THEY WERE IN THE FORKS ITSELF, THE INTERSECTION THAT SPREAD the roadways out in all directions. It was nearly dark, a last glow framing the treetops in the west. Chamberlain sat on the horse, saw the animal licking at its leg, a small hole, another wounded horse that would remember him. Griffin was in the center, surrounded by the rest, Bartlett, Ayres, Crawford. Off to the side of the road the staff officers mingled together in small conversation, low voices.
Griffin looked around, said, “Gentlemen, I have the order here. I should read it aloud, make it official.”
The horses shifted, the men quiet, attentive. Griffin read, “Major General Warren, commanding the Fifth Army Corps, is relieved from duty and will at once report for orders to Lieutenant General Grant, Commanding, Armies of the United States. By command of Major General Sheridan.”
There was no sound, no surprise. The word had come to all of them as the last of the fight died away. Warren had not been in the fight, had infuriated Sheridan for the final time. Warren had asked Sheridan with as much dignity as he could muster to reconsider the order, but Sheridan was angry and direct, and the order would stand. Now Warren was already gone, had ridden slowly away from his corps, and all who saw him knew this was the end of his career, his pride and his dignity swept away by the anger and impatience of Phil Sheridan.
There had been another order, but Griffin did not read it. The men all knew this as well, did not need him to inform them that Sheridan had ordered Major General Charles Griffin to assume command of the Fifth Corps.
They sat in silence, a dull shock, and Chamberlain saw a horseman moving up through the trees. He ended the silent moment, said, “Sir … it’s General Sheridan.”
The faces turned, and Sheridan rode up quickly, was smiling, filled with the glow of a man who has had his way.
“We have smashed them! This has been a magnificent day!” He paused, saw the subdued looks, said, “Gentlemen, I may have spoken harshly to some of you today. But I would not have it hurt you. You know how it is, we had to carry this place, and I fretted all day until it was done. You must forgive me. I know it is hard on the men too, but we must push on. There is more for us to do together.” He looked down briefly, then around at each one of them, said, “I appreciate and thank you all.”
He turned abruptly, rode away into darkening woods.
Chamberlain looked at Griffin, saw him staring in surprise, his eyes blinking, disbelieving. Griffin said, “So … we have learned something about Phil Sheridan.”
There were quiet murmurs, then a pause, and Chamberlain ran that through his mind, thought, We have learned … what? That Sheridan is not a man to dig trenches, and not a man to be kept waiting? He felt angry now, thought of Warren, No, he was never the perfect commander, he would never win great battles. But he is a good man, a careful man. Sheridan is not careful. But he is different from Warren, from Meade. Yes, there is the lesson. He is not different from Grant.
Griffin said something, a quiet good night, and the men began to ride in separate directions. Chamberlain waited, was alone now, heard the slow sounds of hoofbeats moving away. He thought of Warren again, thought, You were a thinker. You thought too much, you took too much care. He suddenly felt he had learned something new, another lesson. Wars are not won by thinkers. He thought then of Major Glenn, of McEuen, others, Strong Vincent, Buster Kilrain. There were more, many more, and he stopped trying to recall them, thought of this afternoon, of trying to pray. No, there is no time for that, not as long as we do this. That is the lesson. This war will be won by the men who move forward, who do not stop to question what they do or what the consequences will be. It is not cause or country or the fellow beside you. It is simple and direct. The rebels were winning this war when they had men like Jackson. Now we are winning this war because we have men like Sheridan. Whether Warren’s removal was justified or Glenn’s death was my fault doesn’t matter now. Those questions will be answered later. Now, we will simply move forward.
43. LEE
APRIL 2, 1865
LONGSTREET HAD ARRIVED, AND THE LAST OF THE STRONG DEfenses above the James was coming with him, still moving into Petersburg on the rough and battered rail line. Richmond was now defended by little more than scattered remnants of smaller units, cavalry and infantry, plus the home guard, the men commanded by Dick Ewell.
