The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  He stood, stared into the dark, away from the small fires. Is this what madness is, coming so close to death that it holds on to you, obsesses you? He began to walk, nervous steps, moved behind the tents, then stopped, clenched his fists. One man... how can you be so affected by one man? Is it because... you watched him die? You saw the face? How many faces lay on that field today? Is it any different because you weren't there to see it?

  He closed his eyes, thought again of Julia, thought, You would know what to say, you would have the Lesson, God's comforting words for this. There are no comforting words here. Here, it is all about duty, and making the right decisions. And men must die... even when the decisions are the very best ones. If today was a bad decision... we can do no better than to make a good decision tomorrow.

  The anger stayed with him all day, and the commanders had come around, bringing the explanations. He listened, said very little, absorbed just how bad it had been. This was a disaster, and after all the talk, the excuses, the maps, the numbers, it had come to him, the anger slowly replaced by something else, something much worse. He underStood now, thought, You cannot blame them. It is not Meade's caution, or the inexperience of Wright, the ridiculous attention to detail that curses Warren. This is not Burnside's inept slowness or Hancock's over aggressiveness We cannot blanc this on poor coordination, or bad timing, or the curse of bad weather.

  He began to move again, walked further into the dark, stared at nothing. There is no one to blame but me. This was my fight, my opportunity. He thought of Lee. He is not some demon, he made no grand strategy, no brilliant countermove. I sent them... I ordered them across this ground. Lee lined his men up in a straight line behind a big pile of dirt and cut this army to pieces. And I did not see it... I did not know it was going to happen.

  He moved toward a small fire, saw men sitting in a circle. The voices were low, the faces still, eyes staring into the flame. He moved closer, saw Rawlins, Porter, others, men from Meade's staff. The tents spread out beyond, flaps open and still, for there was no breeze. There were more men sitting near a wagon, men leaning up against the spoked wheels. There was motion, a bottle, one man handing it to another, the bottle upturned, then passed along. He moved that way, and the faces turned toward him, one man holding the bottle carefully, cradling it like a small child. There were nods, small casual greetings, too casual, but he did not notice, turned, moved toward the tents. Now he saw a group of men moving slowly away from him, men disappearing into tents, staff officers, staggering slowly out of the firelight. There was a small table, a deck of cards scattered loosely, and in the center of the table, another bottle.

  He stopped beside the table, stared at the cards, the colorful depictions of royalty, and knew his mind was playing with him, would not let him look at it, but slowly he saw it, fixed his eyes on the label, focused on the faint lettering. He reached out, felt his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, lifted it up slowly, saw the light pass through. It was nearly empty, but there was still the last good drink, enough to warm a man all the way down, the delicious burn.

  It had been a long time ago, and it had been a fight he had to win. The gold rush did something to the men in California, took something away, all the lessons of home, all the rules about decency, dignity. The army was not immune, and in a place where every temptation was bold and colorful, few had been able to keep themselves away from the crude pleasures.

  Julia stayed in Missouri with her family, had not made the Journey, had not joined him in that amazing place, San Francisco. The loneliness had eaten at him like a disease, and the disease exposed something in him he did not understand, a weakness, and he had been consumed by it, by the numbing comfort of the bottle. He did not frequent the gambling halls, the clubs, where women offered company to a man whose family was so far away. He avoided the sounds and the lights, and so he was faced with long quiet nights, would listen to the sounds of wild streets from a dark room, trying with every piece of himself to see her face, keep her name in his mind. When it became harder, and her face faded, there was only sadness, and with the sadness came the bottle.

  Julia would never know how far down he had gone, that it had been the drinking that finally cost him his Job. He had resigned from the army, a choice provided by a generous commander, saving him from the humiliation of a court-martial. He always carried the weight of that-that it mattered little if he had been a good soldier, he also had a dangerous weakness. When he went back east, to his family, to life as a civilian, he made a silent vow, to her, to his children, the most important decision of his life. The weakness would never come back, would be kept away. He would always remember how his career, his life, had nearly been shattered by the bottle.

  Now he moved the bottle in a small circle, swirling the brown liquid, thought of the word: shattered. How many men had their lives shattered today... how many families? He thought of the newspapers, the reporters. The numbers were already flying through the camp, thousands of casualties, and they will report that. Many men died here today because... I made a horrible mistake. Many men have died since this campaign began, and we have not yet brought this to a close. What right do I have to take so much from these men, without giving them something in return? I had thought... it would be over by now.

  There was a hand on his arm, and he jumped, startled, saw it was Rawlins.

  "Sir, please... allow me." Rawlins took the bottle slowly from Grant's hand. Grant saw Porter now, the others, men gathering slowly behind him. Rawlins tossed the bottle to another man, said, "General, if we may be of service, Sir?"

  Grant looked at the others, the man with the bottle, then focused on Rawlins.

