The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  Grant nodded.

  "Yes. And so we will let him. General Meade, we cannot defeat him if we cannot find him. He knows where we are, and he has three choices. He can retreat, move himself closer to Richmond and wait for us again; he can sit still and watch us go by; or he can attack. He has not built this tiresome godlike reputation by retreating or sitting still. He will come. And every time he comes, he loses more and more of his army. It is a simple case of mathematics."

  Meade stared at Grant, nodded slowly and said, "But I would feel better if I knew where... I do not like surprises."

  Grant thought now of Sheridan, but would not ask; there was no real danger yet, the numbers were too strong, the lines too compact. Lee would have to come in face-to-face, line against line, and Grant saw the faces of the commanders, Hancock, Sedgwick, Warren. This time, he thought, we have the right people, and we are ready for you. He pulled at the cigar, felt the smoke wash around his face, watched as Meade wrestled with his caution, wondered if Meade would ever understand the value of cavalry.

  MAY 5, 1864 THE ORANGE TURNPIKE RAN DUE WEST, DISAPPEARED INTO THE deep woods of the Wilderness, and on both sides of the road the picket line had spread out on the edge of a wide field. They were mostly veterans, and along the tree line there was one regiment from New York, from the north country, the rugged mountains that gave their men willingly to this great army.

  They could hear the birds, the first sounds of the land coming awake. One man rolled over, felt the musket, lifted it up and lay it against the stump beside him. He was young, had the smooth face of a boy, and they called him Chuckle, short for Charles. No one called him Charles but his mother. He didn't like the nickname, but he knew these men were his friends, that they trusted him, they had shared some awful bloody times. There were other nicknames as well, old Bug-eye, Red-leg, Hawk-nose. No one seemed to mind, it was all goodnatured, and he knew that "Chuckle" was better than most.

  Beneath him the blanket was rumpled and wet. He had kept it wrapped around him through a warm night, and so the blanket and his clothes were soaked in the raw smell of sweat. He always used the blanket, had relied on it for survival through the winter, and now as the nights gave hint of the coming summer, he would still use it. It was his shield, his protection against the drone of the mosquitoes, the small whining sounds that darted and hovered over his face. He'd spent his life in the cold mountains, and hadn't known about these strange little creatures and the misery they caused. He remembered the first one, setting down on his hand, and he had watched it, curious, not really feeling any bite, nothing like the bites of the black flies he had endured as a child. And then he'd forgotten it, and it was a day later when the bite appeared, the intense itch, the swollen redness. But there was another greater terror, a threat from below, from the soft damp ground. Months before, when his unit was in pursuit of Lee, crossing the Potomac in the steaming rain, he'd spent one hot night with his arms bare, had ignored the blanket and slept on a cool bed of damp leaves. He did not feel the slow advance of the tiny creatures from the ground beneath him, but suffered for days with the bites, a massive assault he would never forget. He had tried to see them, wondered what they looked like, always now swept the dirt with his bare hands. But they did not appear, and so he lay only on the blanket now, wide-awake, would never make that mistake again. Now he slept during the day, the brief rest stops, those days when they didn't move at all, when it seemed the generals didn't know which way they wanted to go.

  He was used to the picket duty; it seemed nearly every night that he found himself out in front of the army, spread out into the woods, the first line against any movement by the enemy. It had been a while since they'd actually seen any rebs, and now most of the others had no trouble sleeping. They would use their bayonets, burrow down into a shallow pit in the ground, and the veterans joked and laughed at the new boys who slept with their muskets in their hands. He smiled, thought of that older fellow, Buchanan, the woodsman, the thick black beard, the man who said he could smell the enemy. He wouldn't dig in at all, would just prop himself up against a fallen tree, seemed to fall asleep at will and wake only when the bugle sounded, the call that meant breakfast.

  If they spoke at all, quiet voices in the black night, they always talked about the grouchy lieutenant. Chuckle thought about him a lot, wondered if it was just his nature to be so angry. He thought, Maybe it's something at home, a letter... maybe his wife has taken up with a neighbor. He did not like to think of that, none of them did; they fought to keep those thoughts far away. Chuckle rarely got letters anymore. His wife had given up asking him to leave all this, to come home. She did not understand what this meant to him, why it was important. He'd tried to explain, but he was not good with words, she would not understand, and when she stopped answering his letters, it scared him worse than anything he'd seen from the rebels. He thought about the lieutenant again, wondered, Maybe that's why he seems to be so mad all the time, and he takes it out on us, on this unit.

  The unit was still in good shape, but the new faces did not erase the memory of the ones who were gone. He still recalled the early days, the excitement, the adventure of riding the long trains, the men who became friends, who learned about marching and formations and bugle calls. He made an effort to remember them, especially the ones with no families, believed they needed to be remembered. He would try to keep the faces in his mind, see them in the night sky, but it hadn't worked, because when he saw the faces, he also saw the wounds, the shattering of bones, could not keep the horrors away, the reasons why so many of them were gone.

