Jeff Shaara - The Last Full Measure

by The Last Full Measure(Lit)

  him from coming across at all, but on the left, where the Third Corps had dug their lines, the woods between the troops and the river was already swarming with blue coats, a growing mass of the enemy.

  The march to the river had been long and tense. Grant's people were to the east, and all along the way, care had to be taken that Lee was not suddenly confronted on the flank, whether by design or by accident. Hill was back in command of the Third Corps, the illness improving. Lee had welcomed his return, but it meant Early would return to Ewell's command, back to his division, and John Gordon would step down further, to command his brigade. It was a situation that required change. HE HAD RISEN EARLY AGAIN, AND IT WAS a ROUTINE THAT WAS wearing him down. He felt no stomach for the breakfast. He had watched the staff pick at the hard stale biscuits, scraping off the light blue mold, heard low comments, mild curses. His gut was still bothering him, and the sight of the biscuits had driven him from the table. He would wait, try to find something later, maybe a blessed gift, a local farmer offering some precious piece of his dwindling pantry.

  The sun was up now, and the rain was gone; the sharp blue of the sky warmed them all. He tried to take a walk, to feel the dry air, fill himself with healing, but the churning in his gut would not go away, had driven him back to his tent.

  He was on his back, staring at the blank canvas, the flaps open, the breeze billowing into the tent. He took a deep breath, then another. For a moment the cramp under his belt loosened, and he sat up, saw Taylor outside the tent, watching him.

  Taylor stepped forward now, said, "General, excuse me, I have some Coffee here, if it will help, Sir.

  Taylor held out the cup, and Lee caught the smell, strong and awful. He said, "Coffee? Are you certain, Colonel?"

  Taylor looked into the cup, made a small frown.

  "Well, Sir, it's what we've been using for coffee."

  "Thank you, but I'll do without for now."

  Taylor seemed relieved, backed out of the tent, tossed the contents of the cup out behind him, then turned to Lee, said, "Sorry, Sir. I didn't know what else to do."

  Lee smiled, nodded, then felt a small cramp return, and he took another long breath, waited for it to pass.

  "Colonel, we must not let word of this... of my condition, to reach the men. There can be no weakness now, none at all. Do you understand?"

  Taylor moved closer, lowered his voice. Of course, sir.

  "The general is resting in his tent." Anyone who has asked for you is being told that, Sir."

  "Very well, Colonel. Have we sent word to General Gordon?"

  Taylor stood, nodded, "Yes, Sir. Major Venable conveyed your request." He turned, peered out of the tent.

  "I will escort him here as soon as he arrives, Sir."

  Taylor was gone now, and Lee lay back on the cot again, slowly began to shake, wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, tried to hold the shaking away, but the chill came from deep inside him. He waited for it to pass, but the shivering filled him inside, his arms clamped hard across his chest. His mind fought it, a silent prayer, God, please... and slowly the shivering stopped, the deep knot in his gut let go. He was breathing heavily, felt the sweat now on his face, soaking his shirt. He closed his eyes, but there was no rest, his heart pounding. He thought, This is very bad, I must not allow this to interfere... we have much work to do.

  There were voices, and he opened his eyes, pulled himself up painfully, sat up again, and Taylor was at the opening of the tent.

  "Sir, General Gordon, at your request."

  Taylor backed away, and now Gordon stepped up, looked at Lee with concern, said, "General... you sent for me, Sir?" He lowered his head, leaned in, tried to see Lee's face.

  "Are you all right, Sir?"

  Lee pointed to the small chair, said, "Sit, please, General. I am fine, yes. A bit of a stomach problem, nothing to be concerned about."

  Gordon moved to the chair, nodded.

  "Yes, Sir. I am sure it'sjust a minor ailment, Sir."

  Lee pulled out a handkerchief, wiped at his forehead, said, "It is of no concern, General. What is of concern is your command. I have already conferred with General Ewell, and it has been decided that your services to this army are of great value. I have prepared papers to send to the Secretary, recommending your promotion to Major General."

