by Jeff Shaara
Now, the couriers went out toward headquarters at all hours with' the smallest bit of new information. Lee would never be blind again.
They sat AT HIS SMALL DESK, and read THE REPORTS. IT WAS confirmed now, the Federal Ninth Corps, Burnside's troops, had moved east, had left their position around Knoxville and were on the trains, and very soon would add to the strength of Meade's army. He put the paper down, realizing it would be in Virginia after all. He understood, walked to the opening in the tent, stared out down the wide hill, saw his men milling through their camps, some at drill, some gathered at the fires.
Taylor, sitting at a small table out in the open, saw him, and Lee saw the line of officers and a few privates waiting patiently, the daily complaints and requests. The look on Taylor's face was a silent question: Do you need me? Lee shook his head, stepped into the open, suddenly felt the urge for coffee, moved toward the mess wagon. He saw Marshall now, the young man moving toward him, and Lee smiled as he walked; there was always something about Marshall that made him smile. He was young, nearly as young smile. as Taylor, wore small round glasses that made him resemble a schoolboy, studious and efficient.
Marshall stopped, saw Lee focused on the wagon, said, "General, may I get you something?"
Lee said, "No, Major, quite all right. just taking a bit of a break." Lee reached the wagon, and the mess sergeant had a cup ready, poured a thick black liquid from a tin pot, handed it slowly to Lee and said quietly, so as not to disturb his thoughts, "Sir."
Lee took the cup and drew it up, caught the rising steam, breathed it in. The man held out a small metal box, and Lee took a spoon from it, scooped it full of the brown crystals, stirred the hard sugar into the cup. He stared at the thick swirl, slowly took a sip, felt his tongue curl at the bitterness, then glanced up at the sergeant, who was smiling, proud of his brew. Lee nodded, tried to smile, thought, Maybe... more sugar. The sergeant still held the box out, and Lee thought, No, we must make do... even the little things. He put the spoon back in the box, turned toward his tent, looked again into the cup. The men do not have the luxury of coffee, he thought, not real coffee anyway. He recalled seeing men grinding up straw and corn husks, peanut shells and tree bark, anything that could be boiled into a hot black liquid. He knew they were trading with the Yankees, that when the armies were close, the men along the picket lines would make their own quiet armistice, swapping their tobacco for coffee, newspapers for hardtack. He did not approve, but would not give the order to stop. The pickets know more than the rest of us, he thought. They are so close, and so they see it clearly.
It had taken him a long time to understand what the men on the front lines had accepted long ago. But Lee still saw the faces, knew the names, had served with so many of them, fought with them in Mexico, chased Comanches with them in Texas, had watched many of them work their way through West Point. The foot soldiers had no guilt, no difficulty killing the men in blue, no confusion about whether the Yankees were indeed the enemy. It is our sad duty, but I cannot think of them that way, Lee reflected. They are simply... those people.
He had believed from the beginning that 'there was a difference, something superior in his men that went beyond what they brought to the battlefield. But despite the poor commanders, the blue soldier had proven he would fight, and that if God gave him the chance, he would win the fight. Lee had finally begun to understand that the hand of God might cover more than just his army. Those boys, those other fellows, were not that different from them after all.
He thought, But God is still with us, He still watches over us, and He is still guiding us. If He is guiding them as well, if He puts the good fight in them, it is to test us, test our resolve. In the end, He will judge us for that' for our heart, for how we do our duty.
The wave of religious spirit had again swept through the winter camps. Just as the year before, the revival tents had spread out all through the army, the men gathering in great numbers before the renewed enthusiasm of the chaplains. There had been civilian visitors as well, preachers, men of great fiery oration. It was the perfect way for the men to spend the bleak winter, to relieve the boredom by the strengthening of their faith.
He looked northward, over the wide bleak fields, over distant rolling hills. It was not the same over there... across the river. They are such a mix of people, so little in common with us... even with each other. But even before Gettysburg he had been surprised, began to see something new in the spirit of the blue soldiers, the men who charged hard into his guns. He thought of the vast horror of the stone wall at Fredericksburg, how they still came, wave after wave. They do not fight for the same cause, he thought, they are not defending against an invader, they do not fight to protect their homes, but still... they fight.
He had not thought it possible that this would still go on. He'd assumed that after all the bloody fights, and so many utter defeats those fellows would not have the stomach for this, they would simply go home. He'd thought it would come from the soldiers themselves, the men who saw the horrors, knew the fear, the panic, the sickening loss. He thought they would finally say, "Enough, there is no good reason for this, we are dying for fat men in silk suits who bide in clean white buildings." The blue lines would thin, the enthusiasm for the fight draining away, and with that, the Federal army would cease to be.
