He saw a flag, horses, moved that way, saw the great black horse and the small man. Riding up quickly, he saluted, said, “General Sheridan. I have two brigades of infantry, at your service, sir.”
Sheridan stared at him with a black fire, pointed toward the sounds, said simply, “There! Smash ’em up! Smash ’em to hell!”
Chamberlain looked to the front, the smoke drifting slowly away, could see it now, a heavy line of rebels and the blue cavalry, dismounted, a thinning line, falling back, the field scattered with the fallen blue troopers. The rebels were moving forward, slowly, against the men in blue. Chamberlain thought, They cannot hold … they need support. He looked around at his men, moving forward in a neat line, felt suddenly ridiculous, thought, Yes, of course, that’s us.
There was a volley from the rebels, the smoke blowing out toward him, and he spurred the horse, rode back to his men, moved close behind the line. He looked for the bugler, saw officers watching him, waiting for the word. The men could see what lay in front of them now, already knew what was coming. Chamberlain saw the man with the bugle, yelled at him, “Now! Advance!”
The men surged forward, and Chamberlain moved down the line, yelling, “Forward, advance!” But the men were in a good hard line, and there was no wavering, no hesitation. He could see more infantry now, Ord’s men, coming out of the trees far off to the side, and they were moving as well, the officers turning them, linking up with Chamberlain’s flank, lengthening the line, a solid, growing wave. Chamberlain wanted to say, “Yes, thank you,” but there was no need. The movement was automatic now, the fight pulling them forward, the enemy so close, right in front of them. He looked at his own lines, reaching the base of the wide hill, saw the muskets go up in one long motion, the order going out from officers he could not hear, his officers, the volley blowing the smoke back toward the rebels.
He could see the rebel line backing away, climbing up the hill, men still firing, the line breaking up. He looked across to Ord’s lines, felt a sudden odd stab in his gut, could see a solid front of blue, pushing forward. He watched them, stared at the great long line of black faces, a Negro division … Birney’s men. They moved in flank with his own line, pushing the rebels back farther up the rise, a steady advance, the rebels giving up the ground. He was lost for a moment, the sounds now somewhere else as he watched the Negroes begin to absorb the fire of the rebels, men punched back by musket fire, some simply collapsing, opening small gaps in the line. The line tightened up then, the officers and the sergeants pulling their men together, keeping the formation tight. What is this like for them? Chamberlain wondered. What are they feeling? My God … this is what we are fighting for … at least, it is what I am fighting for. And I can never know … I will never feel what this means to them.
A hot rush shook him, nearly knocked him from the horse, the sudden blast of dirt behind him, and the horse jumped. He focused, thought, Lawrence, your brain again. Back to work.
He could see his men climbing up the rise now, the rebels pulling away still, back along the crest of the hill, some moving beyond, out of sight. His men were in pursuit, yells echoing where the sounds of musket fire had stopped. He rode up close, thought, No wait, we don’t know what is over the hill.
He waved the sword, a silent signal to hold them up, to wait. Now there were horses coming up from the flank, flags, and he looked at the man in front, arms waving, a man he didn’t know. He turned that way, saw two stars, thought … Ord. Chamberlain saluted, waited.
Ord shouted at him, “General, keep your men off that crest. They will be exposed to fire!”
Abruptly, Ord was gone, the horses thundering away. Chamberlain stared at the cloud of dust, turned, looked up toward the crest of the hill. Exposed to fire? he thought. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? He thought of Sheridan: I do not believe those would be General Sheridan’s orders. The words came to him again: smash ’em up. No, I believe General Sheridan would rather we advance. He sagged slightly, thought, Generals.
He saw the bugler watching him, the line now snaking along the side of the hill, the officers in front, pulling the men together, straightening the line. He nodded to the bugler, said, “Now … advance!”
The men began to move again, the line flowing forward, and then they were on the crest. He rode up quickly, thought, Careful, be ready to order the retreat.
