Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  To evacuate Richmond … he had not yet suggested that to Davis, not with the force needed to convince him. Davis would not even discuss it, still saw Richmond as the heartbeat of the Cause, and Lee was beginning to understand that Davis was slipping, not just his physical health, but slipping further from the reality of the war. Davis was now talking about liberating Atlanta, had even written that Sherman could still be swept completely out of Georgia, his huge Federal army “utterly destroyed.” Lee did not ask him how.

  Lee thought of his father, Light-Horse Harry Lee, the great hero of the Revolutionary War, remembered hearing the old man talk about defending Virginia. If you do not control the water, the ports, the rivers, the only way to defeat the enemy is to move inland, take him away from his base of supply. If you can bring him into the open, then the advantage is to the more mobile force. The old man spoke of a time when there were no railroads. And the British were a very different enemy, did not know the land, did not know their opponent. But still, the strategy was very sound, very modern. We need open ground, we need to maneuver, to find opportunity, Lee thought. It is the only way there can still be a victory. Grant can be defeated, if we can fight him on our terms. He said it again, said it out loud in a low voice, “On our terms.”

  Holding on to Richmond … using our army to sit in one place while the enemy stretches himself slowly around us, like some great fat snake …

  He felt suddenly like he was suffocating, moved outside, tried to breathe, but the air was no cooler. He stood beside the tent, and the faces were looking at him now.

  There was one voice, one man said, “General Lee! God bless you, General Lee!”

  He looked for the voice, the man’s face, had to see him, abruptly felt the need for that, for the energy of the man. But now there were only blank stares, and in front of Taylor the paperwork began to move again. He still watched them, thought, Maybe I should ride out, move through the men. They always respond, there is always the spirit. He looked toward the horses, suddenly felt very weak, the hollow coldness in his chest, thought, Maybe later. It might be cooler.…

  He looked toward the town, the church spires, could see damage, small signs that the war was there as well, that they too would not escape. He had heard about Atlanta, the fires, the destruction, thought, It was never like this, this is not the way wars are fought. You do not hurt the innocent, the people who simply get in the way. He remembered Fredericksburg, the Federals allowing the townspeople to leave, time to evacuate. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore, he realized. There is no thought to the fighting, the destruction has become so commonplace, we don’t even see it now.

  When the Federal soldiers had looted Fredericksburg, ransacked the personal lives of the innocent, he’d been furious, outraged at the indecency, the barbarism of that. Now the indecency was simply a way of life, everything they did was barbaric. He had ridden to the crater, had to see it for himself. He was, after all, an engineer, and it was an amazing accomplishment, and he felt oddly inspired by that, thought, I would like to meet them, the men who did that. And then he had seen the hole itself, the wide rip in the earth, and packed into the bottom, the horror of what they had done to each other. He’d looked down on the scene and his mind saw a painting, small shreds of color mingled with the clay, the twists of metal. When he walked away, he felt a strange calm, thought, Yes, it was horrible, horrible indeed. But he had to tell himself that, remind himself to see it that way. There was no sickening revulsion, no outrage, no indignation at the barbarism. It was just one more scene from this war, one more horror, one more mass of death, blending together with all the rest.

  32. GRANT

  NOVEMBER 1864

  HE BEGAN TO FEEL IT, SLOWLY, GROWING INSIDE OF HIM, NOT confidence, not the self-assurance he had never lacked anyway, but more. It was enthusiasm, the complete calm, rising up inside, from some very important place. He felt it every day now, every morning when he rode out along the lines, a ride that for weeks now had become that much longer. The army was wrapping farther around Lee, extending to the southwest of Petersburg. Lee’s lines were now over thirty miles long. Grant would ride along the new trenches, out along the far flank, sit and watch the workers throwing up the logs and fresh earth. If they could not tell by looking at him, if the soldiers did not know what was coming, he knew it with absolute certainty. The flank would be moved again, farther, stretching Lee’s ability to defend, would continue to stretch until Lee could defend no more. It was simply a matter of time.

  If there had been confidence around Petersburg, it was still a siege. There could be little excitement in that, in knowing you were slowly starving your enemy. The newspapers, the politicians in Washington, had shown slight praise for a war that clearly was going to take a while longer to end. Grant had begun to despise reporters, had grown weary of reading the fine exploits of the rebel armies, while his own victories were never “complete.” There was not to be any satisfaction in the North until the war simply ended. They wanted a time, a date, some careless boast to fill the headlines. Grant knew that even Lincoln did not expect that, had heard too much of it anyway. The progress was slow, but it was progress.

  Then came Sherman’s message from Atlanta. Grant had been so excited by that he even considered going there himself, to look into the sharp eyes of his friend, to grab him hard by the shoulders, tell him face-to-face, “You have done something truly extraordinary.” He did not go, wrote to Sherman instead, a glowing letter filled with the praises of the proud commander and the affection of the good friend. But the letter had not been enough, and the man who did not show jubilation had his army do it for him. Grant ordered a salute, fired from every big gun in every battery that faced the enemy. When the word was passed, it became a celebration that gave a thrill to every blue soldier, and across the way the rebels kept low, absorbed yet another pounding. If the sound of the guns did not carry to Washington, the spirit of the celebration did, and it did not take a message from Grant to tell Lincoln that, “Yes, now it is more than a good fight, it is more than progress. Now, we are winning.”