  "Your service is noted, Colonel." Grant saw the look in Rawlins's face, the look of the one man in the camp who knew of the disease. There was a silent moment, and Grant nodded, said, "Colonel, the men may be excused."

  Rawlins motioned with his hand, and the others moved off. Grant did not watch them. He walked away from the fires, into he darkness. He heard footsteps, the crunch of leaves, a voice.

  "General... if you don't mind, Sir, may I walk with you?"

  Grant knew the voice, did not look at the face. It was Porter.

  "You have something to say, Colonel?"

  "Oh... uh, no, Sir, I just thought... well, Sir, you look like you need some company."

  Grant looked at him now, the firelight reflecting on the young man's face. He nodded, said, "All right, Colonel, suit yourself."

  Grant moved further into the dark, Porter moving beside him. Grant stopped, looked at the stars, stared silently into the deep black space.

  Porter said, "We lost... a good many men today. We haven't given out the official casualty count. Not yet. It is frightful, Sir."

  Grant said nothing, felt deep into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, lit it slowly, felt the smoke swirl around his face. He still watched the stars, said, "I have underestimated him."

  Porter leaned forward, tried to see Grant's face in the dark.

  "Sir? Who, Sir?"

  Grant lowered the cigar, crossed his arms.

  "Lee. I have underestimated General Lee. That should be pleasing to some in this army. I've heard the comments from General Meade's people. I don't know anything about fighting a war until I've fought Bobby Lee. Didn't pay much attention to all that. just talk. Now... maybe... they're right."

  "I don't believe that, Sir. No one does... not the ones who matter "The ones who matter, Colonel, are a long way from here. It's the people up North who matter. We can't keep sending troops home in boxes. Mr. Lincoln has an election coming up. If he can't give the people a victory, then someone else will get the chance. Likely, it will be someone who knows how to play on the people's unhappiness. Do you know what that will mean, Colonel?"

  Porter shook his head, said, "No, Sir."

  "It means the war will end. Quickly. And if the victory is not in our hands, there is only one other way it can end. We will have to back away, withdraw the troops, and the reb
els will have their country. The Union will cease to exist."

  Porter said nothing, followed the small glow of Grant's cigar moving in the dark.

  "There is only one way to make war, Colonel. You have to hurt somebody. Maybe you have to hurt everybody. Make them feel it, understand what it is we are doing out here. If this war is worth fighting in the first place, then it is worth winning. We cannot win unless we fight. If we fight, men will die. If more of them die, then we will win. It has nothing to do with cities, or government, or what is barbaric and what is civilized. We are here, and the enemy is over there, and if we must give the newspapers the horrifying truth, then the people will know. If Mr. Lincoln does not want me to win this war, then he can make that decision. But there is no other way to see it. If these men do not fight and bleed and die, if we do not make the rebels quit by destroying their will to fight, by destroying their army, then the only other choice is to walk away."

  Porter rubbed his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, said, "I don't know, Sir. The enemy is still over there. It seems like no matter what we do, we have to face those boys behind those works. It seems like... nothing changes."

  Grant drew at the cigar, flicked the ash away.

  "I made a serious mistake today. We cannot just throw strength at strength and prevail. There is another way, there has to be. Lee has outmaneuvered us, outfought us. He has been a better commander than I have. Maybe he's smarter, maybe he's just luckier."

  He turned, looked back toward the fires.

  "If we have made one great mistake, all of us, it has been that we have failed to understand our strength. He has guns, we have guns. He can dig trenches, we can dig trenches. So, if we cannot crush him... if it costs us too much to smash him with one blow... then we will strangle him. We will stretch his supplies until he cannot eat, we will stretch his manpower until he cannot defend. We will make them hurt, until they cannot fight."

  Porter stared, wide-eyed, said, "Um... forgive me, Sir... how?" Grant looked at the cigar, tossed it down, stepped on it, the faint glow of the ash buried in the soft dirt.

  "South... cross the James. We will cut him Off, from his food, his supplies. We will isolate Richmond. We will start by doing what Butler was supposed to do. We will take this army where it will hurt him the most. We will capture Petersburg. We will squeeze him and stretch him until there is no fight left in that damned bunch of rebels."

  He turned, moved toward the glow of the fires, Porter following behind. He tried to think of the plan, the troops, the commanders, but in the dark, staring up into the small pieces of starlight, he saw the lone soldier again) the black eyes, staring at him. He stopped, looked to the ground, closed his eyes, pushed the face from his mind, thought, No, it cannot be like that. There is only one way... the only way we can succeed. We cannot allow that... we cannot see the faces.