The ground fell away in front of them, revealing a wide valley. He saw the small town, a scattering of buildings, a small line of trees snaking through the valley, the river now only a small stream. He reined the horse, heard the sound of one shell, the explosion ripping the ground in front of his line, another streaking overhead. Then there was a sudden breath of silence, and he stared in amazement, felt himself drawn forward, out across a vast field, short rolling hills, small trees. Below the wide hill, spread across the valley, was a mass of guns, wagons, and men; ragged lines, pulling back, drawing up into a defense. He thought, It is a division, and we’re exposed. But there was no firing, no organized formation. Many of the guns were parked, neat squares, many of the wagons had no horses, and the troops were not gathering for a fight, were not gathering at all. He could see men sitting now, some standing without muskets, a few staring up the hill at the men in blue with a look he’d never seen before. Then he understood what lay across this small valley in front of him. It was not a division, it was not even a fighting force at all.
It was what remained of Lee’s army.
HIS MEN BEGAN TO MOVE FORWARD, SLOWLY, ON THEIR OWN, AND there was musket fire, scattered, men crouching low. He could see more of the Fifth Corps now, Crawford’s men, pulling into line beside him, saw more of the cavalry, swords raised, waiting for the command to advance. Behind him, he could hear the big guns rolling up, the rattle of wagons and caissons, the horses pulling cannon into position just behind the hill. Down below, the rebels were gathering, forming a weak line, and Chamberlain looked to both sides, to the mass of blue that snaked across the ridge, spreading far to the north now, beyond the town. There are so many of us, he thought, and so few of them. There were small sounds off to the east as well; the Sixth, Chamberlain thought, the Second. He looked to his own men again, saw the stunned faces all along the line. No one spoke, they all understood. Behind the thin line of rebels below them he could see to the muddy banks of the river, men sitting in great masses, some moving around, and it was not the movement of an army. There was no command, no order. His men began to make sounds now, small cheers, the energy for the fight. He rode forward, saw them wide-eyed, watching the prey, the easy target, and he could feel the surge, the fever, thought, No, wait, not yet. “Hold the line, hold here!” he shouted.
He looked back, tried to see someone, Sheridan, Ord, thought, My God, if we attack … we will destroy them … this will be a slaughter.
Seeing a man point, Chamberlain turned and looked back down toward the rebel lines. A horseman was moving quickly up the hill, a tattered rag of dirty white over the man’s head. The man was moving right, then left, and Chamberlain thought, He is looking for … someone in command. He is looking for me.
He rode forward, and the man saw him. Chamberlain could see the Confederate uniform, an officer, the uniform ragged but intact, and he thought, He is not combat … he is a staff officer. The man moved up the hill close to him, stopped, dismounted, held the ragged white cloth in front of him, looked nervously at the blue line. Chamberlain glanced at the muskets of his men, and no one was pointing their gun, there was no threat.
The man said, “Sir, I am from General Gordon. General Lee desires a cessation of hostilities until he can hear from General Grant … as to the proposed … surrender.”
Chamberlain absorbed the man’s drawl, could see the pain in his face, and now the word began to fill him: surrender. Close to him, the men who heard the man’s words began to yell, to cheer, and the word proceeded to flow down the line, the voices growing louder. Chamberlain felt his stomach twist, thought, Can I do this? He thought of his own
words now: There has to be the right thing to say. The officer watched him patiently.
Chamberlain said, “Sir, that matter exceeds my authority. I will send for my superior.” He felt instantly foolish, the cold words of command, the formality. The man nodded slowly, understood, and Chamberlain turned, saw one of his aides, the man staring wide-eyed. Chamberlain waved him forward, said quietly, “Go to General Griffin. Find him. Now!”
He looked at the Confederate officer again, could see the dignity, the sadness, the man doing his painful duty. He thought, I should say something appropriate.… What is appropriate? How many times are we in this position? He removed his hat, at least a bit of courtesy, said, “General Lee is right. There is nothing more he can do.”
