The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  They were letting it all go, holding nothing back. There was no need for the dignity of the ceremony now, for the decorum of the military. They were all veterans, some showing the effects of the hard march, many marches, but now there were no officers to hold them in line, and as he passed by them, they seemed to Just come apart, men collapsing along the road as he passed, whose tears now soaked the ground 1 1 'll the wounded, men they had given everything to hold. There were sti in bandages who could only reach up with one arm, others who simply stood and stared, whose bodies were used up, their minds a fog of fatigue and hunger.

  Some were calling out in anger, and he had expected that, and it burned into him worst of all, the men who still wanted to fight, who would blame him for giving, in, for taking that away. They will understand, he thought, they will have to. He wanted to speak to them. If there had been one speech, something to leave them with , it would not have been some inflammatory call to the Cause, that they should keep the fire blazing for what they had fought for, as though, maybe, one day, they could do it all again. No, he thought, I can never say that, it is not in me to do that, not anymore. He had tried to move beyond the sadness of that, fought it with every sound he heard, every voice calling out to him. They need more than I can give them, they need more than words. There must be a healing, to move them forward, as I must try to move forward. You must put all of this... emotion, all this energy3 toward home, to rebuild your lives. Go back to the families that so des ives 9 perately need you, the towns and states that need your strength. You must understand... there can be no other way, the Message is so very clear. It is the will of God that we bring ourselves back peacefully into one country.

  As he moved farther from the camps, there were fewer men, and the cheers and crying began to fade. He kept his mind busy with memories, not the grim painful ones, but strategy, things that might have been done differently. But he had little energy for that. it was the sadness that came back, that would not leave him be. He tried to remember the beginning, the enthusiasm, his own doubts about what a war would do, how long it could last. But his mind was drifting, and he could not think of four years, of how long that was, what had been taken from him, from them, from the ones who had survived. The dead were in that wonderful place, and he thought of that, how many times God had nearly taken him, the sounds of the guns, the musket balls so close. But He did not take me, He left me for... this. He left me to take all of this home... and perhaps that is my destiny... my punishment. Perhaps I am to atone for this, that the memories must continue, the horrific numbers, the faces of all the souls who are now at rest. So many of us are with Him now, so many died for something they believed in, an honorable death, and after all, is that not what God rewards?

  The thoughts began to run together, the weariness of the last few days now complete. There will be time for this, he thought, time for reflection. But... not now, I cannot do this now.

  He moved through a stand of trees, could see a farmhouse beyond, an orchard, thought, This year, there will be a bounty, there will not be an army to feed. The land will heal, will become fertile again, God will give us that. The plague is past.

  He knew Mary was in Richmond now, a modest house provided by the generosity of friends. He did not know if they would stay there long, if there would be some life for them in the city. He knew that many of the troops would gather there, men who had nowhere else to go, whose homes had been destroyed, whose businesses were gone. I can help them, I suppose. I can do little else. They have given so much to me.

  He still had not heard from Davis, knew he was somewhere south, Danville, or maybe farther down. Sherman's army was still looking for a fight with Johnston, and Lee knew there would not be much of a fight now. Johnston understands what all good soldiers understand, he thought. There must come the time when you simply stop the killing. They do not teach that at West Point, it is something a commander feels inside of him. Death is necessary, it is a part of war, of anything worth fighting for. But to butcher your army just so they can fight again tomorrow... He had seen Grant briefly again, a small conversation, polite, cordial. Grant understands as well, be thought, what must happen now, what this country must begin to do. He had been surprised at first, Grant's sincerity, nothing of the madness, the cold anger that many in Lee's army had believed. No, he is no demon, he has been simply and utterly efficient. Once the war became the great horror, what so few had ever understood would happen, once these two great armies brought all the power and passion to the field, there could be no other way to resolve it. The foolishness of the politicians, the fat men with their fiery oratory, their hot words, igniting the people into believing this was the only way... once that happened, the die was cast. How few understood that, especially in the beginning. But Grant did understand.