  JUNE 15, 1864THEY LEFT THE CAVALRY TO SCREEN THE MOVEMENT, SLIPPED away from the disaster of Cold Harbor with the measured steps of an army that knows the enemy is still strong. They moved quickly, made their way down to the shores of the wide James River, marched calmly past grand plantations, great white mansions spread along the water, so many monuments to the glory of old Virginia. One in particular was their destination, an enormous estate called "Berkeley Hundred," the ancestral home of President William Henry Harrison. Here, there was a wharf, long boat docks that had once received royal yachts and flotillas of brightly dressed aristocracy. Now, the men of Grant's army gathered along the wide banks, waited in turn for the ferries and transports of the navy to move them across the river.

  On the march, the veterans noticed something else about the sounds, the distinct tramp of marching feet, the quiet rhythm that says the wagons, the supplies, the big guns are not with us. Many had seen the great noisy columns moving away on other roads, and if they knew that Grant had slipped them quietly away from the enemy, there was still the nervous glance, the bad joke, unprotected infantry, the supplies and guns leaving them vulnerable. The foot soldiers did not know that upriver, the great columns of horses and wagons had reached another point on the wide river, Wyannoke Landing. The drivers and teamsters had stared in amazement as a pontoon bridge waited for them, a bridge nearly half a mile long, held in place in midstream by anchored ships. The wagons, guns, and nervous drivers began to cross a bridge longer than many had ever seen, the longest pontoon bridge ever built. The James was not calm, and stiff waves rolled against the bridge, bouncing the wagons, rocking the guns, but in less than a day the long columns of men and machine were across. It was an efficient march, inspired by the deep water beneath their feet.

  By late in the day most of the great army, a hundred thousand men, was on the south side of the James River. The men were formed into their units, companies and regiments, brigade's and divisions, and a vast sea of blue spread out away from the river. As the camps began to form, the tents and fires filling the wide fields, the sounds were still muted, low conversation, a calm that surprised even the veterans. They all knew now what had happened at Cold Harbor, what had been happening to them since the first days in May, when the great campaign had begun. The massive assault that would end the war had cost this army nearly forty percent of its strength, nearly fifty thousand casualties. The reinforcements had come, rebuilt the army, brought the numbers back up, but the veterans had little respect for raw numbers, for the soft men who had never faced the guns. The veterans had seen what great numbers could mean, that when the enemy waited for you behind strong defenses, the great numbers meant a greater loss, and the hard strength of the blue army had been slowly drained away. There was quiet talk about Grant, but the veterans remembered McClellan and Hooker, Pope and Burnside, and their officers still told them Grant was the best man they could turn to, and they were coming to understand that the cost in numbers was the cost of waging war. But the blind optimism from the days before the Wilderness was gone. There was little of the excited talk of victory, of finally going home. Even the music had changed; when the army was in the camps, you did not hear the noisy clash of patriotic fever. The air echoed now with a sweeter sound, soft sad songs, songs of home and family, of God and the souls of the men who were no longer there. Even the commanders understood, you cannot force good morale, and the music reflected the mood of the army. No one gave the order, no one tried to change the spirit of the men with mindless calls for boisterous flag waving.

  As the march reached the shores, when the vast winding river appeared before them, some wondered if it would be as before, two years ago with McClellan, when that huge army had reached these same shores, to load onto the boats that would take them away from the enemy, moving, down river, out of Virginia and back to Washington. Grant's boats were not taking them away, but on a short ride straight across the river. The talk stopped, and they all understood that Grant was not McClellan after all. They were still moving south, deeper into the heart of the enemy. The officers, the men who saw the maps, knew they were moving even beyond Richmond, the great prize that the politicians and newspapers seemed to value above all else. If they did not know what Grant had in mind, they knew now it was not to be Richmond, that once across the wide James, they would push on until they found the ragged army of those tough rebels. They did not yet know where the fight would be, but to the west, men were moving to meet them, filling a vast line of trenches, more deep earthworks, artillery officers gathering their men beside the big guns that had waited since the beginning of the war, guns that had never been fired, the guns defending the crucial rail center of Petersburg.

  PART THREE The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living rather to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us-that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion...

  24. LEE

  JUNE 15, 1864 THERE WAS AN ARROGANCE TO THE MAN, AN ANNOYING posture of superiority. Lee had heard his words,
listened patiently while the young captain pleaded his case, alternating humble requests with sudden boisterous demands, and Lee knew through it all that the young man was only repeating what had been so carefully drilled into him. Lee understood that, after all, he was hearing the voice of this man's commander, General Beauregard.

  49 General Lee, if we do not receive the troops from your command, if we do not have your support, the general is not responsible... he cannot be held responsible for what will occur. The numbers are all... right there, plain as day, sir. What else can be done? " The young man was pointing to the pile of papers, the neat stack he had placed on Lee's desk. Lee glanced down, did not touch the papers, leaned back in his chair, said, "Captain Paul, does General Beauregard know exactly who it is that threatens his position?"

  Paul hesitated, then said, "Certainly, sir. We are facing the troops of General Grant."