by Jeff Shaara
Sheridan looked at Grant with confusion. “Washington?”
“General, do you know what will happen, what will happen to you, if we do not succeed? We are so close, but this army has been close before, more than once. It is possible that no matter how good the plan, something will happen. Someone will move too slowly, there will be poor coordination.”
Sheridan shook his head, smiled knowingly, said, “No, not this time. We have him! My cavalry alone can turn his lines—”
Grant held up his hand, and Sheridan stopped, the smirking smile slowly fading. “Lee has a way … a talent for survival. General, you are the best man I have for this operation. But if something goes wrong, something we cannot anticipate, it is you who will pay the price. Washington has very little patience for failure, not now, not after so long. I cannot afford to lose you to the reckless demands of politicians. The order as written says that I intend you to link up with Sherman. That is for the newspapers. It may also be for General Lee. He seems to find out about my orders as fast as they’re written. I do not expect you to fail, and I do not expect that this operation will conclude with anything other than the defeat of Lee’s army.” He paused, thought of Lincoln again. “But I have learned something … I have spent a great deal of time with the President. There is something to be said for giving yourself some … room to maneuver. If somehow Lee slips away, if your people don’t succeed, then we can say, ‘Well, it wasn’t the plan in the first place.’ ”
Sheridan looked at Grant with a baffled expression, said, “I don’t understand, sir. You are ordering me to go to North Carolina, but … not really?”
Grant smiled, lit a fresh cigar. “That’s about it, General. Welcome to the world of politics.”
MARCH 27, 1865
IT WAS SHERMAN’S IDEA TO TAKE A SMALL STEAMER NORTHWARD, the journey now much shorter than it had ever been. Grant had waited for word of the arrival, finally received a wire from Fort Monroe. The boat had entered the James River and would be at City Point very soon.
He stayed away from the staff, made it very clear that he wished to be alone. They had thought it was because of the seriousness of the meeting, the hard talk of strategy, but Grant had another reason. From the first moment he received Sherman’s request, from the time he’d known the tall red-haired commander was on his way, he felt the thrill, felt like an excited child, and it was embarrassing. It had been a year since he had actually spoken to Sherman, the last strategy session in Cincinnati before Grant came east to take command. It was a year that had changed both men, had made both of them heroes, and, to some, the most horrific villains of all time.
He had been pacing along the waterfront, watched the boat move slowly up the river, and he’d stared at it, a black stare, willing it on, ordering it to push against the current faster. Finally the ropes were thrown out, the crews on the wharf securing the boat tight to the moorings. Grant waited, still paced, small nervous steps, glanced behind him, saw officers, one of them Porter, was suddenly annoyed, thought, I was specific, no greeting party. But Porter was looking toward the boat, smiling, then began to wave, and Grant turned, saw the tall lean figure jump down from the boat, a loud thump of boots on the dock. Before Grant could say anything, Sherman was in front of him, suddenly straightened, saluted with a toothy grin, a small hesitation, the protocol of rank, and Grant laughed now, held out a hand, said, “How do you do, Sherman?”
Sherman was a tall nervous string of energy, every part of him moving in some way. He smiled, said, “How are you, Grant?”
Then both men laughed, and Grant was suddenly overcome, stepped forward and grabbed Sherman by the shoulders, forgot now about the staff, watching from a discreet distance, said, “My God, Sherman, you have done a job! I never had a doubt.…”
Sherman put a long finger on Grant’s shoulder straps, touched the center of the three stars, said, “Well, my my. Never saw those before. Hard to crowd all those stars on one shoulder. From what I see, those shoulders are holding that weight up pretty well.”
Grant was still smiling, said, “It is very different here, these are good men. We’ve made a good fight … mistakes, some things we could have done better. But … well, come on, let’s don’t discuss this war now. That comes later. There’s a darling woman up at headquarters who is waiting with some considerable patience to see you!” Grant turned, pulled Sherman by the arm.
Now Porter stepped forward, saluted, said, “General Sherman, welcome to City Point. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir!”
