by Jeff Shaara
To one side, Hancock’s aide tried to assist him, and Hancock barked, “I’m fine. I can walk, dammit!” The aide backed away, and Hancock limped forward, moved toward Grant.
Grant met him with a hand. “General Hancock, it is always a pleasure.”
Hancock took the hand, tried to smile, but the pain filled his face, even the short walk a strain. Grant backed into the tent, and Hancock followed. Grant pointed toward the rear of the tent, to the bed, said, “If it is more comfortable, General, please, do not hesitate.”
Hancock glanced at the bed, then moved toward the small chair, sat slowly, heavily, made a small groan. “This will do, sir.”
Grant sat in his own chair, saw the tight lines in Hancock’s face, the big handsome man fighting the pain, holding it away. Grant said, “May I get you anything, General?”
Hancock let out a deep breath, slumped now on the small chair, said, “No, thank you, sir. I won’t take up your time. I just wanted to speak to you, before I left, just a moment.”
Grant nodded, waited. He had actually looked forward to this, to speaking to this man when there was no one around, when Meade was not there, when the others were not a part of it. There had always been something different about Hancock, an angry impatience, something Grant understood, something Grant held tightly inside himself. Hancock was known for his angry outbursts, but his were not like Meade’s; the anger was always focused, and utterly brutal, and he would find the weakness, the mistake, wrap it with intense profanity and launch it back at the guilty man like a missile. Hancock had no tolerance for incompetence, no patience for wastefulness. And if the subject was never officially discussed, Grant knew it was the one thing that would keep Hancock from command of the army: Hancock would never put up with Washington.
Hancock leaned forward now, said, “As you know, sir, I will be leaving for the capital in a few days. I have been informed that a new command has been created. If you had something to do with that, I am grateful.”
Grant nodded, said nothing. If Hancock could not lead troops into battle, Grant understood that his name alone could still be very useful for recruitment, to bring the experience of the veterans back into the service, the experience that was so lacking in the new recruits, the new draftees. There would be an official organization to these veterans, a new corps that Hancock would command. It was hoped that if the war was to last much longer, Hancock might again lead good men into a good fight.
Grant said, “I expect we’ll see you back here soon.”
Hancock nodded. “I would prefer it that way. I wouldn’t want to miss it, not again.”
Grant said, “Miss … the end?”
Hancock nodded painfully, his face twisted slightly. “I missed it once before, in Mexico. The final blow, Chapultepec. I was sick, damned flu, my gut tied up in one big knot. Watched my own men hit that wall, climb those ladders, watched them through field glasses. I pulled myself out of bed, climbed out on a rooftop, sat there like some groaning old woman while my boys went over the wall. I marched them all the way from the coast, all the way to Mexico City, and when the time came …” He stopped, and Grant could see the anger in Hancock’s face, the memories. Hancock forced a small laugh, said, “Looks like … I may miss it again.”
Grant thought of Mexico, of the bloody fights against an enemy no one thought would be so strong. “That was a good day … Chapultepec. My men captured a couple of guns, put them to good use.…” He smiled now, thought of all the faces, so much younger, and the smile faded, the names rolled through his mind, so many of them gone now.
Hancock was looking at him, said, “We’ve killed more of our boys ourselves … than the Mexicans did. Who would have thought …” He stared away.
Grant pulled at the cigar, said, “Did you know … Pete Longstreet was in my wedding?”
Hancock shook his head. “No, guess I didn’t. He’s back, I hear. Not like … some of the others. I served under General Johnston in California, ran the quartermaster department in Los Angeles.” He smiled, said, “Department. Me. One man. Not much happening in southern California in those days. I watched Johnston leave, and Lew Armistead, and Dick Garnett. Going home, fighting for their damned rebellion. Now … they’re all gone.” Hancock stared at the floor for a moment, said, “I always thought John Reynolds would take command, lead us to the end.” He looked at Grant now. “No disrespect, sir.”
Grant smiled. “I thought so too. Always thought he was the best we had. We killed Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh, they killed Reynolds at Gettysburg.”