  Now, while some in the line would sneak a quick nap, and others would stare into the darkness toward the invisible enemy, he would lay on the blanket and search the dark for the little creatures that flickered invisibly above his face. He'd focus on the small high whine of the mosquito, wait for it to stop, knew now that silence meant the attack had truly begun. He would swat at his face, his ears, beating off the assault, and then the whine would begin again. He tried putting the blanket over his face, but they would still get through, no defense would work. Then he would feel a slight tickle somewhere on bare skin, the return of the strange little creatures that crawled and probed up through the leaves, moving silently onto the blanket until they found some tender place-and he'd explode into motion, scratching frantically, the counterattack.

  There was a damp mist this morning, and he peeked up over the tree trunk, could see the road in the distance, disappearing up a long rise into the woods. He lay on the edge of a field, had not really known how big it was, if there were woods across the way. They had been sent out after dark, the grouchy lieutenant again ordering them into the woods. The order had come in a wave of cursing, harsh words, and angry shouts which he hadn't understood.

  He used to think of the mountains, of the cool streams and fishing in the deep ponds near his home. But that had faded away with the faces of his friends. He'd begun to believe he might never leave Virginia. that it was his destiny to spend eternity there, enduring torture, the torment from the nightly assault of the tiny insects. He wondered if it was punishment, that he or someone in his family must have done something terrible, some unspeakable offense to God. He could not tell the others, could not talk about it at all. They teased him about his fear of the creatures, laughed that if the rebels just sent their bugs into battle, Chuckle would be the first to run away.

  He could hear the others stirring now, low talk, and some were standing, arms high, the long stretch. The sky began to glow far behind him; he could see the silhouettes of the trees where the rest of the army was coming to life. He looked out again to the front, could see clearly a thick line of trees across the field, the tall grass in the field standing breathlessly still. He thought of coffee now, sniffed the air for the smell of bacon. He shifted around, felt the soreness in his feet, wondered if they would march like they had yesterday, the river crossing, then the blessed halt in the afternoon. He'd wanted to jump right into the river, they all had, b
ut the officers pushed them hard, the march fast and urgent, and they hadn't expected to stop suddenly, surrounded by the thick woods.

  Down the line, one man was pointing something out, and the voices stopped. Across the field, where the road disappeared into the trees, there was a muffled, low sound. He stared into the mist, focused, saw a horse, then more, a man with a flag. They came out of the woods, were moving straight down the road into the clearing. He felt a twist in his gut, grabbed for the musket, then thought, Cavalry. He remembered the lieutenant saying something... their horsemen were supposed to be out to the west, between them and the rebs. He felt a wave of relief, his hand shaking, and he stood, wondered about riding a horse all day, if he would ever get the chance.... The horsemen kept coming forward, and behind them there was a flash, a glint of steel. He could not see clearly, heard now another sound, behind him, officers riding up fast. Men were beginning to shout, there was motion all through the trees behind him. He stared out across the field again, and now he could see beyond the horses, a heavy column of infantry coming out on the road, emerging in a thick line from the trees. Now there were shouts from across the field, and the infantry began to move off the road, the column dividing, a long line flowing out in both directions on the far side of the field. Men were beginning to move around him, the men of his unit, and someone called his name, and he still stood, watched the incredible sight of hundreds of men flowing out of the woods, the lines across the field growing, longer by the second, more motion behind him, more shouts.

  He turned, saw the men of his unit backing away, saw the lieutenant, ducking low, moving along the edge of the field toward him, waving at him, motioning him back, out of the field. He did not want to leave, not yet, had never been this close, had never seen the rebels so clearly. He watched the horsemen, could see them clearly now, saw uniforms that were not blue, and he felt the excitement, the moment building inside of him, and he wanted to yell, to shout, to say something to them: I see you.

  The horsemen began to turn away, backing toward the flow of infantry, and he looked around, down the line, sought the familiar faces, but there was no one there. He could still hear the sounds behind him, thought of the lieutenant, the orders to pull back. He turned, began to step away from the stump, and something stung him, punched him down hard. He tried to lift himself up, but he could not move his arms, could not move at all. The grass was sticking to his face, and he tried to rise, to turn his head. Now he felt hands, and he was rolled over, could see the treetops, the sky, and a face above him. It was the lieutenant, holding him by the shoulders. There was no anger in the man's face, but something different, softer, and the lieutenant was saying something, but the words were faint, far away. The hands let him go now, and the face was gone. He felt himself sink slowly down into the tall grass, thought of the blanket, his shield, but this time he was not afraid, felt the soft wet ground under his back, where the tiny creatures waited.

  10. LEE

  MAY 5, 1864HE HAD RISEN EARLY, WELL BEFORE THE FIRST LIGHT. HE TRIED

  to see the campfires where Grant had stopped for the night, and rode out late to catch some glimpse, some flicker of light. But he knew the Wilderness, knew he could see very little in any direction, not even the camps of his own men, spread behind him beyond the trees. He thought of Grant, thought, You have made a mistake, you have surrendered your advantage, you have penned yourself up in the one place I would have chosen, and now I will find a way to hurt you.

