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

by Michael Shaara

  Very Respectfully,

  U. S. Grant, Lieutenant-General

  Lee nodded slowly, said, “Your concern for the dignity of the officers, their private property … this will have a positive effect on the army.” Lee paused, hesitant, then said, “I must mention … in our army, the cavalry and artillery men own their own horses. May I request … that they be allowed to retain their animals?”

  Our army, Grant thought. He must still believe that—that we are not one country. He said, “Under the terms as I have written them, no, they may not.”

  Lee looked down, and Grant saw the first emotion, Lee closing his eyes, a small glimpse of sadness. Grant watched him straighten, could see Lee fighting himself, holding the calm.

  Grant thought, How important is that after all? Those men will go home now, back to the small farms, the land they will need to work to survive. He said, “I suppose it will be acceptable. I will instruct my officers to allow any man who claims a horse or mule to be allowed to keep it.”

  Lee looked at him with tired relief, said, “That is very kind of you, sir. It is planting season, and these men will need their horses.” Lee paused, looked down at the book, said, “It will no doubt … be a long winter for many of them.”

  Lee handed the book to Grant, who turned, gave it to Parker and said, “Colonel, you may copy this in ink.”

  Officers now were moving outside, some leaving the room. Faces appeared in the doorway, briefly, and were gone. Now new faces appeared, to catch a quick glimpse of Lee, of the event in this modest house.

  Grant reached for a chair, pulled it closer to Lee, sat now, said quietly, “General … I am aware of the lack of supply … of the difficult situation your men may be in. May I offer to assist?”

  Lee straightened in the chair, nodded slowly, said, “Your cavalry has been most efficient. We have not had rations for … some time.”

  “If I may ask, General, how many rations would you require?”

  Lee shook his head, and Grant saw the eyes close again. Lee said, “I am not entirely certain. Twenty-five thousand perhaps.”

  Grant turned, looked at Sheridan, said, “General, can you provide twenty-five thousand rations to General Lee’s men?”

  Sheridan seemed surprised, said, “Twenty-five thousand? That many? Why do they need—”

  Grant glared at him. This is not the time.

  Sheridan absorbed the silent message, said, “Uh … yes, sir. It is not a problem. We will make the arrangements.”

  Grant said nothing, turned to Lee, and Lee now looked up at Marshall, who still stood close behind him. Lee said, “Colonel, you may prepare a response to General Grant’s letter.”

  Marshall sat now, pulled a pad of paper from his pocket, wrote a few lines. Grant waited as Lee read the words and said, “Colonel, it is not necessary to say ‘I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of such a date.’ He is right here. Just say, I accept these terms.”

  Grant wanted to smile, but there was tension in Lee’s voice, the guard coming down just a bit. Marshall wrote again, and Lee scanned the letter, then slowly handed it to Grant.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  April 9, 1865

  Lieut.-Gen. U. S. Grant,

  Commanding Armies of the United States

  General:

  I have received your letter of this date containing the terms of surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia as proposed by you. As they are substantially the same as those expressed in the letter of the 8th instant, they are accepted. I will proceed to designate the proper officers to carry the stipulations into effect.

  Very Respectfully, your obedient servant,

  R. E. Lee, General

  Grant looked at the heading, thought, So, this house is now the headquarters of both armies. Grant looked back at Parker, who handed him the permanent letter, and Grant read it carefully, leaned down, took the pen from his secretary and signed his name. He moved across the room, handed the letter to Lee. Lee now took Marshall’s letter, read it again. Grant watched him, saw Lee staring at the letter but not reading, was staring beyond, past the page, perhaps past this room in this simple house, out past all the men and guns and the horror of the past four years. Grant waited, would say nothing, felt the sadness coming again, the room very quiet now, the men understanding what was happening, what this moment meant. Lee blinked hard, took a pen from Marshall, read the letter one more time, the acceptance of the terms, the surrender of the army. Grant saw the pen shake slightly, saw Lee clench his fist, then slowly Lee signed his name.

  GRANT STOOD ON THE PORCH, AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS, AS LEE and his aides moved away, the horses out on the road. The yard was full of men in blue, officers, men who had known Lee from years before, West Pointers, who had hoped to speak to their former superintendent; old soldiers, veterans of Mexico, or from Lee’s cavalry command in Texas. Grant watched him move out of sight, looked across the yard, up the long rise, saw the flags, Ord’s command, and the cavalry.

  Suddenly, a big gun fired, a hollow blast, no shell, just a show of fireworks, and now the word was out all across the field, the men hearing from the officers that it was official, that it was over. Muskets began to fire, the voices drowned out by more big guns, and the men in the yard began to cheer as well, right in front of him. The depression, the sadness, still hung over him, and he began to feel the anger, the slow rage filling him. Rawlins was there now, grabbed his shoulder, said something loud, some boisterous cheer. Grant glared at him, looked out at all of them, and above him, on the hill, another big gun opened up, a spray of fire blooming from the barrel. In the yard he saw a man with a bugle, caught the man’s eye, motioned for the man to come close, said quietly, “There will be none of this.…”

  The man did not hear him, stepped up close, smiling, a toothy grin, said, “Yes, sir? Orders, sir?”