Hancock nodded, said, “Too many others, Phil Kearny, Mc-Pherson. Even Sedgwick could have handled the job.” Hancock was suddenly uneasy. “I didn’t mean to suggest that General Meade is not—”
Grant held up his hand. “If it’s all the same to you, General, I’d prefer it if this meeting was unofficial. Speak your mind. I’m going to miss you here. I’m going to miss knowing that out there, somewhere, the Second Corps is where I need it to be, that those men are doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”
Hancock looked down, seemed embarrassed, said, “Humphreys is a good man.”
Grant said, “Humphreys is a brilliant man, maybe the smartest commander in this whole army … both armies. But he’s—excuse me, General—he’s not Winfield Hancock.”
Hancock straightened, nodded slowly, said, “Thank you, sir.”
There was a quiet moment, and Hancock began to move, stood up slowly, tried to stand straight, leaned slightly to one side. “Sir, I won’t take up more of your time. I just wanted to say good-bye. I am in the belief, sir, that the army is in the most capable hands it could be.”
Grant stood now, set the cigar aside, felt a sudden wave of affection, something unexpected, thought, There are so few … so many of the good ones are gone. He looked at the big man’s dark eyes, wanted to say something of comfort, ease the man’s pain.
Hancock forced himself upright, saluted, said, “With your permission, sir.”
Grant returned the salute, held out a hand, said, “General Hancock, this command is more than grateful for your service. If you miss the end this time, that’s not a bad thing. It means the end is pretty close.”
DINNER HAD BEEN QUIET, THE CHILDREN WERE AWAY, GUESTS OF the navy. It had been Fred who insisted on seeing one of the big gunboats that patrolled the James River. Grant had hesitated, but Admiral Porter was anxious to have the young man as his guest. Fred’s enthusiasm seemed to wane when Porter requested that all the children join the tour.
Grant had finished dinner, thought of his oldest son, trying to maintain his fragile dignity, boarding the ship, passing by the respectful line of sailors, forced to endure the embarrassment of six-year-old Jesse holding his hand. Grant smiled, held out his cigar, thought, Not every responsibility is a glorious one.
The staff was slowly rising, formal, polite, and there were small polite greetings to Julia. Grant still felt uncomfortable with their efforts, their attention, thought, It should not be, she is here for my own selfish reasons. They should not be so concerned.
The chairs were empty now, and Grant leaned back, pulled at the cigar, looked at his wife. She was smiling, watching him, said, “Well now, that was pleasant.”
He nodded, said, “You make it so. They are not usually this … kindly.”
He stood, held out his hand, helped her from the chair. She stood, wrapped her arm in his, and they walked out into the dark, toward the river, toward the distant lights of the big boats. He moved slowly, let her steps guide him, felt her arm against him, focused only on that, on the small part of her, said, “It won’t be much longer.”
There was a quiet moment. They reached the edge of the high bluff and she stopped, turned to him in the darkness, said, “I believe you. But you need not worry about us. There are many kind people, we are treated so well everywhere we go. You are a very respected man.”
It was an odd word to come from her, and he had not thought of that, had always felt she was re
moved somehow, from all of this, from the war. He thought of her family, in Missouri, so different from him. Her father still would not discuss the war, and Grant had no reason to ever try. The old man had been a slave owner, and even now it made Grant sick inside, the anger. He tried not to bring it up with her, would keep the anger hidden away—there was no point in attacking the old man, or his politics. He was fighting this war to end that way of life, and the old man was just one more reason why this war was fought at all. He looked at her still, her face illuminated by the small lights from below, thought, Yes, we need this to end, to become a family again, all of us, all the families. She is so patient.
He smiled, looked down, and she said, “What is it? Tell me.”
He looked out over the river, said, “It is a fortunate thing that I am not waiting somewhere for you to come home. I do not have the patience. No telling what I might do. I’d probably come here and never leave, until you came with me. No. I would not make a good wife.”