  He did not know where Grant was now, thought, Probably on his way to Washington. He deserves all they can give him, all the recognition, the cheers, the celebration. To the victor go the spoils... He thought of Lincoln too, as he had before. There is only one President now, only one country. To some, that will never be, the wounds will not heal quickly. But Lincoln will do much... he will try. It Is in the man, in everything he has said. He wants this to be behind us... with malice toward none... We can hope for nothing else. As long as he keeps control, keeps the angry voices at bay, those who would seek any excuse to punish, to bring down revenge on us, then the wounds can heal.

  The sun was setting behind him now, the gray sky opening a bit, the clouds now bright with color. He did not look back, let Traveller carry him at his own pace. He stared ahead, his mind drifting away, moving far beyond the desolate land around him. He closed his eyes, rocked gently with the motion of the big horse. Yes, there is still time. His mind began to fill with the soft smells and joyous sounds, of lush fields and cool green hills, the voices of children, the memories of all he had missed, all that he had left behind. He was going home.

  5 5. G R__A__N_T

  APRIL 14, 1865

  E HAD BEEN IN WASHINGTON FOR TWO DAYS, MOSTLY THE official business of the army, but much of the detail could be handled by the various commands, the men in the white buildings. He'd been offered a chance to pass through Richmond, to see the last remnants of the great prize the army had been told so much about. It meant little to him when he took command, and it meant little to him now, and so he felt no need to parade through the destruction, felt no sense of pride or accomplishment that a city lay in ruins.

  Wherever he went in the capital, crowds had gathered. There was nothing secret about his return to the city. Since the word of Lee's surrender reached Washington, Lincoln himself had spent much of his time waving to the great flocks that spread into the streets beyond the White House, and now, knowing that Grant had arrived, the crowds were even more enthusiastic. Grant had to move with an escort, could not hope to travel anywhere in the city without a large mass of blue clearing the way. They all wanted to give him something, if only their absolute attention to anything he might want to say, any small speech. When he could ignore them no longer, when the voices swelled loudly enough that he had to wave, even a brief nod, a tip of the hat, there would be a loud cheer.

  Now, in the sudden quiet of the White House, the first quiet moment all day, he felt the relief, safety behind thick walls. He waited in a small sitting room to see the man who'd given him so much, the patience and faith that had allowed him to press the fight to its conclusion. He remembered his first visit, the hesitation, the embarrassment, the grand portraits, the artifacts, the history of his country symbolized so deeply in that one place.

  He could hear voices behind the great door, laughter, then the door opened and two men in fine wool suits came out of Lincoln's office, filling the quiet space in the small room. Grant stood out of polite instinct, and now they saw him, one man staring as if paralyzed by his good fortune.

  "You're... General Grant! My word, Sir, it is a pleasure! Have you seen the crowd? Have you, sir? You must go to the window, say a few w
ords! The President has been speaking to them all day, I'm sure they would be thoroughly excited! Indeed!" o the Grant waited for the rush of words to pass, had no idea wh man was , tried to smile, thought, Yes, this is Washington.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Perhaps I will address the crowd later."

  "Ah, well then, I am certain they will wait for you! No one in this town can draw the audience you can, Sir! You, Sir, are the topic of every conversation.

  Grant nodded politely, said, "Thank you, you're very kind." He looked beyond the man's beaming, bobbing face, saw Lincoln standing in the doorway with a weary smile.

  Lincoln said, "Mr. Grant, if you please)" Grant moved forward, gently pried himself past the two men, said, "Excuse me... the President..."

  The men watched him go, the other man now reaching out, grabbing Grant by the shoulder, a hard grip, said, "Good show! The stuff of Presidents!"

  The other man slapped his friend's back, said, "Yes! Absolutely fine idea! Washington has a way of finding the best men." Lincoln waited for Grant to move by him, closed the door, the voices of the two men still echoing their enthusiasm. Lincoln moved around behind his desk, sat down heavily, shook his head, said, "Please, have a seat, Mr. Grant. Forgive the show of... hero worship, if I dare call it that. They're quite right, you know."

