by Jeff Shaara
He moved the horse in a slow walk, and Tom was beside him.
Chamberlain said, “You remember when Mother would read to us from the Bible? That wonderful fireplace … She held our attention with every word. Maybe you don’t remember … you were pretty small.”
Tom smiled, said, “No, I remember it, Lawrence. I still hear her sometimes. She loved to tell us the stories.”
Chamberlain looked at Tom with surprise, said, “I wish I could … hear her.” He paused. “Things did not turn out as she had hoped.”
They rode on, did not talk, did not share the private memories now.
Chamberlain remembered her pure joy the first time he could recite the Ten Commandments, something even his father had enjoyed. Of course, he thought, there was something military about that. It was a list of rules. How important they were to her … how little meaning they had now. Thou shalt not kill. Yes, we shall kill. And before this is over, we shall kill again.
He rarely prayed anymore, had let his mother’s devout hand slip away from him, had left it somewhere in his childhood. Now he closed his eyes, tried to think of some prayer, some question, some plea for divine intervention. His mind worked, words tumbling in a mass of nonsense. He opened his eyes, stared up, thought, Maybe that is how it must be. There can be no prayers, not now, not while this goes on. We have not earned the right.
He focused, told himself, All right, enough. Your brain causes you too much trouble. You are back, you are with the army again. Your brother is safe.
There were more horsemen now, men moving off to the east, more flags. He said, “Something’s happening … too much brass moving around. I think it’s time to go.”
They stopped the horses, and Tom suddenly reached over, touched him, held him by the shoulder. He looked at his brother then, saw a difference in Tom’s face, a sadness in his eyes.
Tom said, “Lawrence, you be careful. It would kill Mama if you didn’t come home.”
Chamberlain felt the emotion rising, tried to hold it away, looked down for a moment, thought, There is nothing to say. We will both do what we have to do. He could not look at Tom, no words of caution. We are different now, both of us. We are soldiers. He looked at the ground, at the dark mud, said, “Come on. It’s time to go.”
They spurred the horses, moved along the wall, felt the rain coming again, black clouds rolling low over the far trees. The horses splashed through deep mud, and Chamberlain glanced up at the angry sky, heard low thunder, and behind him the steady sound of the shovels.
22. LEE
MAY 24, 1864
THERE WOULD BE NO MORE ASSAULTS AGAINST THE STRENGTH OF Lee’s trenches. The cavalry commanders now reported directly to Lee, and it was clear from all they could see that Grant was pulling away from Spotsylvania, and again it was not to retreat. The Federals were moving south, another looping line that would take them closer to Richmond and, once again, around the rear of Lee’s right flank. Since his best defense against the massed assaults came from waiting behind entrenchments, Lee had to wait, could not anticipate, could not commit his army to move into open ground to intercept Grant’s movement. It was only when he knew Grant was on the march that he could leave the trenches behind.
It was much as before, since the fight in the Wilderness. Grant’s march was slow, encumbered by a much larger force, many wagons, long lines of guns. Lee suffered from fewer numbers, but the one advantage still remained: he could move faster. He had one other advantage: Grant was moving on a roundabout course, while he had the straighter roads, and if he did not know exactly what Grant’s objective was, he could at least plant his army in the best place to interrupt him, dig in again, the shovel and the ax now as valuable as the musket. This time the defense was formed below the North Anna River. It was strong, a difficult river to ford, made worse by the many days of rain. And it cut through the ravines and wooded land like a great brown snake, with sharp bends and high banks. By the time Grant could reach the few places where his army might push across, Lee was already in place, waiting for him.
HE HAD HOPED TO KEEP GRANT NORTH OF THE RIVER, KEEP 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 could not eat, 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’s just 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 st
ill divided. The opportunity is still there, sir.”
Lee saw the excitement in 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 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, 1864
HE HAD MOVED FROM SPOTSYLVANIA, THROUGH THE BUSY RAILroad 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.