by Jeff Shaara
The noise in his head seemed to chatter on, the grip on the reins tight, his hands sweating inside of his gauntlets, a cigar clamped hard in his teeth. Is Johnston an honorable man? Did I ever meet him? Don’t think so. He was in Mexico, for certain. Grant probably knew him. What the hell am I supposed to say to him? Hello, Joe. Now you can surrender your damned army. He put a hand on his coat pocket, felt the telegram. No, that’s what we must discuss, before anything else. Perhaps he already knows. My God, this is a horrible day.
He saw commotion ahead, one of Kilpatrick’s men riding back toward him, a salute, which Sherman returned. Beside him Kilpatrick seemed to blow out the words with the kind of bombast that made Sherman cringe.
“Report, Lieutenant!”
“Sirs, we have encountered a rider, a rebel, with a flag of truce. He says that General Johnston is close behind him.”
Kilpatrick seemed to ponder a decision. “Well, perhaps we should allow him to enter our lines, as it were.”
Sherman tapped his hat down on his head. “Perhaps I should ride forward and meet with General Johnston. We can argue formalities later.”
He followed the lieutenant, the other cavalrymen keeping pace, still the itching need for security. Sherman ignored them, kept his eyes to the front, saw riders now, a small cluster of gray uniforms, the flag of truce. He searched the faces, no real need, the one smaller man standing out, flanked by a large cavalry officer. He stopped the horse, a few yards between them, saw a hard scowl on the cavalryman’s face, the young officer still holding the white flag speaking out.
“Sirs, this is General Joseph Johnston. This is Lieutenant General Wade Hampton.”
Sherman focused on Johnston, as Kilpatrick spoke up. “This is Major General William T. Sherman, Army of the United States. I am Major General Judson Kilpatrick.”
Sherman nudged the horse closer to Johnston, studied Johnston as he knew Johnston was studying him. The man was small-framed, a distinguished point of silvery beard on his chin, a hint of gray hair beneath his hat, his face worn, tired. Sherman noticed the uniform, thought, New, probably. And look at me. Well, this isn’t a dress parade.
The horses were close, and Johnston held out a hand, which Sherman took, a brief hard squeeze.
Introductions followed, both men naming their respective staff officers, the kind of formality that seemed appropriate for a review. Sherman endured that, forgot most of Johnston’s staff as soon as the names were given, assumed Johnston did as well. When the introductions were complete, Sherman said, “General, is there someplace where we may meet in private? A discussion on horseback seems rather unsuitable.”
“There was a farmhouse just a ways back. A short ride, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well. Please lead the way.”
Johnston lowered his head, a hint of a smile, his soft Virginia accent framing his words with a hint of syrup. “General, I believe we should ride together, side by side. The staffs may follow behind.”
Sherman nodded, was already dreading the formality of this. “Let’s go, then.”
They made the short ride, Sherman mostly in silence, Johnston offering small pleasantries, tossing names out from the old army. Sherman could see now that Johnston was a good bit older, possibly sixty, the hardness in his features rounded by age and experience. The road curved slightly, the farmhouse ahead, and Johnston said, “Family named Bennett, I believe. They should have no problem with our use of their home.”
Sherman nodded in agreement, thought, Wouldn’t really matter if they did.
The men dismounted, each instructing their staff officers to dismount and hold where they were. Johnston stepped toward the door and Sherman saw movement in one of the windows, the face of a child. The door opened, a woman, eyes wide, glancing nervously back and forth between the two contrasting uniforms.
“I am Mrs. Daniel Bennett.”
Sherman said, “Madam, might we use your home for a meeting?”
The woman kept her gaze on Johnston now, who said, “Yes, if you will allow it. Only for a time. No harm will come.”
“I suppose that is acceptable. Will you allow me to remove my children? We can go there, the outbuilding.”
Johnston made a short bow. “Certainly, madam. If we may enter, then?”
The woman backed away, a quick look into another room, a soft command, the sounds of padded feet scurrying through the house. There were four children, their mother escorting them in single file outside. The children eyed Sherman, and he couldn’t avoid watching them, saw the eyes of one, wide, frightened. He thought of his own daughter, what this would be like, so many soldiers, an army suddenly bringing the war to your house. Plenty of children will remember this, he thought.
After a long moment, the family was gone, and Sherman thought now of the husband, glanced at Johnston, knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t know anyway. But he’s off somewhere, sure as hell toting a musket. Maybe right out there, part of the escort.
Johnston led him into a large square room, a massive stone hearth to one side, a stairway leading to what seemed to be a small upstairs sleeping area. The floor was wood planks, a bedroom to one end, the smells of a kitchen. Sherman eyed a drop-leaf table, a pair of plain wood chairs, Johnston already moving there. Johnston sat, removed his hat, Sherman noticing the amount of silver in what remained of his hair. He felt more nervous now than any time this day, looked back toward the door, staff officers from both men staring in. Sherman focused on Dayton, said, “Major, this shall be a private meeting. Close the door.”
Dayton obeyed, the room now darker, Johnston silent, and Sherman saw a hint of shakiness in Johnston’s hands, thought, Even rebels can be nervous.
