The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  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.

  RANT 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, anything 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 Gr'ffin 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, A... the name, sir?"

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

  53. CHAMBERLAIN

  APRIL 12, 1865

  T 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 col
umn 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 another 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.

  40 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.

  By the terms of this agreement, officers and men can return to their homes and remain until exchanged. You will take with you the satisfaction that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faithfully performed; and I earnestly pray that a Merciful God will extend to you His blessing and protection.

  With an unceasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to your country, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous consideration for myself, I bid you all an affectionate farewell.

  R. E. Lee, General He had stayed in camp until the surrender was complete, could not yet leave until the business of the disposition of his men was concluded.

  He had ridden well beyond what remained of the camp, saw many of his soldiers still scattered about, and many of the men in blue, small groups, larger gatherings, some from simple curiosity, some old friends, veterans of another time, when they had served for the same cause.

  He did not ride with the column, would not be a part of the ceremony, had made the excuse to himself, No, it is not necessary, my own surrender is already past.

  But he knew it was far more than that, that after all, he would have been more of a disruption than support, that the men would have still rallied around him. The emotion of that, of seeing the flags go down, the faces of the men, would have been more than he could have endured. Already now his mind was moving on, as it always had before, to the great bloody fields. It never could be any other way, not for the commander, not for the man who ordered the men to go forward, to march into the guns. The death of the soldiers could not stay with you, haunt you, you could not hold the faces in your mind. The memories of all the horror, of what had happened to each man, each part of his army, all of that had to be put away somewhere, locked into some deep place. It had always been that way, and it would be that way now, leaving this behind, moving on, to the next place, the next duty, the new responsibili
ty. When he moved the horse out onto the road, heading east, toward Richmond, he tried to convince himself this was no different, that he had already moved past all of this, was guided by the hand of God toward another destiny.

  Taylor and Marshall rode with him, and they led a small headquarters wagon, the last of the personal effects. There had been no fanfare, no parting speeches, just the simple text of the General Order that Marshall had penned for him. He hoped to just slip away unnoticed, had absorbed all the overwhelming sadness that he thought possible, the pain of the men, the suffering in their bodies, now, in their hearts. He could not look again at the faces, could not hear the sounds, but he began to see it would not be that simple. All along the road, they began to gather, waiting for him, lining both sides, all out in front of him.

  General Gibbon had sent a squad of blue cavalry, an escort, some measure of security for Lee's return to the capital, but Lee declined, knew that in this country, riding through this land, there was no threat, no danger, that there was no place on earth where he felt more at ease. But his own men were changing that, and the sounds were all around him now. He tried not to see, to just take himself away from it, but it was not to be. Finally, he began to acknowledge them, a glance, a small nod, a lifting of his hat.