Jeff Shaara - The Last Full Measure

by The Last Full Measure(Lit)

  The right had been secured, the 198th Pennsylvania now holding the flank. He looked at the officer kneeling beside McEuen's body, saw the man was crying, thought of words, felt suddenly weak, powerless.

  A horseman was coming fast, shouting, "General Chamberlain..." He reined, stared at Chamberlain in horror, said, "Sir... are you all right?"

  Chamberlain nodded wearily, thought, Maybe I should carry a sign reading "Yes dammit, I'm fine!"

  The man studied him carefully, said, "Major Glenn is looking for you, Sir! We are holding around the road, but the major requests your presence, Sir!"

  Chamberlain said nothing, turned the horse, wanted to look down, one last glimpse, but he kicked with the spurs and the horse moved under him, taking him away.

  He rode back along the line, saw the faces turn, watching him. As they saw him, muskets went down, the fighting stopped, a brief pause, his own men pointing, staring, then a cheer. He moved toward the center again, saw his men in line, ready, a brief lull here as well. The rebels were in their works again, the two sides pausing, licking their wounds, two weary animals making ready for the next assault.

  He had not found his hat, rubbed his hand over his head, felt the hair stiff and matted thick with the blood, suddenly thought of Fannie:

  It is a good thing... no women spectators. The men began to cheer him, and he moved toward the sawdust pile. He heard his name, tried not to look at them, focused on the job at hand, on the lines of the enemy waiting beyond the works. There was scattered musket fire, a sudden sharp volley down to the left, and Chamberlain looked that way, began to ride. Another group of his men saw him for the first time, his face a solid mask of deep red, the shirt and coat ripped and still wet. He saw the faces, the horror, changing now to relief, then something else, the cheering rolling along the line as though he was some sort of horrible symbol, their own messenger of death, one horseman of the Apocalypse. Then, across the field, the open ground scattered with men from both sides, rebel troops began to stand up on the works, and he looked that way, saw an officer, sword in the air, and muskets, men raising them high overhead. The sound echoed across the bloody ground, but it was not the rebel yell, the enemy was not coming out again with a new charge. They were cheering him.

  HE GUNS CAME UP JUST As GRIFFIN HAD PROMISED, AND THEN the fight turned, the battery adding new weight to Chamberlain's balance. On the flank, more troops from the corps moved forward as well, men who had been delayed by the swollen waters of the distant creeks, who could not be where Chamberlain needed them. Now the rebels began to move away, withdrew from the logs and the Woods behind the farm, moved to another strong line, stronger still, reinforced by more of Lee's army, a new defensive line anchored hard along the White Oak Road.

  Night had finally swept the field, and Chamberlain rode slowly, felt the unfamiliar rhythm of a new horse. He'd been to the hospital, seen the men who carried the wounds, the men who might yet survive, the ones who would not. He had made a brief visit to the magnificent Charlemagne, now resting, recovering from yet another wound. He looked down in the dark, the white mane, did not know this horse's name, thought it was probably for the best: I'm a curse on horses.

  The Fifth Corps had spread into position, and his brigade would now rest in the rear, men gathering in exhausted silence around the small fires, the blessed food. They were fewer now, had lost nearly a quarter of their strength. But Chamberlain had heard from the staff, then from General Warren himself. The rebel prisoners came from four brigades, a force numbering nearly seven thousand of the enemy's troops. Warren had promised him a promotion, a personal note to Washington, then rode away in the splendor of a command that today did not lose.

  He is probably a very good commander, Chamberlain thought. But we could have used some help today. It could have been very different. He remembered the prisoners, watching his men marched away, thought, Where are they now? What will happen to them? He'd heard the stories, rumors and poorly written newspaper articles, sensational and dramatic, the rebel prison camps down south, Georgia, one place called Andersonville. No, don't think on that, he told himself. It is a part of it, part of it all. They will survive. They are not like the men in the hospital, the men who will go home broken, leaving something behind.