  There had been another salute, another cannonade. This one was for Phil Sheridan. The cavalry commander had been given charge of the fight in the Shenandoah, to deal with Jubal Early once and for all. Lincoln did not send instructions to Grant, there had been none of the needling telegrams that this army had become so accustomed to, but as long as Early was in force in the Shenandoah Valley, Washington was nervous. The more nervous, the worse it was for Lincoln, and his chance for reelection.

  Grant had overestimated Early’s strength, had believed the rebels to be much stronger, and ultimately, when Sheridan took command, he was given a considerable force, was able to bring nearly forty thousand men into the valley. The newspapers made great sport of the confrontation, and many made comparisons to the great Stonewall, that Jubal Early would do what Jackson had done, rid the valley of yet another Federal invasion. But Sheridan proved that he was not to be chased away, would not run from a bold attack. At a place called Cedar Creek, Early threw his fifteen thousand men against Sheridan’s great force. It was a plan Jackson would have approved, an assault that depended on surprise and audacity. But Sheridan created his own legend, rallied his retreating troops and turned his men southward. Unlike Jackson, this time it came down to numbers, Sheridan finally crushing Early’s smaller force. No matter how much praise and legend the newspapers tried to give Jubal Early, he was not Stonewall Jackson.

  What was left of Early’s forces now hugged close to the big mountains, but they were no longer a threat to Sheridan. The Federals not only controlled the valley, they began to destroy it; not the mindless barbarism of David Hunter, but the methodical and strategic destruction of the farms, the breadbasket of the Confederacy. If Lee’s army was to be fed, it would not be from the Shenandoah.

  THE ROW OF HEADQUARTERS TENTS WOULD BE REPLACED BY PERmanent structures, small log cabins. The days were shorter, had become much cooler, and the winds blowing across t
he wide river had made the tents an uncomfortable home. The cabins were not yet completed, but every day, the logs were dragged close, the carpenters working with clean efficiency, especially when their audience included the commanding general.

  Grant was still not comfortable with patience, made the rides along the lines when the weather would allow. The men were becoming used to seeing him, and he was recognized now, as he had rarely been before. If the soldiers were not yet sure, if this plainly dressed officer with the cigar did not catch their attention, it was the young boy riding beside him who did. The lull in the fight meant that finally his family could come down, he could see Julia and the children. Fred was the oldest, and so had the honor of riding out with his father, beside him, and the troops cheered him, laughed and pointed at the boy’s wide smile, his eyes wide, too, as the men emerged from the dugouts, from the camps, standing straight with the pride of good soldiers, holding the muskets and swords to their chests, a show the boy would never forget.

  GRANT WAS ON HIS BACK, BUCK HOLDING HIM DOWN BY THE shoulders, while down at his feet, Jesse, the smaller boy, sat on his legs. They had been at it for a while now, and Grant was feeling the exhaustion. He looked up at the older boy, felt the strength in the boy’s hands, thought, Soon, I won’t be able to do … this.

  He grunted, rolled over, carefully moved Jesse off his legs, then wrapped his feet around the boy, pinning him between his legs. Jesse was howling with laughter, trying to free himself, now lying sideways, pushing in vain at the trap that held him tightly. Grant looked at the older boy, and there was something strange in Buck’s eyes; it was not play. Buck was still trying to pin him down, grabbing his father’s shoulders hard, the face now red and angry, and Grant felt the boy’s fingers clawing into him, hurting now. He reached up, held the boy’s arms, pulled him away, said, “All right, easy, a moment … take a moment.…” He was breathing very hard, and the boy let loose now, sat back on the ground.

  Grant released Jesse, still giggling, sat up between them, saw the opening in the tent and the face of Horace Porter. Grant laughed, said, “Colonel, you care to give it a go? I feel quite sure the fight isn’t over here.” Grant looked now at Buck, thought, He is not like his older brother. Fred is so much like Julia, but Buck … he is stubborn, a fighter. He is … like me.

  Buck was actually Ulysses Jr., was just twelve, the second oldest, not yet old enough to ride through the camps with his father. It was a major disappointment, not helped by Fred making sure no one forgot the privilege of age. Jesse was only six, and he knew nothing of the rivalry of his older brothers, was concerned more with the daily torture he received from his sister Nellie, three years older than he, and very capable of making his life pure misery. The wrestling match with his father was a joyous relief, no matter that defeat was only a matter of time.

  Grant saw Porter’s hands full of papers, looked again at the older boy, said, “No, I don’t believe Colonel Porter has time for a game right now. You two run outside for a moment. Buck, take your brother to see the ships. There was a new one coming in just a while ago.”