Lee had heard the sounds of the fight from the west, but nothing from Pickett. He had only the scouting reports of the cavalry, the small skirmish line that picked at the great Federal surge on the east side of Five Forks. He’d sent Anderson’s troops farther west, at first, to link up with Pickett, to fill the gap in the line on the White Oak Road. But Anderson was too late, could only dig in and face the great force that routed Pickett at Five Forks. Anderson was now the right flank. With Pickett’s men swept away, Anderson was the new end of the line.
All night Lee had heard the sounds, the skirmishers firing at his defenses all along the line, all the way from the James River, all down below the city. The big guns had kept up the demonstration as well, and Lee had stayed awake, eyes wide, staring into darkness, uncomfortable now in the soft bed. By late night he knew the worst, that the strong right flank, the force that had kept Sheridan at bay for two days, was now gone, completely erased from the picture. With the first light would come the new reports, what he already knew inside, estimates, thousands of prisoners, a defeat as complete and quick as any he had suffered.
The demonstrations meant something, and Lee had listened to a different sound, not the usual blind bombardment. They were picking a spot, many vulnerable places, the line so weakened that on many of the parapets of the long earthworks, Lee’s men stood nearly twenty feet apart. By now Grant knows what happened to us at Five Forks, knows we have stretched this line yet again, stretched it so far that at almost any place he wants to, he can drive a spear, a hard wedge of power, and split us completely apart.
IT WAS FOGGY, THE DULL LIGHT MAKING ITS WAY INTO THE ROOM. Lee sat at a long table, stared down at the smoothness, the polished wood, looked slowly up at the grim face of Longstreet.
Longstreet said, “Is anything known of Pickett?”
Lee shook his head, said, “You mean, the man? No, nothing. He could be captured. He may not have survived. His troops are scattered.”
Longstreet held a small pipe, looked at it, said, “He gave it his best. Always did.”
Lee leaned back in the chair, was feeling very tired, the long sleepless night dragging on him, his patience frayed, washed away by the frustration of not knowing. He’d had doubts about the plan from the beginning, of trusting the important position to a man who wore the shroud of defeat, who had not recovered and learned and grown, who could not be relied upon, not anymore. He was angry now at Longstreet, the blind loyalty, thought, You were not here, you don’t know what happened. Your confidence in General Pickett is not justified.
He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, held it in. No, it serves no purpose. He looked at Longstreet, thought, You have always been where I needed you to be. We must think of now. We must move on.
Lee said, “I have not heard from him. I can tell you nothing more.”
There was noise from outside, boots on the porch, and the door opened. It was Hill, the small man pale behind the red beard, moving slowly, uncertain. Hill looked at Longstreet and straightened, surprised. He said to Lee, “General, I hope you are well this morning. General Longstreet, welcome.” There was a weary softness in Hill’s voice.
Longstreet nodded, said simply, “General Hill.”
There was a silent pause, an awkward moment, Hill still not certain he should be there.
Lee said, “General Hill, please sit down. We are grateful for your return. You look in fine form, if I may say. I wish I could respond that we are all quite fit, but I am afraid that may not be the case.”
Hill sat slowly, looked at Lee, confused, said, “I am fit, sir. Thank you. It is good to be here. The men … my troops are full of the fight, sir. It is healin
g … to see that, to hear them salute me like that.”
Lee looked down, said, “Yes, General, the men … there is loyalty there that still … impresses me. I am gratified to hear of the morale of your corps. However, our situation may not be so … pleasant.” There was an edge to Lee’s voice.
Hill glanced again at Longstreet, and Longstreet said, “General Hill, I am glad to see you here. We have serious work in front of us.”
Hill nodded, seemed relieved; the conversation was not personal, there was nothing of the old conflict in Longstreet’s words.
Lee looked briefly at Longstreet, nodded quietly, thought, Yes, thank you, there is no time for all of the old problems. He took a breath now, said to Hill, “Have you been along your lines this morning? Do you see any sign that the enemy is moving—”
There was a loud commotion outside, and the door burst open, Colonel Venable yelling into the room, “Sir, quick … something is happening, sir! We’re in retreat … quick, sir!”