  Grant sat, saw past Lincoln, an open window, could now hear the sounds of a crowd. He absorbed Lincoln's words, said, "Right... about what?"

  "Presidential, Mr. Grant. We love our heroes. Generals have a way of getting out the vote: right from the beginning, Washington, Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor. I have no doubt, if you were to make it known, you could walk right in here and take up shop!".

  Grant was suddenly uncomfortable, said, "Why? I mean, Sir, excuse me, but my place is in the army. This place, this city, has never appealed."

  Lincoln sat back, smiled, "Ah, but that's why it would work. You're not a Washington man, you're a hero! Here, look outside Lincoln turned in the chair, motioned Grant toward the window. Grant stood, thought, I don't really want to make a speech, moved reluctantly behind Lincoln, took a small peek over his shoulder, and now the sounds outside exploded, loud cheers, calls of ""Grant! Grant!" Lincoln stood, backed away, and Grant was fully in view now, saw a sea of faces spread all across the White House grounds, all down the street. He stared, amazed, thought, This cannot be, not for... me? He raised his hand, a small self-conscious wave, and the noise exploded again, louder still. He backed away, stared toward the window, said, This is... strange. " Lincoln, in his chair again, laughed.

  "Nothing strange about it. They even cheer me. Haven't heard that in a while. I admit I can't help but say a few words, the instincts of a politician, I suppose. These are happy days, Mr. Grant. We have been through the most dreadful time in our history. And we have survived. The rule of law, the Constitution, has prevailed. And that's not just from a politician. Look at those people, look at the newspapers. This is one big celebration!"

  Grant sat again, said, "I'm not sure about that. There's some rebels still holding out, Richard Taylor's people, Kirby Smith. May take some time yet."

  "Those are details, Mr. Grant. If I may, allow me to pass along a secret. Several of the states are already in contact with us, trying to work out the transition back into the Union. That will spread. Once the southern politicians understand that it can be a simple matter, that there is no restitution, that this is not about punishment, that we in fact welcome all the states with open arms, there will be no long-term problems... the Union will become one again. " Grant thought a moment, said, "I have a hard time believing it will be a simple matter. There has to be some bad blood, some open wounds. What about Jefferson Davis?"

  Lincoln frowned.

  "Ah, Davis. If only I could do something about that. He doesn't have to be captured, you know."

  Grant was surprised, said, "Of course... I mean, Sir, I would think his capture is a necessity."

  "From your point of view, I understand that. Consider this, Mr. Grant. If he is caught, he will be tried, and convicted, and possibly hanged. Then he becomes a martyr. That's how wounds stay open. The best thing that can happen is if he simply... disappears. I would not mind if he, say, crossed into Mexico, maybe found his way to Europe. He no doubt has friends who would expedite all of that. I can't suggest this publicly, of course... you understand that, don't you, Mr. Grant? " Grant nodded.

  "Yes, I suppose so. But I can't tell my people to just... stop looking for him."

  Lincoln stroked his chin, rubbed his beard.

  "No, of course not. But unofficially, Mr. Grant, it would be better all around if he simply... left. Solves another problem too. Anyone who still thinks the Confederacy should continue can follow him. Take a lot of starch out of the fire breathers in the South. A government in exile is better than a government coming to its end on a gallows."

  Grant shook his head, said, "Never thought of it that way. That's why I'm not suited for this office. Intrigue... the intrigue behind closed doors. Forgive me, Sir, but this job is in the right hands. My job is much simpler now."

  Lincoln nodded, smiled again.

  "So, I understand Mrs. Grant is here as well?" Lincoln had changed the subject, and Grant felt a small sense of relief.

  cc Yes, Sir, she's at the hotel. I'll be taking her up to New Jersey tonight. We have a house now in Burlington, on the river."