The man nodded slightly, said nothing. Chamberlain’s men had quieted, were all watching the officer, waiting. For what, he thought, something else? He looked out past the man, down the hill, out over the small valley. Out of the odd silence, there was a sudden sharp blast from down below, one gun hidden in small trees, and he heard the shell, the hard shriek. Down the line there was a quick rush of sound, a small blast, and he saw a man go down, falling from a horse. Men were gathering, and Chamberlain spurred the horse, moved that way, quickly dismounted. The men cleared away, and he saw a young officer, thought of the name … Lieutenant Clark, from New York. There was a hole in the man’s chest, blood everywhere, and someone yelled for a doctor, but Chamberlain saw there was no need. He backed away, felt suddenly sick, turned from the horror.
The man in gray walked toward him, toward the body of the young lieutenant. The man said nothing, and Chamberlain looked at him, wanted to feel anger, to scream at him, the words hot in his mind, This is your truce? But the man kneeled down, lowered his head, and Chamberlain could see he was saying something, a quiet prayer. He stepped forward then, close to the man, thought of the word again, surrender, said quietly, “Pray that he is the last.”
51. LEE
MORNING, APRIL 9, 1865
THE FIGHT HAD GONE EXACTLY AS THEY HAD PLANNED, GORDON striking hard at the blue cavalry, supported by Fitz Lee’s horsemen. They had pushed Sheridan away at first, and for a brief time the road was open, escape possible. But Lee had seen it himself, the sudden ring of blue coming over the low hills, emerging from the woods, and very soon Gordon’s men were fighting an enemy on three sides, and Fitz Lee’s men became separated from the infantry, cut off out to the west. Gordon sent for help, requested in urgent terms that Longstreet come forward, turn his men to the front, but Longstreet was still holding a weakening line against the hard advance of two Federal corps.
The couriers had moved in and out of camp, the situation growing more clear. All along the front lines men were waiting for the command, to strike out again, to do whatever it would take to drive the enemy away. Lee had spoken to many, sorted through details of what they knew, of what they felt. Some still wanted to fight it out; if the mass of blue was too strong, the army could be divided, scattered into the hills, continue the war by any means. He was surprised at that, knew the passions were still high, but the talk of scattered resistance would only serve the needs of the soldier, of the men who would not end the fight. It would be devastating to the civilians, with the likelihood of brutal reprisals from Federal troops, and to the towns that would have to be occupied by force and governed by martial law. He listened to the passion, but had been firm and clear in his own mind. There could be no end to the blood and the death, and there could be no hope for a just peace, unless the war was stopped.
He had sent for Longstreet, who rode up now, trailed by a flag bearer and one other man, Billy Mahone. They dismounted and walked up the rise to where Lee waited. Lee stood straight, felt the tightness around his waist, the stiffness in the fresh uniform.
He had dressed early, searching through the trunk for the last clean one, and the one he rarely wore, reserved usually for the formality of Richmond. The uniform had not been worn in a long while. He had run his hand through the trunk, searching, finally felt the softness of the silk, an afterthought, had thought, No, too much, but then he put it around his waist, the red silk sash he’d always left in the trunk. The sword was a gift from the state of Virginia, would never see combat, was meant for some glorious ceremony, gold-trimmed, with a carved hilt and an elaborate scabbard. He’d never thought it would be worn, had even been embarrassed to receive it, but now it was there, hooked to his belt, a part of him.
He watched Longstreet move up the hill, taking long slow steps, and then he could not look at him, turned away, felt a sudden wave of sadness. Longstreet’s right arm still hung low, the effects of the wound. He stopped, waited for Lee to speak.
Lee still would not look at him, said quietly, “There are heavy troop concentrations blocking our way west. General Gordon has not been able to break through.”
There was a quiet pause, and Longstreet moved closer, looked past Lee, toward the sounds of scattered musket fire, a fading battle, said, “Sir, may I ask why you are dressed … this way?”
Lee still looked away, the voice still soft, said, “If I am probably to be General Grant’s prisoner, I thought I should make my best appearance.”
Longstreet let out a deep breath. “Is there nothing left? Surely, there is an alternative.”
Lee looked at him now, saw the grim anger in the man’s face, the look so familiar. “Do you have a plan, General?” he asked.