  Gordon stood, stiff and formal, tried to hide the smile.

  "Thank you, Sir. I have merely done my duty, Sir."

  Lee shifted his weight on the cot, wrestled with another cramp.

  "Please, General, sit down. There is more. It is not appropriate, given your service, and given your new rank, for you to return to brigade command. General Ewell also agrees that your handling of division strength forces in the last affair was admirable. We have reorganized somewhat... you will now command a division, consisting of three brigades, including your own. General Ewell will provide details. The Second Corps will now consist of your division and General Early's." He paused, watched Gordon slowly sit, his back straight, staring straight ahead. Lee suddenly thought of Jackson, the same posture, the man who never touched the back of a chair. But Gordon is young, he thought. He is not a professional... and he is not Jackson.

  "General Gordon, this army needs all of its good commanders. We have lost too many. I would consider it a personal favor if you did not expose yourself to the fire of the enemy. This army must depend on your service.

  Gordon said, "Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. You will not be disappointed."

  "No, I do not expect I will. You are dismissed, General."

  Gordon stood, snapped a quick salute, moved quickly out of the tent. Lee sagged, was drained, felt weaker now than before. Gordon has the strength, he thought, the energy. So many of them had that... all of them, even... me. Now we will depend on the youth, the few men like Gordon who have not yet failed. He felt a wave of depression, told himself, No, have faith. One good man... can make a difference, can turn the direction of the war. He has already shown the fire, he knows how to face the enemy. I just wish... there were more like him.

  HE RODE IN A WAGON, TOWARD THE LEFT FLANK, WHERE HILL was waiting. His gut was full of fire. The ailment that had punched and prodded him for days was now a full storm, and he could not even ride the horse. It could not be helped, the word had spread, and as the troops along the road watched the wagon pass, small cheers surrounded him. He felt the wagon slow, heard voices, familiar, Hill's staff. Now there were faces, helping hands, and he emerged from the wagon, his feet finding the hard ground, and he saw Hill.

  Hill had come back with a flourish, had told Lee, told everyone, that his illness was gone, behind him; he was prepared for whatever faced the army. But Lee saw beyond the words, the bravado, looked briefly at the sunken eyes, the thin face. Hill was still not a well man. He felt a sudden impatient anger, turned his head, walked slowly away from the staffs. The pain in his gut was twisting into a hard knot again, and he stopped, clamped his eyes shut, thought, Please. Hill was beside him now, looked carefully at Lee, silent, seeing the sweat on Lee's face.

  To the north, along the river, there was a small wave of musket fire, scattered thunder from big guns. Lee looked that way, knew that

  Grant's men had filled the woods between Hill and the river, thought, They should not be there, they should be on the other side of the river.

  He felt the anger again, stared hard at the sounds. Some dark place inside of him was suddenly boiling up, the control slipping away. He looked at Hill, the weakness, the frailty, one more failure, and he felt his voice rise, bursting out of him.

  "General Hill, why did you not do as Jackson would have done? Those people should not be there, they should never have been allowed to cross the river. You should have thrown your whole force on those people and driven them back!" His voice cracked, the breath gone. His fists were clenched, and the sweat soaked him again.

  Hill stared at him, seemed to sink down, feeling the weight of Lee's anger. Hill looked down then, said, "Sir, we did
not... we did not learn of the enemy's crossing Lee turned, was not listening to what Hill was saying, the explanation, heard only the fight within himself, the struggle for control. He held up a hand, stopped Hill in mid-sentence.

  "It is done. Prepare your defense, General. I must return to my headquarters."