  He had seen the same horrifying sight, always around the hospitals, the great piles of arms and legs, thought again of his own great fear, the shock, believing he'd lost an arm. He reached down, probed the old wound slightly, low in his gut, thought, I always believed it would be... in the body. If I went down, it would be there. Usually, that meant you would die. But to go home... missing something. He could never admit that fear, not to the men, not to anyone. He marveled at the ones who actually came back to fight, men like Oliver Howard, one sleeve hanging empty. He had heard about Ewell, and John Bell Hood, the horrific wounds, the rebel commanders still riding into the fight, thought, It must change them. It would change me.

  He had tried not to think of the young McEuen, the body resting under a blanket, laid to one side, one awful corner of the hospital. He would have to write McEuen's father, a doctor in Philadelphia, knew that the memory would stay with him now in that terrible place, where all the memories would stay. The doctor had visited the camp the autumn before, had come to see his son's small command for himself, the pride of the father. He had put his hand on Chamberlain's shoulder, a stern request, to take good care of his boy, as though the boy's safety were Chamberlain's responsibility. Chamberlain had been gracious, smiling, assuring the old man that the boy would return a hero. Now he would have to send a letter, as he'd sent many letters. He was a master at language, at the use of words, but when that time came, when he could see the faces of the men he wrote about, the words dissolved. Nothing he could ever say, no prayers, no tales of heroics, would replace the loss of the son, or the husband. He could not help it now, saw the boy's face, and the face of his father, could see it all, the letter being read aloud, the women weeping, the father trying to comfort. Would there be blame, anger? Would he be cursed by this man, the man to whom he had given the promise? Am I responsible, after all? He stared into the dark, thought, No, the army does not think so, it is all a part of the job. But what do people in Philadelphia know of... the job?

  He was still near the hospitals, could see a long row of lanterns now, wagons moving up the road. The wounded were being taken away, moved to the railroads, back to City Point. After that they would ride the boats north, as he had, to the soft white beds, would stare at blank walls and try to keep their minds alive, wait patiently for the time when they might be allowed to go home or return to the war.

  He pulled the horse around, looked up at the stars, but there were no stars. The sky was dull and black, and now he could hear a slight gust of wind, felt the first drop on his face, then more, the sound of the wind now becoming the sound of the rain. He prodded the horse toward the camp, then saw a flicker of light across a wide field. He tried to see, as the rain fell hard around him, and could make out the horsemen, more lanterns, the light reflecting on the flags, the wide column of troops. He nodded to himself, understood now, had received the word from Griffin's headquarters. It would be the Second Corps, Humphreys's command, the men who had fought under Hancock. They would move into line beside the Fifth, and so tomorrow... he looked up, closed his eyes, felt the rain on his face, thought of the streams, the muddy roads. Well, maybe not tomorrow.

  He rode toward the camp, thought of Sheridan, Grant, the great power of this army, knew that very soon they would move again. If they were no longer beyond Lee's flank, could not quite move as Sheridan had wanted, to cut the railroads, to wrap Lee's army up into a tight ball, they would simply drive up hard into whatever Lee put in their path, whatever defense Lee tried to make. 4 1. LEE

  MARCH 31, 1865 T

  HERE HAD BEEN A STRANGE AND CONFUSED FIGHT ALL ALONG the White Oak Road, the Federal troops pushing forward again. Confused and uncoordinated, their attack was made more difficult by the rain, the dif
ficult crossings of the creeks, the small swamps and bogs that were now an impossible barrier to troop movement. Lee's men had broken the first wave of Federal assaults, sent the blue troops racing southward, back across the torrent of Gravelly Run. But he knew this was the Fifth Corps, and to the east there was help from part of the Second, and so Lee had been forced back again, the blue troops finally establishing control along the valuable road.

