Chamberlain tossed the coffee cup behind him, toward the fire, saw an aide pick it up, and he nodded apologetically, thought, I suppose I will sit here until he says it’s time to move.…

  “It’s going to be a tough day.” Chamberlain looked at Griffin, who said again, “A tough day.”

  Chamberlain nodded, thought, Well, we’re sort of used to that by now.

  “You know,” Griffin said, “we’re under Sheridan’s command. And this morning General Grant gave General Sheridan the authority to do what he feels is best to maintain this command.”

  Chamberlain said, “Maintain … what do you mean?”

  Griffin looked at him, said, “It means General Grant has given General Sheridan authority to relieve anyone he chooses, if he sees fit. The message was specific, actually. General Grant mentioned General Warren by name.”

  Relieve Warren? Chamberlain thought of the march that morning, leading his column into the open ground around Dinwiddie, seeing Sheridan for the first time. He said, “That explains General Sheridan’s reaction … what he said this morning.”

  “You spoke to General Sheridan?” Griffin said.

  “Yes, we marched into the fields, over there, along the road, and I saw the headquarters flag, rode over myself, and he came out to meet me. I was … maybe I was too relieved at getting the march over with, so I was, maybe, a bit too casual.”

  Griffin, smiling now, asked, “What the hell did you say?”

  “Well, I offered my respects, and reported to him with the lead of the division. He asked where General Warren was. I told him, at the rear of the corps.”

  “The rear …? I’m sure he found that amusing.”

  Chamberlain heard the sarcasm in Griffin’s voice, said, “He was not terribly amused. He said, ‘That’s where I expected him to be.’ He asked me what General Warren was doing back there, and I tried to explain that we were withdrawing from White Oak Road in the face of the enemy, but—”

  “But he didn’t want to hear all of that.”

  Chamberlain shook his head. “No. I don’t understand his reaction. General Warren was doing the best he could last night. I had thought …” Chamberlain paused, thought, Careful … But there were too many hard memories. “I thought … we should still be back there. We gave up a lot of good men to take that road.”

  Griffin looked down toward the creek, said, “We are here because General Sheridan ordered us to be here. General Warren is not popular at headquarters, hasn’t been for a long time. Maybe since the Wilderness. I have seen it myself, he often concerns himself with too many details, stirs too many pots, makes too many suggestions where they might not be welcome. And he has been slow, occasionally.”

  Chamberlain felt words boiling up, held it, thought, Who hasn’t been slow in this army? Who can operate with commanders scattered all over the countryside, orders coming in from all directions, no one knowing what is going on?

  Chamberlain said nothing, knew that Griffin was probably right, that even the troops had been through the whole range of disgust and frustration, the job in front of them plain and simple, the commands often delayed and confusing. It made things simpler to be out here, far from the main lines, from Petersburg, simpler to be under the command of one man. But Sheridan was quick to anger, reacted often by charging into the fire rather than thinking things through, had a strong eye focused on his relationship with Grant, and thus his relationship with Washington and the newspapers.

  Chamberlain said, “General Warren has done all right, if you ask me.”

  Griffin looked at him again, with a sad smile. “I don’t believe General Sheridan will ask you.”

  THE ORDERS CAME LATE IN THE DAY. WARREN’S CORPS WAS TO move close to the cavalry, to strengthen Sheridan’s position. But the roads were confusing, and there were delays, communications and troop movements made worse by the dense woods and swampy ground the soldiers had to travel. Sheridan had been furious at the delays, his temper echoing along the slow progress of the men, but by mid-afternoon, the corps had finally come together. If the men did not know of the anger and frustration of their commander, they quickly understood how serious their position had become. To the north, Pickett and Fitz Lee held the intersection at Five Forks, were spread in a strong line east and west along the White Oak Road. On the east end of the line, the gap still remained, a wide space that separated Pickett from the rest of Lee’s army. At the eastern end of his position, Pickett had re-fused the line, turned his men northward at a right angle to the road.

  Sheridan’s plan was straightforward, and as Chamberlain looked at the drawing, the sketches on paper, he could hear his men moving into line, horses moving past, the sound of an army pulling itself into motion. He ran his finger along the road they would march, thought, Yes, this is a very good plan.

  The dismounted cavalry would assault on the left, with the three divisions of the Fifth Corps moving up on the right. The focal point of the assault for the infantry woul
d be the right angle in Pickett’s line, with Ayres’s division striking right on the point of the angle. Crawford’s division would lead, and Griffin would follow farther out to the right, moving beyond Pickett’s flank, then wheeling to the left, to strike that part of the rebel works that spread to the north. With the cavalry doing the same on the west end, the sheer strength of the Federal assault should envelop Pickett and Fitz Lee’s entire position, completely cutting them off from the rest of Lee’s army.

  They moved forward at four P.M., a quick march on hardening roads. Chamberlain rode again beside the young color bearer, Sergeant Arthur, whose name he would not forget now, had fixed itself in his mind with a strange logic. He could only see it one way, saw it every time he looked at the maps. The sergeant was named after a swamp.

  He knew their right flank was vulnerable, that somewhere beyond the low hills, the rest of Lee’s army was probably in motion. Griffin had warned him to keep a sharp lookout, and Chamberlain had positioned a small force out to the right, not enough strength to fend off an attack, but at least a warning. They knew now, Lee was out there himself, the prisoners had brought the news, and Chamberlain felt a pride in that, that he’d taken his brigade across Gravelly Run right at Robert E. Lee. But somewhere, locked away inside, was a small breath of relief that he hadn’t known it at the time.

  There were scattered shots to the left, far in the distance. Our cavalry, Chamberlain thought, out there, moving with us. He felt a thrill now, something different from before, from the assaults of the past few days. There was something about Sheridan, about going into a fight with the power, the good plan. Behind him the men felt it as well, and he turned in the saddle, looked back, saw the faces looking up at him. Men began to smile, the weariness of the march now past, the short rest and the light rations all they would need.