He laughed, but she did not, still looked at him, said, “No one is happy waiting for you to come home, for this to be over. We do what we must, all of us, all the wives, all the mothers. Everywhere I go, New York, Washington, it’s all I see, in every face, every woman I meet. They even ask me, as though I know something, some secrets, that because my husband is in command I must know these things. They all ask the same thing: ‘How long?’ ”
Grant reached for her hand, wrapped his fingers around hers. “What do you say?”
“To pray, to have faith, to believe in what their men are doing. It’s not always the right thing to say. I have had some … anger. The widows, that is the hardest thing, what do you say to someone whose husband is not coming home?”
He looked down, shook his head. “I try not to think about that. It’s part of my job, my duty. I make widows. I could not do that very well, talk to them, see the hurt, the tears. I must not do that. The war cannot have a face, or a name. I hear about people I have known, back in Mexico, or at the Point, men I have served with. I hear that they are dead, and it shocks me how hard that hits me. I can’t tell anyone about that. How do I order men to their deaths if every death causes so much pain?”
She put her hand on his shoulder, whispered, “Because it is who you are. It is why God has put you here. If you did not believe that, then you would not end the war. If the deaths of so many did not bother you, you would not care if it ended. That’s why you will survive this war. That is God’s lesson. That’s why I am patient.”
He stared at her, surprised, had never heard her speak like this. She was always devout, had always insisted the children be raised with the strictest religious instruction, but he’d never heard her talk of the war before. He thought of her words, thought, If that is true, if this war, if what I am doing, is some kind of lesson from God, then God must be very pleased indeed.
They stood for a long quiet moment, felt the chill of the darkness, could hear the sounds from along the waterfront. There was a noise behind him, and he turned, saw several men silhouetted by the glow of the campfires, could hear a low murmur of energy, small quiet voices, intense whispers. He felt something cold stab his gut, said, “What is it? What has happened?”
One man stepped closer, and Grant tried to see the face, knew now from the walk, the proper step, that it was Rawlins.
“Sir, forgive the intrusion. We just received word from Washington, sir. President Lincoln has been reelected.”
IT WAS LIKE A PARTY, AND IF IT MEANT THE WAR WOULD GO ON, IT meant finally that they would win. The soldiers had cast their own votes, something that had rarely been allowed before in wartime, anywhere. Grant himself had strongly advocated the vote for the soldiers, that these men were not just paid mercenaries whose vote could be swayed by a commander. They read all variety of newspapers, they understood the issues, and each man was very capable of making his own decision. The war itself was to preserve something unique in the world, the rights of men to choose their own leaders. Grant realized that to deny that right to the very men who were fighting for it made no sense at all. There had been no serious objection to that from either side of the political race, the McClellan people believing that their man had been such a popular commander with the soldiers, it could only help his chances. What McClellan did not understand, and Grant clearly did, was that the soldiers were not interested in going home until the war was won. Despite his popularity in the field, McClellan ultimately had not shown his army that he was prepared to win the war. By choosing Grant, and supporting him, Lincoln had.
The victory for Lincoln was no great landslide, and likely the vote of the vast majority of the army won him the election. Throughout the North sentiment was still very high for the war to end. In the end it was confidence that Lincoln would be more likely to preserve the Union. McClellan himself had begun to back away from an outright declaration of peace, that he would simply stop the war. It infuriated some of his own supporters, but as a military man, McClellan understood that simply ending the war meant recognizing the rights of the Confederacy to form their own country. That was a break with many of the Democrats he was supposed to represent. His commitment to the Democratic platform was consistent with the way McClellan had led his troops into battle: he went halfway.
With Lincoln’s victory, the morale in the army soared, and at Petersburg the blue troops peered out at the enemy with a new sense of what was coming. There were still some, the veterans from the first disasters of the war, who might still believe that those fat men in Washington would only disappoint, that the commanders of this army did not know how to finish the job. Now the talk was more enthusiastic. Even the most cynical veterans began to see it, to believe what many were saying, that Grant and Lincoln would do the job, would see it through to the end.