  Grant stared at the man with grim anger. The man’s smile vanished, and Grant said, “Stop this! Blow the call to formation! To inspection … anything! There will be none of this!”

  Now Sheridan was beside him, heard the order, and he was suddenly down the steps, the orders flying. Then men were on horses, moving away in all directions.

  Grant moved into the yard, mounted the horse, sat for a long moment, waited, and the sounds began to quiet, the guns did not fire. He was still angry, thought, This is not a celebration … there is no dignity, no honor, in humiliation. They do not need to be told they are beaten, they do not need us to tell them we have won. He began to move, and the men were quiet now. There were still a few cheers, a few hats waving, but around him men were watching Grant move past, and they began to absorb what was in his face, began to understand. Some were looking down across the fields, toward the camp where the men of Lee’s army were lining the road, sad low cries, men gathering now around their leader as he rode slowly back into their lines.

  Grant moved the horse in a slow rhythm, thought, I have learned something today, something about dignity, about the power of that, what it means to have respect from your men. He is … the symbol, he carries it with him … everything those men fought for. Even in defeat, even now, he still has the dignity. It is no wonder they fought for him. He had thought of that often, not just the strategy, the frustration with Lee’s military mind, but the other, the intangible, They have followed him until they simply could do no more. If we had not … subdued them, they would still fight, no matter how few their numbers, whether they had food or guns or nothing at all. You cannot ask for that, you cannot order it. You just go about your work and your duty with absolute honesty, you fight for something you believe in without any other motive. Lee simply did not believe he was ever wrong, or would ever lose.

  He thought now of the others, a long list of familiar names, thought, This army, any army, is filled with men who stake their claim, who plan their own place in history. But there is no honor in that—because their name reaches the newspaper does not mean they hold any special power, an
ything to be respected. You don’t create honor, it creates you. I saw that today, I saw it in the man’s face, in the eyes, in the man’s heart. We prevailed on the field, we defeated his army … but we did not defeat him.

  He looked up along the rise, saw the flags of the Fifth Corps, thought of Griffin and Warren, controversy and conflict, men who deserve the honor and men who don’t. Now he stopped the horse, thought for a long moment, remembered one name, the commander who had been wounded … thought to be dead, the man who came back, who always came back, the man Griffin always spoke of. Grant tried to picture the man’s face, but it was not there, just the name, and something came to him, stuck in his mind. The man was not a soldier, not a West Pointer, had come to the army from a college somewhere in Maine. But he was always there, in front, the hot places, had become a soldier by earning it, not by pronouncement or politics or simple good luck. Grant thought, Yes, that’s what we need, not a professional, not someone who is just performing another duty. We need someone who will go back home to his family and tell them how important this is, what we have done here, what it feels like to be here.

  He still tried to see the face, remembered something Griffin had said, something about words, language. Grant thought of the surrender document, the struggle for the right words. No, I don’t want another military man, I want someone who can tell the people … who can use the right words. He turned now, saw Porter, pointed up the hill, said, “The Fifth Corps, go up there, find General Griffin, get word to him that I have chosen the man I want to receive the arms of Lee’s men.”

  Porter moved up beside him, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, a pencil, said, “Yes, sir, uh … the name, sir?”

  Grant looked up the hill, said, “Brigadier General Joshua Chamberlain.”

  53. CHAMBERLAIN

  APRIL 12, 1865

  IT WAS GRAY, DREARY, AND THE ROADS WERE STILL SOFT FROM THE rains of the past two days. He had received the order from Griffin, still did not truly believe it, that he would be singled out, or even remembered at all by the commanding general. But Griffin had been clear and direct, and there was no ceremony, no dramatics. Chamberlain had thought, All right, but not just the brigade, it should be all of us, the division, the corps, maybe the whole army. It was not possible, of course, much of the army was already breaking camp, moving away. But the First Division, Griffin’s old command, would remain around the town, and Chamberlain had insisted, had been as firm as anyone could be to Charles Griffin, and Griffin had no objection at all. The entire division would line the road, both sides, would be a part of it, of the ceremony none of them would ever forget.

  He was on the horse, still wore the same coat, had been embarrassed about that, poked his fingers through the holes, neat and round, punched by the musket balls of the men he would see today. No, it is all right, he thought. No one will notice. And if they do, I suppose that is all right too.

  There had been some low voices, nervous talk down the line, and in the distance they could see the rebel camps, the tents coming down, the flags lowered. He could hear their bugle calls, felt the sound in some uneasy place, a sound he had heard before, but the notes were different now, slow calls to order, to formation. The men far down the line could see movement on the road now, the gray column in motion, and a low murmur spread up the road toward him. He felt his gut churn, felt the hard thumping in his chest, and finally he could see them coming up the long hill, marching toward him.