He had not often seen them up close, but he understood who they were. He'd seen many prisoners, thought of the faces, the bitter sadness of men who were out of the fight. Yet they do not make the fight, be thought. It is not the foot soldier who brings this war against us. They are farmers and laborers and clerks, and surely they feel just as we do, that we all have the right to be left alone. We do not threaten their cities, we do not seek to destroy their homes, we do not blockade their ports or starve their families. Yet they are still inspired... by what? It is not the inspiration that comes from great leadership. There has never been great leadership. It was not Meade who turned us away in Pennsylvania. We were beaten by our own mistakes, and the fight of their soldiers. Now, Washington has given them a new commander, and like all the rest, he must bring them into our guns again. But this time, they will be different... they will know what it feels like to win.
He drank from the cup again, ignored the bitterness, stared out at the camps of his men, thought, We are fighting for our independence, and that is the greatest fight there can be. Throughout the winter he had thought of his men as akin to the men at Valley Forge, the small shivering army of George Washington, praying and enduring through the misery of the elements, surviving, somehow, so they could take the fight to the enemy again. Washington had prevailed against great odds, against the better equipped army of a great empire. It had always inspired him, the great fight against long odds, the success against a powerful enemy. There is not much difference between Washington's army and ours, he mused. We are fighting, after all, for the same reasons, for the same cause. And, we can succeed. With the weather warming, the roads drying out, the army is rested, morale is high, and they are ready again.
He knew the First Corps was coming back, that Longstreet was already bringing them out of Tennessee, would be close very soon. That -would bring the numbers back up, make Lee as strong as he would ever be. Now the reports from Stuart confirmed he was right, the fight would be here. But this time it could be very different, this time the Federals would be led by someone who did not put his picture in the newspapers, who did not make grand speeches. He tried to remember the face, the name a vague memory from long ago, a brief meeting in Mexico, but there was nothing that brought that back to him, nothing to separate the name "Grant" from so many others. He knew only that this man had risen to the top, that something had so inspired Lincoln that he'd given this man complete control.
He walked to his tent, saw Taylor signing papers, heard his name called, soldiers trying for some piece of personal attention, but he did not respond, moved into the tent. He looked at the latest message from Stuart, saw several more scattered on the table. Under
standing what Stuart was doing, the over efficiency he smiled, thought, General, don't wear out your horses.
He sat, moved the papers into a single pile, set the cup down, stared away at nothing. He began to think of moving the army, the new defense, the new commanders, felt relief that Longstreet was coming back. Yes, you are still my warhorse. And I will need you, and I will need General Stuart. He looked out through the opening in the tent, could see across the far fields, saw the large dark mound of Clark Mountain rising in the distance, a dull intrusion into the blue sky, thought, I should go up there, speak to the lookouts. Grant's army will not sit still for long. And we must be prepared.
He emptied the cup, felt the bitterness filling him, felt the familiar twist in his gut, the surge of energy for the new fight. He stood then, moved out of the tent, thought, If Grant is in Virginia, then he is here because I am here.... They WAITED FOR HIM ON THE WIDE HILL, WATCHED HIM QUIetly as he rode toward them, Traveller carrying him through the small trees, the trail winding between large flat rocks. He had a fresh energy, felt better than he had in weeks, had pushed the horse hard up the hill, felt the thrill of the hard ride. His staff, whom he'd left behind, were just now coming into view. He gazed across the summit of the hill, felt the coolness, saw the flowers, God's hand draped across the land in rich green patches, the new growth of spring. The horse was breathing hard, and he leaned over, patted the animal's neck, gave a small laugh.
Clark Mountain was really a large flat hill, but it loomed high above the Rapidan River and was ideal for an observation post. The lookouts themselves began to gather now, staying back behind the small group of commanders, and Lee halted the horse, dismounted, instinctively looked at the larger man, standing in front of the others.
"General Longstreet, you are looking well this morning."
Longstreet made a short bow, held a short pipe in one hand, smiled briefly. He knew Lee's moods, had not seen this one for a long while, said only, "General Lee."
Behind Longstreet, Lee saw the others watching him still, and no one would speak until he'd acknowledged them. He was used to this courtesy now, understood the formality of rank, looked to the tall thin man behind Longstreet who was moving forward gingerly on the wooden leg, stepping awkwardly across the uneven rock.
"General Ewell-"
"Sir!" Ewell snapped to attention, saluted, and Lee returned it.
Then Lee saw a smaller man, the red beard neatly trimmed, the old hat propped slightly askew.
"General Hill He paused, hesitated to use the words that seemed to come naturally when greeting Hill.
"Are you well today, General?"
Hill glanced at Longstreet, who did not look at him, and Lee knew this was a sensitive point, that Hill was aware of the talk in the camps of the other commanders, the longstanding feud with Longstreet never really resolved. Hill's frequent illnesses had become well known, and many were saying it was only when the big fight was coming that he would withdraw to his cot. Hill stood straight, said, "Yes, General. I am quite well."
Lee made small greetings to the others, saw the sour expression of jubal Early, Ewell's division commander, an outspoken and unpopular man, and more recently the man who was seen as the true commander of Ewell's Second Corps, the strength behind the weakening control of Ewell.