Sherman reached out a hand, grabbed Porter hard by the shoulder, shook him playfully. Porter tried to keep his composure, but the smiles were contagious, and Porter loosened.
Sherman said, “Colonel Porter, if I were you, I’d ask for some leave time. Hell, just hauling cigars for this man is duty enough!”
Sherman laughed now, and Grant felt his face turn red, could not help it, saw Porter share Sherman’s good spirits, laughing now as well, throwing a quick self-conscious glance at him. Sherman began to climb the hill, looked out in all directions, turned, stared for a brief moment across the wide river, said, “My God, Grant, you have picked a spot! Hell, I could take a vacation in a place like this!” He cocked an eyebrow at Grant, then pulled Porter up the hill by the shoulder, said, “Colonel, you have to tell me the truth. Now that he’s the big man, has he gotten soft? I mean, look at this place …”
Grant waited, watched them move up toward the camp, saw Porter turn, still self-conscious, glance back at him, but Sherman was in joyous control, pulled Porter along, the others now moving with him, and Grant began to follow, laughed himself, shook his head, thought, There is no one like him, no one at all.
THEY HAD COME FROM THE RIVER, DINNER WITH LINCOLN ABOARD his small boat, and the meeting was cordial and serious. Sherman had told his tales already, captured the attention of the staff and the lucky onlookers, a great show around the campfire, glorious stories about his campaign. But with the President, Sherman was more serious, responding to a strange gloom from Lincoln. There was none of Sherman’s boundless energy, the endless chatter from the mind that never slowed down. Lincoln seemed removed, spoke only of the end of the war, the slow and difficult healing process, what it would mean for the country, was already thinking far ahead.
They passed by the quarters of the staff, most in bed by now. Reaching the larger cabin, Sherman jumped out in front, pulled the door open for Julia, made another long low bow, had been doing it all evening. Julia glanced at Grant, shook her head, smiled, moved into the cabin. Now Sherman stood straight at attention, said simply, “Sir!” and Grant nodded, a quick smile at Sherman’s mock show of formality, and followed Julia into a warm glow. Grant glanced at the well-stocked fireplace, a fire that had not been burning for long. Grant smiled, thought, Porter never forgets a detail.
They sat, a small table covered with maps, and Sherman was suddenly serious, leaned over, pushed one map to the side, studied it for a moment. Julia sat across from him, Grant to one side, and Sherman pointed at something on the map, then suddenly covered the map with his broad hand, looked at Julia with grave suspicion, leaned close to Grant, said, “What do you think, Grant? Can we trust this one? Might not do for the papers to find out a woman helped plan our strategy.”
Grant smiled, knew that Julia understood the game, said, “Well, you know, Sherman, all the official documents I’ve ever seen always begin ‘Know ye by all men present …’ Now, in this case, I would suspect it might be better said, ‘Know ye by this one woman,’ because then all men would be certain to hear of it.”
Julia huffed, said playfully, “Well, then, gentlemen, would you prefer I not be a party to all your secret planning?”
Sherman rubbed his chin, squinted his eyes, said, “Tell you what, Grant. Let’s test her. See what she knows.” He leaned forward, the tough interrogator, said, “Tell me, Mrs. Grant, do you know the enemy’s present whereabouts?”
Julia fluttered her eyes, put her hand over her mouth, fei
gning the voice of the belle. “Oh my, certainly, the enemy is in … the South.”
Sherman nodded, said to Grant, “All right, she can stay.”
Grant laughed now, pulled out a cigar, winked at Julia, said, “You know, Sherman, I’ve always said that women should be entitled to vote, in fact, they should have two votes, and the men should stay home. That way, there would never be an argument, and no one would ever vote the wrong way.”
Julia laughed, said, “And a fine plan it is.” Then she stood, said, “Gentlemen, I will leave you to your manly conversation.”
The men stood, and she smiled at both, gathered in her dress carefully, moved past the table, disappeared into the back room, eased the door closed.
Sherman said quietly, “My God, Grant. You are a lucky man.”