  Lincoln frowned.

  "Burlington... the river, yes, lovely place. Well, that's too bad, Mr. Grant. Must you leave so soon? I assumed we would see more of you. This city is positively hungry for your presence.

  Grant thought of Julia, of the new home, her impatience to leave the city.

  "I will discuss it with her, Sir. I know she is anxious to be under way. The children are already up there." He stopped, could see the disappointment in Lincoln's face, was surprised, suddenly felt guilty, thought, Well, maybe we can stay. One more day, surely... Lincoln held up a hand, said, "It's all right, Mr. Grant. Talk to her, and if you can't persuade her to change her mind, I will understand. I am well acquainted with female willpower. Please convey our invitation, however, Mrs. Lincoln and I would be delighted to have your company. And I am quite certain the people would receive you with some enthusiasm." Lincoln laughed.

  "You might even stop the show."

  Grant did not understand, said, "I'm sorry, Sir... show?

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Grant. We're going to the theater tonight."

  HE ABSENCE OF THE CHILDREN WAS MORE THAN SHE COULD stand, and Grant sent word to the White House that his wife's impatience had prevailed after all. The train took them to Philadelphia, then they moved through the city to the wharf along the wide river, where the ferry was taking them to the New Jersey side.

  It was late now, and the ferry was just slowly making its way to the far shore. He had thought of spending the night on the Pennsylvania side, waiting until tomorrow to cross the river. But the word was out, General Grant was there, and crowds had begun to gather at the wharf, the atmosphere of a party.

  Now, they would find someplace to eat a late dinner, and then board a train, the last leg of the trip up to the town of Burlington, a few miles upriver.

  E AND JULIA WERE IN A SMALL RESTAURANT NOW, A SMALL piece of privacy in a hotel near the river. He'd finally allowed himself to feel hungry, sat now in front of a plate of brown roast beef. His back was to the hotel lobby, and Julia could see the faces, a growing crowd of people, straining to see him. He was cutting the hard beef, tried not to hear his name in the general murmur of the crowd, which was kept away by the efficient energy of a gracious host. Julia still looked past him, was smiling, said, "You know, Ulyss, you could go out and say something to them."

  He looked up at her, his mouth working the dry meat, said, "They'd be just as happy to hear from you." She frowned at him, and scoldingly said, "Now, that's not very kind of you! You are quite the celebrity. They are being quite generous. No need to be rude, you know!"

  He s
aw her looking out toward the crowd again, thought, Yes, she truly loves this, the attention. I suppose, maybe for her, I can say something, a few words, maybe get them to go on home. He stabbed at the last piece of meat, stuffed it in his mouth, tried to think of something, words, thought now of Lincoln, the wonderful stories, at ease in any crowd. It was a talent he knew he didn't have. He swallowed the last of his dinner, took a deep breath.

  Suddenly there was a man beside him, a neat uniform, but not army, something else, a courier. Grant looked at the man's face, and the man was looking down, said in a quiet voice, "Sir... we have a telegram for you."

  Grant took the paper, saw the strange look on the man's face, something very wrong, and he thought, What could have happened? He opened it, read the telegram, stared at the paper, the words unreal, thought, No... this cannot be true.

  Julia was waiting, impatient, said, "What is it, Ulyss? What does it say? " He looked at her, felt a deep cold hole open in his gut, and he looked at the message again, thought, No, this is wrong, I read it wrong. But the words were clear and brief, and the message was the same. He tried to breathe, looked at her again, said, "President Lincoln has been shot." THE HOPE, THE JOYOUS RELIEF THAT THE HORROR AND SAVagery was past, that the rebuilding was under way, was now replaced by something else, by the last shocking blow. The last casualty of the war was not the tragic soldier, the man who fought for honor and a cause, who faced his enemy across the deadly space. It was Lincoln's optimism, a belief in a future made glorious by the rights of the individual, that everything planned for this nation by the men who founded it could now go forward, leading the way for the rest of the world.