Sherman scanned the house, what seemed comfortable for a simple farming family, a large spinning wheel in one corner of the bedroom, another table, a large desk. He knew he was delaying the inevitable, and his fingers went to his pocket, feeling the paper dispatch. He let out a breath, said, “General, I have something I must reveal to you. No one else in my army has seen this. I do not know to what extent this news has traveled.”
Johnston seemed curious, took the paper from Sherman’s hand, read. His hand dropped to the table, and he shook his head, a sag to his shoulders, curling his slight fingers into fists. “This is a disgrace to the age. It is the greatest possible calamity for the South.”
Sherman could see emotion in Johnston’s face, was surprised, sat at the other side of the table, said, “I do not yet know what this means for us.”
“Surely, you do not consider this to be an act of my government?”
That had not occurred to Sherman at all, and he said, “I do not believe that you or General Lee would ever be privy to an act of assassination. But I admit to you, in all candor, I am not certain such can be said for Jefferson Davis.”
Johnston shook his head vigorously. “I have seen the president within the last few days. There is nothing of this kind of barbarity in him. I assure you, sir. Nothing at all. This is an outrage to all civilized men.”
“I agree. I have not revealed this to even my own staff, but obviously, I must do so by tonight. I dread the effect this will have in Raleigh. Mr. Lincoln was peculiarly endeared to the soldiers, and all it would take is one foolish man or woman to say something that might inflame our men. I fear there could be a worse fate than what befell Columbia.”
“I cannot assist you in that effort, General. But I pray that reason will prevail, on all sides.”
“I have always prayed for that. It hasn’t been especially effective. General, surely you are convinced that you cannot oppose my army. Since General Lee has surrendered, you can do the same with honor and propriety. I see no alternative.”
Johnston sat back, the dispatch on the table between them. “I cannot argue that point, sir. Any further fighting between our troops would be little more than murder. Can we not arrange for the surrender of all the Confederate armies? General Lee could only speak for his troops, and I can only speak fo
r mine. I could possibly gain authority from President Davis.”
Sherman thought a moment, realized this might become more complicated than he had thought. “I have recently had an interview with Mr. Lincoln and General Grant, and I believe I can speak for both men, even in this circumstance. There was consistency in their views, and the views of the Northern people, that there is no vindictive feeling against the Confederate armies. However, that cannot be said of their feelings toward Mr. Davis and his political adherents.” He paused. “The terms that were given to Lee’s army by General Grant were most certainly generous and liberal. Surely you can be of like mind, and see that the other armies can be convinced?”
“It is possible that overnight, I can receive those assurances from the president, and possibly the authority to act on that. But you realize that the government of the United States has never recognized the existence of a Confederate government. I am not certain how we can treat on the subject of civil authority.”
Sherman stared at Johnston, absorbed in the situation that seemed to grow more complex by the second. “You agree that this war must end.”
Johnston held up his hands in front of him, palms apart, a gesture of agreement. “Most certainly.”
“I can, right here, offer your army the terms as given by General Grant.”
Johnston frowned. “Our situation here is vastly different from General Lee’s. The pieces do not necessarily fit. However, can we not pursue a goal that includes more than what you propose with my army? First, all we have now in effect is a partial suspension of hostilities. Can we not, as others have done, arrange a permanent peace?”
Sherman laid one hand on the table, tapped with his palm, felt a burst of enthusiasm, erasing the head-splitting confusion over so many definitions of civil authority. “Yes! I agree with such sentiment. I do not know of any reason why we cannot create an agreement here to end bloodshed and devastation to the land, and restore the Union. We must agree to the terms to be offered the Southern states, on their submission to the authority of the United States. I know that President Lincoln was stoutly in favor of such action.”
—
They conversed for the rest of the afternoon, mostly pleasant, social chatter, some of it more involved with the war itself. Most important to Sherman, the relationship he had formed with Johnston seemed nearly instantaneous, a common understanding that the war had come to an end.
Sherman’s only sticking point was his understanding that Jefferson Davis could not likely be included in any kind of general amnesty that might be afforded the Southern soldiers. He knew enough of Washington politics to know that Davis meant more to the United States government than any general or any other single part of the rebellion. It was that annoying focus on symbols again, something Sherman had grudgingly come to understand. The only symbol that might have more meaning to the Southern people would be in the person of Robert E. Lee. But Lee’s surrender had made that meaningless, the man more of a symbol now of what the Confederacy had lost than whatever legitimacy the South still held as its own nation.
With daylight fading, Johnston suggested a meeting for the next day, same location, to hammer out details that could be presented to both governments. In the meantime, Johnston would seek the authority from his own government to settle so many of the nagging civil issues.
Sherman left the Bennett house with an aching sense of hope, that these negotiations would not descend into a squabble over the kind of minutiae he had so little patience for. As he rode back toward Durham’s Station with Kilpatrick and his staff, Sherman knew he had one more monumental task in front of him. It was time to tell his army, his generals, and his own staff officers that President Lincoln was dead.