Lee jumped up, rushed outside, could see men streaming across the open ground, coming up from the defenses below. There were wagons, horses, men in the road, moving up from the far trees and the thickets to the south. He felt for his field glasses, realized he was not wearing them, turned, saw Longstreet reach for his own and hold them out to him. Lee raised the glasses, looked to the southwest, could see more troops, an organized line moving up the broad hill, well past the defensive lines that were still strong, lines that should not have given way. He focused the glasses, strained to see, could not yet tell the uniforms, the fog still holding the sunlight away.
Lee handed the glasses to Longstreet, said, “Can you see …? Is that our people, a retreat? Are we pulling back?”
Longstreet focused, shook his head. “Can’t tell …”
Lee turned to Venable. “Colonel, you must find out who those people are. Get word … find General Heth. I must know if his lines have been broken.”
Now Hill jumped down from the porch, climbed quickly to his horse, said, “Sir, General Heth is my responsibility. If his position has been threatened, I will see to it.” He spun the horse and moved quickly away, his aide scrambling to follow.
Lee looked at Venable, mounting his own horse. “Colonel,” he said, “accompany General Hill! Report any news!”
Venable saluted, galloped quickly after Hill.
Lee felt the energy now fading quickly, felt a dark weariness, a black shroud of gloom, called out weakly, “General Hill … take good care.…”
THE LINES, MUDDY EARTHWORKS, WIDE TRENCHES, WERE EMPTY. The signs of the fight were all around, but there was no more fight. The men who had held these lines were far to the rear, pursued by most of the Federal Sixth Corps, Wright’s men storming into the lines at first light. The men in blue, having little to slow them down, burst through the defenses, as they might have done at any time, the lines stretched thin enough that no concentrated assault could have been resisted for long.
Venable was close to Hill and the two aides, and they moved farther to the west, reached a small rise and could see the road again, a line of cannon, big guns moving slowly away.
Hill focused his glasses, said to Venable, “Colonel, those are our guns. We need them brought back … this way.”
Venable saluted, rode quickly away. Hill scanned the ground, spurred the horse and moved down into a small patch of trees, the ground wet, a narrow creek twisting through. They moved quickly, pushed past the brush, began to climb up out of the tangle, and Hill abruptly pulled his horse up short. The two aides stopped, seeing two men in blue, muskets dragging the ground, eyes wide, exhausted.
Hill shouted, “Put down your guns. You are prisoners!”
The two aides rushed forward, but the blue soldiers had no fight, the guns slipping from their hands. Hill rode forward, looked at the two men, glanced at his aide, Tucker, who said, “General, what do we do with them?”
Hill looked at the other aide, said, “Private, escort these men back to General Lee. Sergeant Tucker, we must keep on.”
THEY WERE A COMPANY FROM SOUTHERN PENNSYLVANIA, MEN who loved Uncle John Sedgwick, who now fought under a man they still didn’t know and had rarely seen, Horatio Wright. They had come into the army as an alternative to life in the small towns, as common laborers, possessing the skills of handymen and carpenters. Many laughed when the shovels were passed down the Federal line, had done this work before, and by now many had used the shovels often, burying old friends and new.
This morning their good work had been with the musket, with the quick assault, but when the order came down, they looked at each other, wondered, Why now? What had changed that would make those rebs easier today than yesterday? But the order would never be questioned; the feelings about the officers would come out later, around the campfire, when they would talk more about the friends who did not come back.
They had moved forward at the first light, expected to rush into the blazing hell of the same fights they had rushed into before, but the enemy gave way quickly, without much resistance. Now the men of the Sixth Corps pushed on, chasing the rebels farther than they had before, a fast flight over the rolling fields that would eventually carry them to the railroad and beyond, to the Appomattox River.
His name was Mauk, and he was a corporal, a promotion earned for reasons he still didn’t understand. He didn’t know much about maps and rivers, had followed the men in front of him, as always, climbed up and over the high walls that he’d watched for months, surprised that when they reached the top there was no one there to stop them.