  He rode Traveller through the dark, thought of coffee, but could not go back to the small fire and wait for the daylight. He was more excited than he could remember, felt the twist in his gut, felt himself breathing heavily. You knew what it felt like, when there would certainly be a fight, when the armies were very close, like two waves rolling in opposite directions, a force no one could stop. Always he'd thought of God, had prayed that not too many would die, and he rarely asked for more than that; asking for victory or the death of your enemies was not appropriate somehow. He would quote the verse, silently to himself, Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight... touch the mountains and they shall smoke... He had memorized that verse years before, Psalm 144, knew somehow, strangely, that it was for him, that God had put those words there as a sign, words to guide him to his duty. For nearly two years now, since that rainy night on the peninsula when Davis had given him command of this army, he'd led them knowing that God was there, truly, and those few words had so much meaning. If anyone doubted that, they had only to recall the great victories, the men marching into the horror with the calm, the absolute confidence, they shared with him. it did not matter who led those other boys, or how many more there might be across the fields. God had set this all in motion, and the outcome was already determined.

  He thought now of that awful day at Gettysburg. He could not escape that, knew God was there as well, and he would never understand why it had happened, had never believed it would end like that. It was still fresh in his mind, would come to him at times like this, when the new fight was coming fast, reminding him that on that one field, God had turned against them. He struggled to understand, could only guess: We were not on our own land. The invasion north had been a difficult decision, and always there was something uncomfortable, a small voice in his mind that he tried to avoid. When we fight in Virginia, we are defending our own land, and we are victorious. But we invade their land, and God takes that away. The verse came again: Cast forth lightning and scatter them: shoot out thine arrows and destroy them... deliver me out of great waters, from the hand of strange children... He rode back down the Plank Road, toward his staff, could hear the motion of men in the woods around him. He stopped, listened hard, turned to the north, thought, Maybe... I should ride up there, see what Ewell is doing. But no, I must let them command. He knows my orders. He saw the face in the dark, the strange high-strung man, so excitable, quick to anger, and he thought, Something has been taken from him. It was something inside Ewell himself, some personal defeat that Lee did not understand. It could be the missing leg, of course, but around the camps the staff was making unkind comments about Ewell's wife, her domination of her new husband. Lee had met her briefly, and knew she was always close to Ewell now; the jokes rippled through the staff about the petticoat command. He did not spend much time in Ewell's camp, still preferred to be closer to Longstreet, as it had always been, even when Jackson was alive.

  He knew there was another reason he stayed away from Ewell's camp. The staff consisted of many of the same people who had served With Jackson, and he knew the faces well, Sandie Pendleton, James Power Smith, the foul-mouthed quartermaster Harman. It was Pendleton in particular who affected Lee, something In the young man's face that was clear and unmistakable, the loss, the sadness that Lee had tried so hard to put aside. Pendleton had been Jackson's chief of staff, had been at the bedside when Jackson had breathed the last painful breath, and Lee knew he would carry that with him the rest of his life. Now Pendleton served Ewell, and Ewell had shown nothing of the influence of Jackson, of the fire, the instinct for moving forward. Pendleton knew it, they all knew it.

  Lee still stared through the dark, past the small sounds close by, to the broad silence from the north. He did not like being that far away from Ewell's corps. The two parallel roads moved apart nearly three miles at this point, something he hadn't realized from the maps until this morning. Lee knew the turnpike was a good road and that Ewell was marching his men east. Lee had stayed close to Hill, down below on the Plank Road. The two roads eventually merged near Chancellorsville, then split again as they broke out of the Wilderness closer to Fredericksburg, but first they would pass right through the heart of Grant's army.

  He did not know how Grant's lines were spread, only that the Federal Fifth Corps had come the closest, was somewhere near where Ewell was now marching. He did not want the fight yet, had hoped the plac day would dawn without a major confrontation, because they were not -yet strong. Longstree
t was still well back, a good day's march from the place where Lee now sat, but he was coming. He'd been ordered to move out quickly, and Lee thought, This time he must not be slow.

  it had been necessary to keep Longstreet farther west, since there had still been the chance that Grant might move out that way, try to cut Lee off from the valley. It would have been the wrong move, and though Lee did not believe Grant would make that kind of mistake, he could not take the risk and leave his own left flank unprotected. Once Grant had crossed the river and moved straight into the Wilderness, Lee immediately sent for Longstreet.

  It was not by chance that Lee was close to Hill this morning. Hill was sick again, could barely ride a horse. The illness was more and more severe, and Lee had accepted that Hill might not be fit at all, might have to be relieved. But then Hill appeared, pained and weak, and declared himself ready for duty. Lee would not remove him if Hill said he could lead his men. And when Lee studied the lists of commanders, there was no name that rose above the rest, no one whom he felt comfortable with in that position. If Hill's corps needed a commander, Lee began to realize that he might move one step closer to the line, might have to take command himself.

  The men were moving into the road now. The darkness was just beginning to break, and when they passed by him, there were small noises. Only a few men cheered or raised a hat. The woods around him were now strangely silent; there was no music, none of the jovial cursing of an army pulled out of slumber. He watched the faces, saw deadly calm, men who had done this before.