In every place the soldiers were camped, guards were doubled, provosts instructed with harsh terms the level of control they had to maintain over civilian property. To Sherman’s relief, the acts of vengeance or hateful violence against the citizens in and around Raleigh were scarce. Instead, Sherman saw what he felt himself, that the men kept mostly to their camps, absorbing the bitter emotions, expressing the loss of their president not with guns and torches, but with tears.
BENNETT HOUSE, NEAR DURHAM’S STATION—APRIL 18, 1865
They met as before, alone, but Johnston seemed to understand the propriety of civil issues far better than Sherman. Johnston had brought John Breckinridge with him, a man Sherman knew well. Breckinridge had been the vice president of the United States under President James Buchanan. Pledging his loyalties to the Confederacy, he had served as major general, another in the long line of commanders whose feuding with Braxton Bragg had tossed him out of active service. Now he was Davis’s secretary of war, a post Johnston insisted would provide the necessary civil authority to any agreement they could forge.
But Sherman felt uneasy with a man who was now a leading figure in the Confederate government, a post that put him into another sphere entirely from what Sherman felt he could address. It was Johnston who suggested that Breckinridge be involved in the conversation more in the role as major general, a compromise Sherman accepted. After long discussions over the terms both sides could find acceptable, Sherman put the agreement to paper.
Once the terms were approved by their governments, there would be a temporary armistice, to last for forty-eight hours, what both men believed was sufficient time to pass along the terms to their respective commands. Beyond that, the more obvious terms were spelled out in neat detail. The Confederate armies were to be disbanded, the men returning to their own state capitals, awaiting further instruction, though every man would sign an agreement that he would no longer engage in acts of war.
The civil terms seemed perfectly clear to Sherman. The president of the United States would recognize the existing Confederate state governments, as long as those bodies would take an oath prescribed by the U.S. Constitution. It would be up to the U.S. Supreme Court to validate their legitimacy. The citizens of the Confederate states would be guaranteed their political rights, rights of person and property, as defined by the U.S. Constitution.
The final term was that by this agreement, the war would cease. “A general amnesty, so far as the executive of the United States can command, on condition of the disbandment of the Confederate armies, the distribution of the arms, and the resumption of peaceful pursuits by the officers and men hitherto composing said armies.”
The final paragraph made Sherman far more comfortable with the civil agreements that Breckinridge had described: “Not being fully empowered by our respective principals to fulfill these terms, we individually and officially pledge ourselves to promptly obtain the necessary authority, and to carry out the above programme.”
Sherman left the meeting with full confidence that peace had been restored. Unlike the awful communication he had given his army on the seventeenth, the next morning Sherman issued a far more celebratory notice: “The general commanding announces to the army a suspension of hostilities, and an agreement with General Johnston, and high officials which, when formally ratified, will make peace from the Potomac to the Rio Grande….”
—
Early on the morning of April 19, Sherman sent Hitchcock toward the coast, to board a steamer that would carry the major to Washington. Hitchcock carried the document, as well as specific letters Sherman had written, to be delivered to Secretary Stanton, General Halleck, or General Grant. The only other restriction Hitchcock received was to keep the papers away from the eyes of any newspaper reporter.
Knowing Hitchcock would require time to make the deliveries, Sherman kept his anxieties shoved aside by reviewing his troops, especially the new units now under his command, the Tenth and Twenty-third corps, the troops Schofield had brought into Sherman’s camps. None of those formalities could keep Sherman from sleepless nights, the raw anxiety that these days spent in camp in Raleigh would be his final days in command of an army.
On the twenty-third, Hitchcock telegraphed his return, that he would arrive the following morning.<
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Sherman made every effort to find some kind of normalcy as he waited, knowing that some miles away, Joe Johnston was likely as anxious as he was. At six in the morning, the train arrived, Sherman standing at the depot in the chill, shivering more from his nervousness than from the coolness of an early spring morning. Hitchcock quickly appeared, but there was no smile, none of Hitchcock’s usual naïve cheeriness. As he stepped down from the train, another man appeared, in uniform. To Sherman’s openmouthed surprise, it was Grant.
After a jubilant greeting, Sherman’s surprise was crushed by the hammer blow that Grant delivered, the purpose of Grant’s visit. The terms of surrender between Sherman and Johnston had been rejected by the United States government.
CHAPTER FIFTY
SHERMAN
RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA—APRIL 24, 1865
They settled into Sherman’s more permanent headquarters at the Governor’s Mansion. Grant had insisted, and Sherman had made clear to his staff, that Grant’s visit was not to be announced to the army, nor to anyone else who could be kept in the dark. Once Sherman understood why Grant had come, he appreciated exactly what Grant had in mind. He was saving Sherman’s command.
General Johnston, Commanding Confederate Army, Greensboro:
You will take notice that the truce or suspension of hostilities agreed to between us will cease in forty-eight hours after this is received at your lines, under the first of the articles of agreement.
W. T. SHERMAN, MAJOR GENERAL
Grant sat with his legs crossed, smoked a cigar, read the second letter.
General Johnston,
I have replies from Washington to my communications of April 18. I am instructed to limit my operations to your immediate command, and not to attempt civil negotiations. I therefore demand the surrender of your army on the same terms as were given to General Lee at Appomattox, April 9, instant, purely and simply.