  Hill saluted, and Lee turned, saw the staff behind him, saw the faces, knew they had heard the anger, the harsh words. He moved toward the wagon, thought, I do not have time for explanation... this is not a time for comfort. He glanced at Hill, said, "General, we must be vigilant. General Grant is coming again. "It

  WAS A PERFECT PLAN, THE ONLY KIND OF MANEUVER AGAINST THE numbers Grant was pushing toward them. The roads that led to Richmond crossed the North Anna in a place where Lee had fortified on a high knoll, a place called Ox Ford. On both sides of Ox Ford, the river curved up and away, like a wide U, and so, if Grant could not cross where Lee had his greatest strength, he would have to cross on either side. It was exactly what Lee hoped he would do, because Lee had pulled his defenses into an inverted'V, both flanks pointing back away from the river. If Grant continued his advance, his army would come across the river in two separate pieces, far removed from each other. It was the kind of opportunity Lee had watched for, prayed for, and Grant kept coming.

  On the left flank, where Hill's lines threw up a powerfully compact defense, the Federal Fifth Corps was advancing below the river toward them. Behind, above the river, the Sixth waited to cross as well. But the key to Lee's plan was on his right flank, downstream. Burnside was straight across Ox Ford, facing Lee's strongest position, and could do nothing but watch Porter Alexander's mass of cannon staring at them from the heights below the river. Farther downstream, Hancock's Second Corps was pushing across the river into an open area, behind which Lee had drawn half his army into a tightly coiled spring, waiting for the most vulnerable moment when Hancock's troops were spread out, a line of march led by men who stared curiously at the empty roads in front of them, a pathway south that seemed to be wide open. HE HAD NOT RISEN FROM THE BED, THE BLANKET HOLDING HIM down in the sea of cold sweat. He could hear the sounds, outside, the horsemen moving in and out of the camp, the reports from the cavalry. Taylor would let no one see him, but he knew from the sound of the voices that something was very wrong.

  His eyes were closed and he felt a small breath of air on his face. Lee looked up, blinked into focus, saw Taylor leaning over him. He tried to smile, the young man's soft concern drifting over him.

  Taylor whispered, "Sir, if it is all right, I must tell you, Sir. We have word from the right flank."

  Lee nodded, felt the stab of pain growing in his gut again, clenched his teeth, fought it, said in a low voice, "Yes, Colonel, what is it.

  Taylor watched him, waited, saw Lee's face relax, said, "Sir, General Ewell did not advance per your instructions, Sir. The attack was not made. The enemy has now entrenched. General Ewell reports that it is unlikely his attack would succeed now."

  Lee stared past Taylor's face, up into the dull blankness of the tent. He closed his eyes, nodded, made a small motion with his hand, a silent command to Taylor: dismissed.

  The fire tore through his mind, but there was no strength, and he could not respond to it, could not feel anger. We have let them go... again. If I had been there... He thought of Ewell, understood now that it was definite, as though the sentence had been passed down to him from God. Ewell is not fit. He cannot command. I don't understand, but I cannot just let him be, hope that he grows stronger, that whatever is missing in him returns.

  There were more voices, Taylor still managing the couriers, and now the young man was back in the tent, crept closer, and Lee opened his eyes, looked up at him.

  Taylor said, "Sir, the enemy is still across from General Hill. The troops in front of General Ewell are not withdrawing. The cavalry reports the enemy is still divided. The opportunity is still there, Sir."

  Lee saw the excitement in the Taylor's face, the show of enthusiasm. He said, "What time is it, Colonel?"

  Taylor pulled out a small watch, and his face fell, the excitement faded.

  "Um... a bit after seven, Sir."

  Lee said, "It's too late. Tomorrow... we must try again tomorrow.)) Lee felt the weakness pulling at him now, closed his eyes again. Taylor stayed close to him, waited, watching, then slowly backed away, moved out into the fading daylight.

  Lee was not sleeping, felt his mind still working, and he thought of Ewell, of Hill, the two flanks of his army, both men staring out at their enemy waiting for him to guide them. Something about Napoleon A came into his mind, odd, something he had not thought about in years, a quote from an old textbook: To command is to wear out. No, I am not worn-out, not yet. The army is not worn-out. He felt the fog rolling across his brain, saw the face of Napoleon. No, you are wrong. There will be tomorrow... tomorrow we will have another chance....