33. LEE
NOVEMBER 1864
HE HEARD IT FIRST FROM THE SOLDIERS, FROM THE SHARPshooters out front. He knew it was still going on every night, the small quiet truce, enemies meeting face-to-face to trade, to pass along newspapers, bits of information. There was still tobacco—the boys in gray had little else to offer, and the Yankees would still trade for it—and each night it might be the only way his men would get anything to eat. But now the word came back, men moving quickly, and at first it sounded like the familiar rattle of rumors, but then there was a newspaper. If an officer took the time to read it himself, he still moved, kept the horse in motion toward the headquarters. The news came to Lee like a cold black wind. Lincoln had won the election.
There had been hope that if the people in the North were listening to their own newspapers, the fiery talk from those who opposed Lincoln, they might respond, the price for the years of blood, the death of so many sons. Davis had believed it absolutely, told Lee that what they’d given up in land, even now, all the cities, the rivers, the ports, in the end would still mean victory, because the price for the North had been the blood of so many of its young men. Davis had already been planning how to deal with McClellan, the terms of the treaty, the independence that was so very close. Lee had not shared his enthusiasm.
Now Lee sat alone in the tent, heard the wind howling outside, the first hard chill, another winter rolling hard toward Virginia, toward the army that sat low in the trenches.
With the change of seasons had come one change in command. Longstreet had returned, the wounds not fully healed, but he would not accept the comfort of a safe position. His right arm was still paralyzed, and he’d learned to write with the left hand. Lee smiled at that, thought, You are still stubborn, and that is what we need right now. Longstreet would command the forces above the James, protecting Richmond. Lee did not believe Grant would strike there. He believed that the small fights, the occasional strong attacks, were meant to distract him from the greater goal, the true plan. Lee understood the maps, saw it plainly, and so would stay close to Grant’s real objective—that no matter how much activity the blue troops threw north of the James, they were still extending west of Petersburg. If they ke
pt reaching out, they would soon reach the Southside Railroad, the final artery for supplies south of the Appomattox River. If the Southside fell into Grant’s hands, there would be only one course left—to pull away from the capital, and from Petersburg, and move inland. The siege of Petersburg would become something else.
He stared down between his feet, thought, They must not know … the men must not feel this as I do. He shook his head, tried to clear his mind, glanced at the newspaper. This is a defeat unlike anything I have been through. Not one shot, not one gun, and yet it is as though we have been … what? If it is not a defeat in battle, utter and simple, then … it means that nothing will change. Grant will just continue to do what he has been doing since the spring. And we do not have the strength to stop him.
Abruptly, he stood, closed his eyes, clenched his fists. No, this is not what they expect of me. This is not what my duty is about, to sit here and brood, the luxury of self-pity.
He lifted his head, said in a low voice, “God, protect us. We do not doubt … we do not question Your will.…” He paused, searched for words. “We ask only … understanding. Show us the way. If it pleases You, we will do our duty, we will carry on as You have shown us the way.…”
His mind would not focus, the prayer was weak, wandering. No, he thought, we do not look for answers. We do what we must do. That is all He asks of us. There can be no more than that.
DECEMBER 1864
IT WAS ONE MORE INVITATION, ONE HE’D HEARD EVERYWHERE THEY had set up the headquarters. He declined of course, as he always declined, had heard it so many times, the generosity of a people who could afford little, opening their homes, their soft beds, to the commander of their army. He would always be gracious, insist that he keep to the tents, even if they were set up right by the house, right in the yard. But the cold winds were blowing hard across Petersburg, and for the first time there had been argument. It came not from the insistence of the civilians, but from Taylor, who knew what the winter could mean to Lee’s health. The young man had stood up to Lee, insisted in a tone that was direct and firm. Lee had been surprised by that, but he was surprised more by the tactics Taylor used. It was a letter from Mary, scolding him into protecting himself from the harsh invasion of the cold. If Taylor did not admit it, Lee knew there was a plot, a conspiracy, and against the united front Lee was powerless. That Taylor was reinforced by the iron will of Mary Lee meant only one outcome. For the first time, Lee accepted the invitation to sleep under the dry and solid roof of a civilian home.