  Lee's men still faced southward, and the White Oak Road would give no one an easy passageway. The men who had fought so well there were now in motion, moving slowly westward, lengthening their trenches. There was a wide gap between the end of the line and the critical crossroads of Five Forks, and Lee knew that the great strength below him would not just sit and wait while he made his defenses strong.

  There had been a good fight to the west as well, and he'd waited for it, knew that what had happened at Five Forks was more important than the loss of White Oak Road. The sounds meant that Pickett had arrived, his division nearly five thousand strong, and linked up with Fitz Lee's cavalry, to hold Sheridan away.

  Lee had spent most of the last two days along the White Oak Road, and now rode in the rain toward the dull sound of musket fire. The firing had mostly stopped, except for scattered pops, skirmishers getting in the last word. The blue troops were tight against the White Oak Road, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it for now.

  He thought it strange that it would be Pickett's division, circumstance moving out of Lee's control, directed by a much stronger force-the hand of God-deciding that Pickett would be in the best position, the fastest way to reinforce the far flank. Pickett's division had been close to the trains, was able to move to the flank quickest. Lee thought hard on that, did not ask why; there was no answer. But if there is some Divine plan, he thought, I can only carry it through. He considered the man himself; he had not seen Pickett again before the move west. What will he do? What kind of fight will his men make? It will matter, after all. Pickett held the flank, the most important position on the long line.

  Fitz Lee had been reinforced as well, as much cavalry as could be moved. There were now nearly four thousand horsemen, as strong a force of cavalry as Lee could still assemble. He thought of his nephew, the man who had tried to step into the shoes of Stuart, and had learned to walk with the swagger, the heroic dash, of the horseman. Fitz Lee had proven he could match Sheridan, had fought him all over central Virginia now. But this was not a fight between horse soldiers. Sheridan was supported now by two corps of infantry, forty thousand Federal troops, and Fitz Lee had only the five thousand men of George Pickett.

  Traveller moved through the mud, and Lee focused down, the rain flowing off the brim of his hat. It had always been about mathematics, something he'd had to absorb from the beginning, to make the best use of the poor numbers. In front of Petersburg, facing east, John Gordon had barely five thousand men. If Grant knew that... but it may not matter now, he thought. Grant is moving west. The forts and trenches that Gordon held was the toughest ground, the strongest defensive position on the field. Grant would know that. No, he realized, I would do the same thing, move out this way, get around the flank, cut the railroad. We must not let him cut the railroad.

  The numbers were a blur, and he thought of Davis: You have never understood. If you had used the energy, made the speeches, worked on bringing the states together, uniting their strength... But Davis had only alienated those who could have helped, the men in the Carolinas, Georgia. Soldiers continued to drift away, draining the numbers from the army.

  He closed his eyes, listened to the rain, the sound of the horse's steps. Did it matter, after all? He had been shocked to hear the numbers from Joe Johnston, had assumed that down south there was good strength, enough force to hold Sherman away. But Johnston could not organize the mix of forces, lost many to the temptations of home, many who simply walked away. Now Johnston could report barely thirteen thousand men in the field, and Lee knew that Sherman had better than sixty thousand.

  The staff had put together the best intelligence they could, estimated Grant's numbers at better than eighty thousand, more than double what Lee had left. In Richmond there were still the loud calls from the papers, from the politicians, that together Lee and Johnston could whip either one of the Federal armies, then turn in one great wave and defeat the other. He still considered that, but when the reports came from Johnston, Lee knew that if Sherman simply drove hard to the north, there would be nothing he could do to prevent him from linking up with Grant.

  The letters still came into camp, mindless and boastful, advice on military strategy from men who had never seen a fight. Lee had stopped reading them, left It to Taylor to sift through the correspondence, to screen out what was important. He'd hoped to hear more from Davis, but there had been nothing of substance, no help to the army. Davis was holding on to the one piece of the Cause that meant more to him than any other. He was surrounded by it, clung to it with a failing mind, saving it to the end. Lee thought, He believes it, truly believes that if we hold Richmond, we are still winning. If I tell him, he will not hear me. Richmond is a liability, a drain on our strength. Longstreet is there, holding on with what little he can, strengthened only by old men and boys, displaced sailors and crippled veterans. And I need Longstreet here.

