Lee looked down at his nephew, made a small motion with his hand, said, "Who is that up there?"
Fitz Lee was looking into the fire, said, "Custer. Maybe Devin." Lee waited for more, but the young man still stared at the fire, and there were no more words. Lee was now annoyed, felt his patience suddenly fall away, said, "Cavalry? Is that all... just cavalry? Are you sure) The young man looked up at him, heard the anger in Lee's voice, glanced at Gordon, who said, "There has to be infantry."
Lee looked at him.
"Do you have information? Is there something I do not know?"
Gordon said, "No, Sir. But they're out there. If they're not up ahead right now, they will be by morning."
Fitz Lee nodded, said, "Probably right. Custer didn't pull away.
It wasn't a probe. He meant to dig in, hold his line. He's expecting support."
Lee looked at the fire again, closed his eyes. He had not done this, not in a very long time. He did not believe in councils of war, in calling everyone together at one time. If they were alone, one on one, he could depend on honesty, could feel out each man himself, read the face, read the heart, had always felt they would open up to him. But there was no time now, and after all, it was only these three who really mattered, who really controlled what would happen in the morning. They had spent little time together, had very little in common except that they were the best commanders he had left. He thought, No, that is no accident, there is something of God in this. The weak, those with no heart for the fight, are gone, taken away by Your will. You have left me with the men who can still do this, who can save us yet. Your hand still guides us. If we are to go on, if You will provide for these men, show me... something, show me a Sign.
He turned, saw Longstreet, who still watched him quietly. Lee looked out to the officers spread all around them. He moved away from the fire, looked at Longstreet, then the other two, said in a low voice, "Can we break through?"
Longstreet leaned forward, took the pipe from his mouth, said quietly, "We can always break through. If it's cavalry, we can break through easily. If it's infantry, it will be a bit tougher. But we can do it."
Lee nodded, thought of the strange mood, reading the letter from Grant. Longstreet was still criticized by the papers, too slow, too much defense. Even I thought him too stubborn, he thought, and now he understands what I want, what we need to do. Maybe he always knew. Maybe stubbornness is what we need now, more than anything else.
He looked at Gordon then said, "It will have to be up to your men, General. If they are in force... if General Grant has infantry blocking the road... we may not have an alternative."
There was a silent moment, and Lee waited, could not use the word, had not thought of the word all day, but he had to see it in their eyes, if they understood what he meant-that if they could not break through, the only alternative would be surrender.
Gordon sat up, looked at Fitz Lee, said, "If the cavalry can hold the road, move them back, we can push through."
There was another quiet moment, and Lee looked at Gordon, thought, He believes that. But it is not enough. If those people have moved infantry in front of us, if they have won the race... we are not strong enough.
He looked at Longstreet, said, "General, we must march the men now. We cannot wait until morning to see what is in our path. Your corps must close up the ranks, hold away those people in your rear, and stay close behind General Gordon."
Longstreet was looking at him strangely, and Lee suddenly understood, thought, Corps. No, do not think of numbers. It does not matter that we do not have the strength. It is God's fight now... we will take our strength from HIM.
THREE A.M." APRIL 9, 1865 T
HE MEN WERE MOVING AGAIN, THE ROAD A SOLID MASS OF DULL
sounds, shuffling feet. The lines were compact, Gordon's men near the town, moving out into open ground. Close behind, Longstreet's troops faced to the rear, prepared to hold off anyone who came in from behind.
Lee walked away from the small camp, the moon now far to the west, settling toward the horizon. He moved out that way, stepping through soft dirt, fields that had been planted, the seeds trampled by the bare feet of his army. He could see a few stars, but only a few, small flickers of light washed away by the brightness of the large moon. He kept moving toward it, tried not to think of all this, of what was happening, of what had already happened to his army. The commanders had been enthusiastic, were ready for whatever the day would bring them. He felt a great sadness about that, moved in a soft gloom, thought, They will do their duty, as long as I do mine. Their men will follow them as long as they lead. The war can still go on, and they will still fight as they have always fought. I do not understand that.
I had thought it would never come this far, that it would pass on and be done, and we could go home, and be with our families. But Fitz believes... probably many others as well, we should take to the hills, keep fighting in every town, every railroad, a guerrilla war. Anyone can shoot a musket, kill someone, a soldier, a politician. You can terrorize civilians, burn crops, destroy tracks... but that is not what this is about. We do not fight to simply... destroy. There is nothing different now, nothing different from four years ago. The cause is the same, the reasons for this fight are the same. If it is meant for us to stop this, to go home, if God gives us that message, then we must listen, we must obey.
He stepped down into a shallow depression, began to climb up. It was very cool, and he pulled his coat around him, thought, We can still win this... we can still pressure them to give up this fight. Grant can inst *1 we are all dead. There must come a not just make a war again us unti time when they will have had enough, when they will not want any more trains filled with their young men, men in wooden boxes, or worse, masses of men pushed into great scars in the earth. There has always been a simple solution... stop this, just take your soldiers and leave our land. That's all we have wanted. It should never have been up to the guns, to these men who march on that road, who must still kill their enemy, or die themselves.