Ewell understood that his reputation had diminished. Under Jackson, early in the war, he'd led his division with great fire, had built affection from his men by often putting himself where a commander had no business going, right on the line, moving into the fight beside his men. The bravado had cost him a leg, and with that loss something else had gone out of him as well, something unexpected. After Jackson's death, when Ewell and Hill were promoted to inherit the divided command, Ewell had seen his first great opportunity at Gettysburg, staring down at him from the top of Cemetery Hill. Lee knew, as did the others, that Ewell had not performed, had stared up at the weak Federal defenses on the hill and done nothing. Even when his commanders had offered to assault the key position on their own responsibility, Ewell held them back, suddenly lost the great fire Jackson had always relied on. More recently, Ewell had married, moved his wife into his headquarters, and, if his strength had seemed to drain away with the loss of the leg, whatever control he still held over his staff now came from his wife. It was an odd and uncomfortable experience for his men to realize that Ewell was no longer in command, that he had served Jackson so well because he was best suited to be under the domination of someone else. With Jackson gone, many in the field knew it was now Early. In camp, the staff knew it was his wife.
Lee walked a few steps toward the north face of the hill, raised his field glasses. Hill moved closer, and Lee could feel him there, silent, trying to absorb something from him. It was painful and obvious that Hill's confidence was still badly bruised by the disaster at Bristoe Station, and at every opportunity now he seemed to hover close to Lee, seeking... Lee wasn't sure what, but he felt the neediness, the pull at him. Lee gazed through the glasses, thought, You will have your chance, General. There will be time for amends.
The others raised field glasses as well, an exercise of respect since they had already seen what Lee was now viewing. Across the river, a vast sea of white specks, the tents of Grant's enormous army, spread out over the bare fields. It had been a familiar scene for weeks now, but there was something new, the reason the corps commanders were here, why they would meet on this tall hill. There was a swarm of activity all through the neat squares of white; slowly the neat checkerboard was distorting, the tents disappearing. Grant was preparing to move.
Lee had read reports, some from the northern papers, some from Stuart, that the Federal army was set to begin its campaign. Ewell's corps was along the river below them, guarding against a crossing that could bring Grant straight at Lee's army, but Lee knew it would not be like that, Grant would not expose himself to his army's strength. Grant had two choices. If he moved out to the left, to the west, and came across the Rapidan upstream, he could threaten to move on the Shenandoah, or cut the rail lines that fed the Confederate army. But that would take Grant far from his own supply lines, from the security of the big rivers in the east. The only other route south would be downstream, at the fords that had been used by Hooker's army a year ago, Germanna and Ely, the routes that led straight down into the Wilderness.
Lee said nothing, and the others were watching him again, already knew what the activity across the river would mean. Lee turned, gradually scanned the open ground to the northeast, then down across the river and across the thickets and dense growth of the Wilderness. He put the glasses down, stared out, thought, Yes, it will have to happen there. He did not feel an instinct about Grant as he had about so many of the others, but everything he had read, every piece of information he could find, told him that this man would not use trickery and deceit. His army was too large and too cumbersome, and so they would advance by the shortest route, the straight line. The straight line toward Richmond was down through the Wilderness. There were other reasons as well. As Grant moved south, he would be between the Confederate army and Fredericksburg, and at Fredericksburg the good roads and the Rappahannock could still provide a good supply line for the Federal troops. And if they move quickly and get below us, Lee thought, we will have a serious problem.
Lee knew he would not receive help from Davis, that the president was as concerned as he had ever been with administering the army, about promotions and transfers of officers. Davis had even moved his friend Braxton Bragg to Richmond, put the despised Bragg in the only place where those who so disliked him could not have any effect-right beside Davis as his principal adviser. The defenses of Richmond were now manned by troops that belonged to Lee's army, including what was left of Pickett's division, the force that had been so decimated at Gettysburg.
More of Lee's troops were tied up in North Carolina, even though Lee himself had information that the Federals there had already moved north, to reinforce Grant's forces on the peninsula east of R
ichmond. Davis's response to Lee's warnings about the new threat to Richmond was to create a new military department, with jurisdiction south of the James River. The command of all the territory below Richmond was given to the one man who had repeatedly shown a clear envy of Lee's prominence and popularity, and so could not be relied on to lend support to Lee's effort. The job was given to the man whose greatest notoriety came from commanding the firing on Fort Sumter: P.G.T. Beauregard.
Lee still stared out across the Wilderness, did not search for detail, for any landmark, because even from this vantage point, there was none. It was the same dense mass that had swallowed up Joe Hooker's army, and somewhere in those vast green thickets, along some dim trail, was the spot where Jackson had fallen. Jackson had taken one risk too many, had ridden too far forward on a night when both exhausted armies held tight to their guns, would respond with sudden manic violence to any sound. One sound had been the thundering hoofbeats of Jackson and his staff.
Lee turned his head to the north again, did not look down toward Grant's army, Just out to the open sky, thought, There is no resting place... no sacred ground. We must do it all again, here. If Grant has the numbers, the strength, we have the advantage of knowing the ground, of knowing how that terrible bloody place can paralyze an army, the unseen enemy, the sounds of the fight echoing across the creeks and hollows, no point of reference, no way to know who is in front of you, or beside you... or behind you.