He had come into the army leaving a family at home, sent his pay to his wife whenever he could. He did not gamble, and if the temptation ever crossed him, he would think of the children, of the small home in the small town, and turn away from the men with the cards, the men with the bottles, and the few dollars would go home instead.
They were separated from the main body now, regiments and companies scattered all along the road, far out into the wide fields. They had moved through the old abandoned winter quarters of the rebels, and some had slipped out of line, an opportunity to perhaps find something, a memento, some piece of treasure.
Mauk stayed away from that, kept moving, a small group of men staying with him. If we keep moving, he thought, we should find the captain, find out what to do now.
What was left of his company was moving, slowly, carefully, through a small patch of damp woods, a muddy swamp. The men spread out behind him were as nervous as he was; they were behind the lines, had broken through into the enemy’s ground. The main force was up ahead, somewhere, and Mauk began to scan the ground beyond the swamp, glanced into the sun, now moving higher, thought, No, not that way. He knew enough about direction to know that way was Petersburg.
One man was close to him now, and Mauk saw it was the boy, Wolford, with the freckled face of a child, who everyone thought had lied about his age. Wolford stayed close to Mauk, always, and Mauk had patience, would look out for him, pull him in the right direction, hold him down when the volleys flew thick. Mauk looked past the boy, could see toward the others now, thought they were too far apart and wanted to yell at them to close it up. But then he glanced back across the open ground beyond the trees, thought, Maybe a bit farther, stay quiet, see what might be over that rise …
There was a small sound, and Mauk looked at the boy, and the boy pointed, wide-eyed. Mauk heard louder sounds now, turned and saw two horsemen moving along the open hillside. He crouched low, then moved up quickly, slipped behind the cover of a fat oak tree, raised his musket. The boy came up close to him, moved against the trees as well, lower, closer to the ground, pointed his musket as well. They see us, Mauk thought. Looks like officers!
The riders slowed, then stopped, and one, the smaller man, said something to the other, and the larger man rode toward them, closer, shouted out, “Fire and you’ll be swept to hell! Surrender, or I will shoot you! Our troops are here, you’ll have to surrender anyway!”
The sm
aller man moved forward now, a thick red beard, and he yelled, “Surrender your arms!”
Mauk glanced down at the boy, said quietly, “I don’t see it.”
He looked down the barrel of the gun now, thought the smaller man seemed to be in command. He sighted the small metal bead on the man’s chest, said to the boy, “Let’s shoot them.”
Both muskets fired, and Mauk saw his target fall, saw through the smoke that the other man was not hit, had grabbed the fallen man’s horse, turned and rode quickly away. Mauk looked down at the boy, said, “I believe you missed.”
Wolford nodded, said nothing, and they eased out from the tree, moved up the rise.
Mauk said, “Let’s see what we got here.…”
They moved up to the still body, the gray uniform stained now with a spreading flow of red.
Mauk leaned over, said, “Look here, Wolford. Got him through the heart.”
The boy was looking around, nervous still, and Mauk saw the men waving him back into the trees, small shouts, “C’mon.” He backed away from the body, said to the boy, “Best be moving on. He’s an officer, that’s for sure.” He moved away, the boy close behind, nodding now, a small piece of pride.
“Yep, got me an officer.”
LEE HAD SEEN THE TROOPS CLEARLY BY NOW, DID NOT NEED THE field glasses. They were moving in a slow steady wave, and there was no mistaking that the uniforms were blue.
Longstreet was gone, off to manage the troops arriving on the trains. In the yard around the house, Lee’s staff had gathered what they could, but much would be left behind. The Turnbull house was now directly in the path of the Federal advance. Lee still did not know what had happened, how the line had collapsed. He moved to the porch, stepped down toward the big horse, saw Taylor, and Marshall, carrying bundles of paper, tossing them into the waiting wagon. Lee mounted Traveller, heard horses moving quickly up the road from the west. He turned, heard Marshall say, “Sir, it’s General Hill …”
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 141