  The boy stood and held out a reluctant hand for his little brother, but did not hide his disappointment. He said, “All right. Come on, Jesse, I’ll race you.…”

  Buck waited for the smaller boy to run out of the tent, a respectable head start, looked at Porter, then at his father, said, “You leaving? You going away again?”

  Grant said, “No … why?” The boy was quickly gone, the race on, and Grant pulled himself up, reached for the chair, sat down, took a deep breath. “He is … very serious, for a boy.”

  Porter moved toward the desk, set the papers down, said, “It’s envy. Fred gets the attention. The oldest always do.”

  Grant glanced at the papers. “No, more than that. He’s angry. These wrestling matches aren’t a game to him. He’s always trying to beat me. I see how big he is now, and I realize it won’t be long and he’ll be strong enough to do it. I wish he’d … laugh more.”

  Porter said nothing, began to move through the papers.

  Grant looked out through the opening in the tent, said, “He’s like me … I never really saw that until now. At his age, even younger, I wouldn’t budge, stubborn, had to do things my own way. Only saw one way of ever doing anything, and if it didn’t work, I’d do it harder.” He laughed, pulled out a cigar, the end smashed flat.

  Porter glanced up, smiled, looked back at the papers.

  Grant leaned over, tried to see what held Porter’s attention. “How’s things at the quartermasters’? Any problem feeding the family? Four kids eat a lot.”

  Porter seemed surprised, said, “Oh, none, sir. Plenty …”

  “Well, good. You be honest with me, Colonel. They make themselves too much of a bother, you tell me. No favoritism here, not in this camp.”

  Porter put the papers down, looked at Grant, smiled again. “Sir, forgive me, but I believe you are entitled … it is acceptable for a man in your position to … do whatever you please.”

  Grant pulled out another cigar, saw less damage, said, “No, Mr. Porter, it most definitely is not. You need proof of that, just ask Mr. Rawlins. If I am not certain that something is acceptable behavior, he is my authority on the subject. I doubt he approves of my family having the run of the camp.”

  Porter looked down, tried to hide a smile, said, “Sir, Colonel Rawlins, um … Colonel Rawlins is somewhat nervous by nature, sir. He has taken it upon himself to be our protector. No disrespect intended, sir, but I do sometimes wish that Colonel Rawlins would … not look so closely over my shoulder.”

  Grant nodded. “I share your feelings, Mr. Porter. But he is doing a good job. Keeps the reporters away, knows how to deal with the foreigners. Knows the rules … that’s it, you need someone who knows the rules, the things you can say, things you can’t, what makes headlines, what causes scandal. Never made much difference out West, but here … too close to Washington.”

  Porter looked to the papers again, said under his breath, “He reminds me of my grandmother.…”

  Grant pulled at the cigar, said, “Well then, Mr. Porter, if anything happens to Colonel Rawlins, have your grandmother report to me immediately.”

  HE WAITED, LISTENED FOR THE SOUND OF HORSES. HE STOOD NOW, feeling the impatience, then sat again. He heard motion outside, knew Rawlins was close, a quiet day, nothing to aggravate the chief of staff. Grant shouted, “Colonel, any sign?”

  Rawlins was at the tent now, said, “Of … what, sir?” Grant looked at him, and Rawlins saw the impatience, said, “Oh, if you mean General Hancock, no, not yet.”

  Grant nodded, pulled at the cigar, the peak of the tent above him thick with smoke. “What time did he say …?”

  Rawlins looked at his watch. “Two o’clock. About … now, sir.” Rawlins turned away, looked out beyond the tents, said, “It’s a wagon, sir. And the flag of the Second. He’s here.”

  Rawlins was gone quickly, and Grant stood again, felt anxious. He did not know Hancock well, knew him at first from pure reputation, had always heard that Winfield Hancock was the best commander in the army. It was something that Meade kept with him like a small burning wound. Meade fully expected that Hancock would succeed him when Grant’s patience, or the pressure from Washington finally took Meade away from the army. But it had not yet happened, and now Hancock had sent the word, through Meade first, but then directly to Grant himself. He could no longer lead his troops.

  He had requested a personal meeting with Grant, and Grant knew that it was final, that if the wounds did not heal, it could be the last meeting. What had plagued Hancock since Gettysburg, the daily grief of a painful wound, the inability of the doctors to repair once and for all the damaged groin, now became the enemy Hancock could not defeat. The wound had opened up again, so badly that he could not ride, could not be there to direct his troops. Command of the Second was given to Andrew Humphreys, Meade’s chief of staff. Humphreys was an older man, an engineering genius, had led troops througho
ut the war with quiet ability. But Grant already felt the loss, the energy that would slip away from the army when Hancock was no longer on the field.

  He moved now to the opening of the tent. A wagon? he thought. Then he saw it. Of course, an ambulance. Hancock would not do that for show, to be dramatic. The wound was serious, and he could not ride. Grant waited, saw the aides move to the rear of the ambulance, hands reaching out, and now he saw Hancock, easing down to the ground, his face pale, drawn, weak. Hancock looked at him, straightened, saluted, and Grant saw the clean white shirt, the sharp blue of the dress uniform, smiled, nodded, returned the salute.