He felt a great wave of grief, felt himself letting go, pulled at it, thought, No, not even here, alone in the dark, you cannot lose control. He looked up at a faint star. God is here, right here, and He will grant us what we must have. He glanced out toward the road, could hear faint sounds still, one horse, moving slowly, but he could see nothing. He walked that way, climbed slowly up a rise, thought of the men, of the great fights, the power of the army, the quiet excitement that had filled him, the victory, the cheering of the men, the loyalty, the love. He had to see them, thought, Yes, we are still an army, and we can still do this, and there is nothing but the hand of God that can stop us.
He stepped through the soft dirt, reached the crest of the low hill, looked up at faint stars, then down, all along the horizon, could see more stars, many more, and they were large and bright. He stared, confused, and his eyes began to focus, and now he could see that they were not stars, the horizon was not lit by the glow from the heavens, but by the glow of campfires, a vast sea of light spread along the horizon, a glow from a vast blue force that spread all along the west, then down toward the south, a wide arc extending far beyond where his ragged army was pulling itself together.
He stood for a long moment, stared at the horizon, felt the glow rolling toward him like some hot wind, a sickness boiling up inside of him, pulling his breath away. He knew what the fires meant, thought, They are infront of us now.
He looked out toward the road, toward the small town where barely ten thousand men would wait for the dawn, would wait for him to lead them to the desperate fight.
50. CHAMBERLAIN
DAWN, APRIL 9, 1865
T WAS BARELY LIGHT, THE CHILL OF THE MORNING BROKEN BY the sweat of men who had moved forward in a steady rush. They were in column again behind Ord, and this time the wagons did not slow them, there was no bogging down in soft mud. They were pulled forward by the guns, by the great hard sounds that grew louder as they moved closer, louder still with e
very cresting of every small hill.
Chamberlain was wide-awake, felt his eyes burning now from the drifting smoke of the field, a light haze flowing through the treetops. He watched it, thought, It is not mist or fog. It is smoke, cannon, musket fire. He was excited now, as excited as he had ever been, held the horse to the side, waving his hand, spurring his men past him. He moved the horse alongside the column, rode up in front again, saw Ord's men keeping good time ahead, thought, Yes, excellent, don't slow us down, don't get in our way.
He felt a strange energy this morning, and for the first time he did not hear the small voice, that small angry place in his mind, the voice of reason, of pure survival, that says, "No, do not do this." The voice was there in all of them, had to be, yet it was the strength in his heart, his own will, that held it away, kept it silent. He had heard the voice many times, always in the face of the guns, and he'd seen the panic, the wild faces of the men who had listened to it, whose will had been swept away by the sound of that voice. He had always feared that one day it would happen to him, feared it even as he rode right into the fight, into the vast clouds of smoke, the horrible sounds. It had angered him, his own lack of faith in himself, that no matter how often he had done this, how many of the great battles and small sharp fights, he could still give in to the panic. But once the fight was hard in front of him, once he was a part of it, the voice was always silent.
It was the same every time, after every fight. There would come the quiet moment, the blessed satisfaction, the reassurance that after all the horrors he had seen, after the painful agony of his wounds, the voice could not turn him away after all. He thought of the word soldier. If that is what he had become, if he'd finally learned to ignore the voice, had silenced it, then he would never run away, never hesitate to march straight into the fight.
He was still moving, could hear the sounds rolling past him, louder, Sheridan's field guns, and he scolded himself, Do your job, stop thinking. It was the first time he had no fear of the voice, and he smiled, thought, This is, after all, an adventure.
He could see a man moving back along the column, cavalry, covered in black grime, and the man saw his rank, shouted, though there was no need to shout.
"Are you in command? Are these your troops?"
Chamberlain heard the urgency in the man's voice, serious, dangerous, felt his heart suddenly pounding, said, "Yes... two brigades of the First Division, Fifth Corps."
The man pointed away from the road, still shouted, "Sir, General Sheridan wishes you to break off from this column and come to his support. The rebels are pressing him hard. Don't wait for orders through the regular channels. General Sheridan says to act on this at once!"
Chamberlain took in the man's excitement, thought, Is he authorized? And he thought of Warren, of the fatal delay, decided, No, I don't believe I will wait. Out through the woods he could hear Sheridan's guns, a new round of firing, and he turned, saw his staff moving close, yelled now himself, "Turn the column... follow this man.
Leave a courier behind us, tell General Crawford to keep on the road, not to follow us! Move!"
Chamberlain glanced at the man with the bugle, saw the polished brass horn come up, the sounds echoing back to his men. He looked now at the cavalry officer, and the man was already moving into the woods. Chamberlain pointed, yelled again, "There, that way. Let's move!"
HE TREES OPENED INTO A WIDE CLEARING, THE SMOKE DRIFTING toward him in great thick clouds. His men filed into line, began to move ahead in battle formation. Chamberlain tried to see, had no idea where the cavalry officer had gone, guided his men by the sound of the fight in front of him. He rode forward, felt the smoke burning his throat, 1 1. g, find the heat in his lungs, thought, Keep movin out what is going on.