  23. GRANT

  MAY 25, 1864HE HAD MOVED FROM SPOT SYLVANIA THROUGH THE BUSY RAIL-road stop of Guiney's Station. The headquarters would be near there, at least for one night, the tents spread across the open lawn of a plantation house. The house, the land, belonged to a family named Chandler, and the women in the house had been cordial, polite to the commander of their enemy. He did not learn until that evening that the small wooden building beside the grand mansion had been the place where Stonewall Jackson had died.

  As the army moved farther south he had moved the headquarters closer to the North Anna, the tents now spread out along the hard road. The rains had stopped, the wood at last was dry, and the troops built huge fires, tall and roaring with great stacks of logs and brush. The fires were not for warmth; the late spring heat had already brought the steam up from the swamps and thick woodlands around the rivers. The fires were a message to Lee's army, to the scouts, to the lookouts who watched them from the tops of tall trees, who stared into the dark night for the signs of motion, some sign of which way the blue army was moving. The fires were their answer, a symbol of the spirit of these men, and the message to the enemy was plain. This army was still moving south, was still coming after them.

  The maps were spread across a large table, and Grant leaned low, scanned the dark pencil lines, the positions of the troops. The reports were all in, the staff was confident that the troop positions were accurate. He followed the curving line of the North Anna, tugged hard at the cigar, the smoke rolling around him. He moved now, around the table, looked at the maps from the south, from Lee's point of, view He thought, We are in serious trouble, we have been in serious trouble all day.

  He looked up at Porter, said, "Are you certain of this? Lee's right flank is... here? " Porter stepped forward, Meade easing up beside him, looking over Porter's shoulder. Porter said, "Yes, Sir. We scouted all through those woods. The enemy has a strong line, has dug in down to the southeast. General Hancock's corps is directly in line to attack them, Sir.

  Grant nodded, thought, Yes, and that's what Lee would like us to do. He moved his hand along the map, out to the west.

  "How far is this? What is the distance over to the right flank?"

  Porter was nervous now, sensed Grant's mood, and Meade stepped up in front of him, said, "Too far. Six miles. Too damned far. We would have to cross the river twice to support Hancock. Twice."

  Grant looked up at Meade, saw the agitation in the man's face, Meade now rocking back and forth. Grant looked at the map again, shook his head, thought, We gave Lee a chance... we made a mistake, trying to spread out on both his flanks. He had an opportunity today, a very good opportunity, and he did nothing.

  He thought of the numbers, the reports from the staff. The casualties have been horrific, for us and for them, he thought. But Lee cannot absorb that, fight after fight. He is weakening, with every fight he is weakening. He has no choice but to dig a deep hole and wait for us.

  He glanced up at Meade, thought, You know better than this, to weaken us like this, spread all over creation, facing a compact enemy. Now you want us
to back away. This time you may be right. He said, "General Meade, I believe it is time for us to leave this place. Would you agree.

  Meade nodded, said quietly, hiding his words from the staff, "I thought it was not a good place... we should pull the army together. We can still put up a good defense...." He ran his hand over the map, searching.

  Grant said, "We do not need a good defense. Lee is in no position to attack us. We will pull the army together in the morning, and move on these roads to the southeast. We will be closer still to Richmond, and Lee will have to come out from behind those fat trenches and stop us." He waited for Meade's reaction, and Meade stared at the map, his face showing nothing.

  Meade looked at Grant, said, "To the southeast... I will prepare the orders." He began to move away, stopped, and said, "Sir."

  Grant moved away from the table, the meeting over. He felt a blossoming headache, thought, We are like some big stupid beast, blind THE LAST FULL MEASURE 235 to everything that does not hit us in the face. We have an enemy in front of us who is already beaten, may be beaten more than he realizes himself. Meade, Burnside... don't they see that?