  They were led by an officer on horseback, and Chamberlain watched him, the back straight, the uniform clean, as clean as could be in the mud of the camps. The man’s face was trimmed by a short beard, a neat point below his chin. Chamberlain saw nothing else now. If this man was in front of the column it was for a reason, a choice made not by chance but by something in the man himself. The horse was moving slowly, with steady steps, and the man was now close to him, looking straight ahead, the eyes cold, dark, accepting the challenge of the moment, and Chamberlain could see it all, the sadness, the courage. He did not know all the flags, how to identify all the gray units, or even how many units were still a part of Lee’s army. He saw the red banner, held by another officer, behind this one commander, and now the name came, the recognition of one of Lee’s best. Chamberlain felt a sudden rush of excitement: John Gordon.

  Gordon moved past him, then reined the horse, and now Chamberlain saw the first of the foot soldiers, felt a small shock, the lines neat, the men marching straight, upright. But their uniforms were rags, pants torn, feet bare. The officers had some faint symbols of rank, but the coats were faded, sleeves frayed. Even the horses were gaunt, bones held together by raw patches of hide. The column was halted, and there was a quick shout. The men stood at quiet attention, and for the first time he could see the faces. They stared hard at the men who faced them a few feet away, who might have faced them on different ground in some very different place. The faces were thin, drawn, rough, and Chamberlain thought, These are the ones who still would fight, the ones who did not fall away, did not lose the strength, who are here now because it is their duty to be here.

  There was another quick shout, and the men drew their bayonets, fixed them in one motion down the line, and for one brief moment he had a stab of fear, thought, How many times … and they know it too, they know that when the bayonets went forward, we would be close, we would look straight into the eyes, and the better man would win. The word stuck in his mind. No, not better … there is nothing in that here, this has not been some contest, some test of resolve. Look at these men, look at the faces, the strength in the eyes. They are, after all … us.

  There was another order, and the men stepped forward, began to stack arms, making small pyramids, the bayonets pointing up, locking together. Then cartridge boxes were unhooked from belts, some from pieces of rope, some pulled from pockets. Slowly the boxes were piled beside the muskets, and the men backed into line, waited for the next command. He saw the smaller flag, had not really thought about that, had focused still on the bayonets, on the dull steel he’d seen too many times, but now one man stepped out of line, held the flag above him for a moment, and Chamberlain saw the man was crying, the flag slowly coming down, the man draping it carefully on the points of the bayonets. The man’s head dropped and he let go of the staff, moved back into line. Suddenly, several of the men broke ranks, hands went out, small sounds, and now, loud sobs, the hands were touching their flag, men dropping down, kneeling. No one spoke, there were no orders, then slowly the men began to stand again, helping each other, moving back into line.

  The line was straightened again, with a quiet look from an officer, the men standing at attention. The faces were fixed again, men fighting for control, for the dignity of the moment. There were still tears, small sounds, faces staring across to the men in blue. Then Chamberlain heard the low sounds beside him, behind him, could hear the quiet respect, the sadness coming from his own men. He looked at Gordon again, who stared ahead, waiting for the appropriate moment, waiting to move on, to bring on the rest of the column, the regiments, the brigades, passing the entire army along this road, every unit repeating the ceremony, with more stacks of arms, more bayonets, more flags.

  Chamberlain glanced to the men beside him, saw his young sergeant, the man with the flag of the Fifth Corps now, the red Maltese cross. There was another man beside him, another flag bearer with a larger flag, the stars and stripes, the flag of the army, of the Union, and the flag was fluttering in the slight breeze. Chamberlain saw the faces again, the men in the road looking up at the flag, thought, Yes, it is still yours … it has always been yours. Despite all you have done, all of the death and the horror, the anger and the hatred. You have proven you will fight and die for something that you believe in. That is exactly what this flag means, has always meant.

  He saw more faces looking up, drawn by the slow wave of the flag. There were still some angry glances, the fight not yet out of all of them, and Chamberlain thought, Well, that might be a good thing. It will take a
nother kind of fight, a different strength now to pull us together, to mend what this war has done. They still have the strength, the will, and there is great value in that, for all of us, for the country, for the future. We are blessed by that, we are blessed that we can welcome them back, that we are all again under one flag. I salute you … no, we will all salute you.

  The words came into his mind, and he did not hesitate, said in a loud voice, “Carry … arms!”

  Men were looking at him, surprised, small voices, and he looked to the side, stared hard at the officers closest to him, would not repeat the order, knew they had heard it, knew they understood. Now the order echoed all along the line, all down the road.

  They all knew what the order meant, that the killing anger, the hatred, the blind violence of the beast was gone, and the men who stood face-to-face were brothers after all. Now the order was obeyed, and the men in blue held their muskets up to their chests, the quiet salute, the show of respect.

  Gordon was looking at him again, his face changed now, the eyes soft. Slowly, Gordon raised his sword, held it high, then dropped it down, low by his side, the point of the sword to the toe of his boot, the response, the soldier’s salute.

  54. LEE

  APRIL 12, 1865

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  General Orders: No. 9

  After four years of arduous service marked by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the brave survivors of so many hard fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of them; but feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing that could compensate for the loss that must have attended the continuance of the contest, I determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their countrymen.