He saw a flag, horses, moved that way, saw the great black horse and the small man. Riding up quickly, he saluted, said, "General Sheridan. I have two brigades of infantry, at your service, SIT." toward the Sheridan stared at him with a black fire, pointed sounds, said simply, "There! Smash 'em up! Smash 'em to hell!"
Chamberlain looked to the front, the smoke drifting slowly away, could see it now, a heavy line of rebels and the blue cavalry, dismounted, a thinning line, falling back, the field scattered with the fallen blue troopers. The rebels were moving forward, slowly, against the men in blue. Chamberlain thought, They cannot hold... they need support. He looked around at his men, moving forward in a neat line, felt suddenly ridiculous, thought, Yes, of course, that's us.
There was a volley from the rebels, the smoke blowing out toward him, and he spurred the horse, rode back to his men, moved close behind the line. He loo ing I ked for the bugler, saw officer *s watchi him, waiting for the word. The men could see what lay in front of them now, already knew what was coming. Chamberlain saw the man with the bugle, yelled at him, "Nowl Advance!"
The men surged forward, and Chamberlain moved down the line, yelling, "Forward, advance!" But the men were in a good hard line, and there was no wavering, no hesitation. He could see more infantry now, Ord's men, coming out of the trees far off to the side, and they were moving as well, the officers turning them, linking up with Chamberlain's flank, lengthening the line, a solid, growing wave. Chamberlain wanted to say, "Yes, thank you," but there was no need- The movement was automatic now, the fight pulling them forward, the enemy so close, right in front of them. He looked at his own lines, reaching the base of the wide hill, saw the muskets go up in one long motion, the order going out from officers he could not hear, his officers, the volley blowing the smoke back toward the rebels.
He could see the rebel line backing away, climbing up the hill, men still firing, the line breaking up. He looked across to Ord's lines, felt a sudden odd stab in his gut, could see a solid front of blue, pushing forward. He watched them, stared at the great long line of black faces, a Negro division... Birney's men. They moved in flank with his own line, pushing the rebels back farther up the rise, a steady advance, the rebels giving up the ground. He was lost for a moment, the sounds now somewhere else as he watched the Negroes begin to absorb the fire of the rebels, men punched back by musket fire, some simply collapsing, opening small gaps in the line. The line tightened up then, the officers and the sergeants pulling their men together, keeping the formation tight. What is this like for them? Chamberlain wondered. What are they feeling? My God... this is what we are fighting for... at least, it is what I am fighting for. And I can never know... I will never feel what this means to them.
A hot rush shook him, nearly knocked him from the horse, the sudden blast of dirt behind him, and the horse jumped. He focused, thought, Lawrence, your brain again. Back to work.
He could see his men climbing up the rise now, the rebels pulling 'll, back along the crest of the hill, some moving beyond, out of away still in sight. His men were in pursuit, yells echoing where the sounds of musket fire had stopped. He rode up close, thought, No wait, we don't know what is over the hill.
He waved the sword, a silent signal to hold them up, to wait. Now there were horses coming up from the flank, flags, and he looked at the man in front, arms waving, a man he didn't know. He turned that way, saw two stars, thought... Ord. Chamberlain saluted, waited.
Ord shouted at him, "General, keep your men off that crest. They will be exposed to fire!"
Abruptly, Ord was gone, the horses thundering away. Chamberlain stared at the cloud of dust, turned, looked up toward the crest of the hill. Exposed to fire? he thought. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? He thought of Sheridan: I do not believe those would be General Sheridan's orders. The words came to him again: smash 'em up. No, I believe General Sheridan would rather we advance. He sagged slightly, thought, Generals.
He saw the bugler watching him, the line now snaking along the side of the hill, the officers in front, pulling the men together, straightening the line. He nodded to the bugler, said, "Now... advance!"
The men began to move again, the line flowing forward, and then they were on the crest. He rode up q
uickly, thought, Careful, be ready to order the retreat.
The ground fell away in front of them, revealing a wide valley. He saw the small town, a scattering of buildings, a small line of trees snaking through the valley, the river now only a small stream. He reined the horse, heard the sound of one shell, the explosion ripping the ground in front of his line, another streaking overhead. Then there was a sudden breath of silence, and he stared in amazement, felt himself drawn forward, out across a vast field, short rolling hills, small trees.
Below the wide hill, spread across the valley, was a mass of guns, wagons, and men; ragged lines, pulling back, drawing up into a defense. He thought, It is a division, and we're exposed. But there was no firing, no organized formation. Many of the guns were parked, neat squares many of the wagons had no horses, and the troops were not gathering for a fight, were not gathering at all. He could see men sitting now, some standing without muskets, a few staring up the hill at the men in blue with a look he'd never seen before. Then he understood what lay across this small valley in front of him. It was not a division, it was not even a fighting force at all.
Jeff Shaara - The Last Full Measure Page 58