  It was late in the day, and what fighting there had been was growing silent, held down by the weather and the exhaustion of the men.

  Lee knew Sheridan had been pushed back to Dinwiddle Court House, good work from Fitz Lee's horses. If we can move out that way, he thought, spread out the line... He could hear the workers, the axes and shovels. He did not ride along the trenches, did not want to see the faces. Not today. The work was more difficult, the men weaker still, the rations even worse than they'd been before. They would still cheer him, but he did not want that now, thought, They cannot do this for me. They must do it for themselves, draw strength from that. I cannot be the cause.

  Lee moved east, toward Anderson's headquarters, knew that beyond, between Anderson and Gordon, Hill was in place, probably the largest group of fighting men left, the Third Corps numbering about six thousand men. Hill had come back, had left the comforts of his home, the care of his wife, was now somewhere along the lines. Lee thought, Yes, we still have them, we still have good men, Longstreet, Hill. We will need the best they can give, the best fight their men have left.

  He reined the horse, turned in the road, the staff gathering around him. Looking out to the west, he thought, With Pickett and Fitz Lee anchored above Dinwiddle, the lines have been stretched another six miles. All we have left to the east is Gordon.

  The rain had stopped, the dull gray sky was breaking up, and now there was a glimpse of color, a sunset. Lee straightened in the saddle, pointed, the staff turning to look. Lee said, "There. It is a sign. God is still with us."-' Marshall was beside him, the young man behind the round spectacles, and he said, "Yes, sir, God is with you, sir. Always has been."

  Lee shook his head, wanted to say something, thought, No, we must not do that... not anymore.

  There was a rider, moving up fast, coming from the west. Lee watched him, forgot about the sunset. The man splashed up, breathing heavily, his face and clothes soaked in the dense mud of the soggy fields.

  "Sir, compliments from General Pickett, sir."

  Lee returned the man's salute, his chest tightening, said, "Go on."

  "The general reports that he was unable to move the Yankees out of Dinwiddie, sir. The general has withdrawn our forces north, to Five Forks. He reports, sir, that the enemy has not followed him, that he is in a strong position there, sir."

  Lee stared at the man, waited for more, but the man sagged in the saddle, the report complete. Marshall had pulled out a map, handed it to Lee, who scanned it, thought, I had hoped... they could have defeated General Sheridan's cavalry. Even the cavalry would have been a major victory. Now they will have time. Sheridan will receive infantry support. He folded the map, handed it calmly
to Marshall, felt his gut turn, his jaw tighten.

  He said to the courier, "You may return to General Pickett. Remind him that the Southside Railroad is close to his rear. He must not move any further north. Advise General Pickett that he must hold Five Forks at all hazards." He took a breath, felt a hard thump in his chest, looked down, saw a dull reflection in the mud, the last splash of color from the fading sunset, repeated in a low voice, "At all hazards... "

  42. CHAMBERLAIN

  APRIL 1, 1865 T

  HEY HAD MOVED IN THE DARK, CHURNING THE ROADS INTO deep glue, then, off the roads, following the straightest line, moving through the misery of quicksand and blind trails. The orders from Sheridan and Grant and Meade had come in a confusing stream, the lines of communication tangled in the web of Federal command, the structure clouded by divided authority. Grant had given Sheridan command of the field, but where that field began was something Meade did not clearly understand. Finally, word had come, the Fifth would march to support Sheridan, would now be under his command. But orders still came into camp from Meade, and Chamberlain had seen Warren, watched as the small dapper man was slowly beaten down by confusion and contradiction.