Longstreet looked down, and after a moment, said, “Is there anything to be gained by throwing this army forward … by making the sacrifice of these men? Can we gain some advantage … elsewhere?”
Lee thought of Johnston, and the numbers flooded his mind again, the vast strength that Grant could now send anywhere there was still a fight. He shook his head. “No.”
Longstreet stared at him hard in the eye, and Lee felt it, the old power, the cold stubbornness. Longstreet said, “Then, your situation speaks for itself.”
Lee nodded, looked back toward Mahone. “General, do you have a view … something to add?”
Mahone appeared nervous, moved forward slowly, glanced at Longstreet, said, “Can we not … continue the fight, sir? My division is still fit.”
Lee looked at the young man, nodded, said, “How many men, General? Four thousand … perhaps more?”
Mahone seemed to energize, a show of enthusiasm, “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir! Four thousand good men!”
Lee could not hide the sadness, looked at Mahone with tired, heavy eyes, thought of the numbers, carried them in his mind like some great wound. Mahone’s faith in his division did not change the fact that Longstreet had barely eight thousand men holding the line in the rear, and after the fight this morning, Gordon had far fewer than that. The cavalry could not even be counted, but Lee knew that if his nephew had as many as two thousand troopers, he would be fortunate. He did not know the Federal numbers, but he knew who they were, and at least four corps plus Sheridan’s cavalry meant he was outnumbered easily five to one. Lee raised his hand, pointed, motioned to the south, the west. “Do you know how many of those people are out there?”
Mahone thought for a moment, stared at Lee, absorbed his mood, and the young man’s energy began to slip away. He glanced at Longstreet, said, “I do not suppose … we have enough.”
Lee turned away, looked again to the west, out beyond the road that was now held tight inside the hard blue line, thought, It could have been … it could have taken us away. He wondered about that, if there were still a chance to escape, to take the army farther west, to take himself away from all of this, from the fight, from the death of his men. God had always been here, he thought, always … I felt Him. If He is here now, then I must do what He wants me to do. He thought now of the night before, some sign, some message that would lead them, but the message had come bathed in the hard blue of the enemy that was closing in all around them.
He looked at Longstreet now, felt a cold darkness in his chest, said, “There is nothing for us to do. It is time
for me to go to General Grant, and accept the consequences for my acts.”
He looked back down the hill, saw staff officers waiting, watching him, and he motioned them forward, his hand resting on the sword. He rubbed his fingers slowly on the scabbard, gripped the hilt, felt the cold weight growing inside of him. This is the message, he thought, this is the only path. He looked at Longstreet, felt the tears, had no strength to hold it away, his hand shaking now, the fingers letting go of the sword, said, “But I would rather die … a thousand deaths.”
EARLY AFTERNOON, APRIL 9, 1865
THE MESSAGE HAD GONE OUT TO GRANT, WRITTEN FOR HIM BY THE young man in the round spectacles, the nervous hand of Charles Marshall. He had no idea where Grant was, had tried to reach him through the lines in the rear, as he had before, but there was no reply, and without a cease-fire, without the entire Federal line accepting a truce, there could be a new assault at any time.
It was the sheer bulk of the Federal forces that had slowed communication, the message passing from one front to the other. The dispatches were now flying back and forth, confused, uncertain, no one taking responsibility for ordering a truce. The word finally came that Grant had been on the move, the long ride down across the small river toward the town, from the rear of the army forward, to Sheridan’s front.
Lee sat on the ground, leaned back against an old apple tree. The shooting had stopped, a fragile truce in effect, but still he had not heard from Grant. Around him, the staff had spread out, guards posted, holding the soldiers at a distance. Word of the truce had spread through his men as well as the Federals, and order was breaking down, men looking for him, to protest, to beg for the chance to fight on.
He did not hear it, the sounds of men from across the open ground, calling him, the anger, sadness, tears. He was thinking of Mary, of a letter, months before, while they were still in Petersburg, before the winter had ended. There had been such optimism, the energy for the new spring, for what would come, and the letter had been forgotten, pushed aside by the great flood of words and papers that came with the operation of the army. But now the letter came back to him.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 148