Grant looked at the table, began to move the maps, said, “She is … the brightest star in the heavens.” He held the cigar out, stared past it. “She knows what’s happening. She knows it’s time for me to leave. I will be moving with the army, with Sheridan’s advance. It’s time to go.”
Sherman knew the tone was serious now, said, “Lincoln? He’s going back to Washington?”
Grant looked up, said, “No, actually, he wants to stay here. He understands that we are very close, that it could happen any time. He wants to be near it all. Can’t blame him.”
“No. He should be here. He’s earned it.”
Grant was surprised, said, “Never knew you to be a fan of Lincoln’s.”
“No, I wasn’t. Thought him a bit of a bumpkin, actually. I didn’t think he understood what was about to happen, just what a war would mean to this country. He was always spinning yarns, making everything into some kind of joke. But he’s changed. I saw it tonight, at dinner. He’s a thinker, sees way ahead … understands things most of those people in Washington never will. That’s a great relief.”
Grant nodded, felt the cigar smoke drift up between them, said, “He’s no bumpkin. He has endured. We have it easy in some ways, you and me. We control our own situation, we have the power. That’s what the military is all about, absolute discipline. Washington … no such thing as discipline, as command. The government … our government can’t work that way. And you’re right, he’s already thinking ahead, already knows what we have to do after the fighting stops. There’s a lot of revenge-minded people around Lincoln, a lot of pressure on him to make them pay, punish anyone who called himself a rebel. He knows that won’t work. We’re still one country. Our job is pretty clear, take the fight out of them. His job … a lot tougher, the whole business of forgiveness. He has to take us forward, heal the wounds.”
Sherman stood, moved in nervous motion, stalked slowly around the small room like a cat.
Grant smiled, held the cigar tightly in his mouth, said, “Sit down, General. Let me show you how we’re going to end this war.”
40. CHAMBERLAIN
MARCH 29, 1865
THE WOUND HAD NOT HEALED, HAD TAKEN HIM FROM THE ARMY again, through most of the winter. There had been operations, difficult days and sleepless nights, but he would not stay there, would not accept the comfort of the hospital. He’d come back finally in February, the hip still tender. But Griffin welcomed him with a wide smile, grateful to have him, and did not hesitate to put him back on his horse, again in command of the First Brigade, First Division, Warren’s Fifth Corps.
With the coming of warmer weather had come the healing, and Chamberlain would not aggravate the injury by riding into battle. He could feel it every day, the strength, testing himself on the big horse, the beautiful Charlemagne, grand and majestic.
THEY MARCHED AT FIRST LIGHT, THE ROADS HARDENED NOW BY a blessed break in the rain. He kept in front, stared hard into the woods and low hills, the small stretches of dark swamp. In places, the road had been corduroyed, paved with small trees, forming a miserable carpet, an uneven platform that slowed the horses and men, stepping carefully to avoid breaking an ankle.
They had marched most of the morning now, and the sun was pushing at them from behind. He shifted his weight, tried to find a comfortable place, a part of him that had not yet taken a pounding from the hard saddle.
He could see the ground rising slightly ahead, and the ragged roadbed was smooth again. The horse stepped onto the smooth surface, moving now in the slow, gentle rhythm, and Chamberlain relaxed in the saddle, let out a breath. He could feel the pressure from behind, the men moving well. There had been no straggling, the strong pace of the march picking up even more on the good road, the packed dirt still damp enough so the dust did not yet rise behind him.
The Fifth Corps had broken camp early that morning, the orders to Chamberlain coming directly from Griffin. The word spread quickly to the men—this was not another of those exercises, some mindless drill, some poorly planned scouting expedition. Chamberlain did not have to prod them into motion. There was no grumbling about leaving the misery of the trenches. The deep earthworks had been home through the cold of the winter, but with warmer weather, long days of rain, the holes became pits of mud and misery, and when the order came to strike the camp, to load the supplies, the work had been done with a hum of enthusiasm. There was no sentiment for the camps, for the dismal place they would leave behind.
The orders were to follow the lead of Sheridan’s cavalry, move out to the west, well beyond the distant spires of Petersburg. The Second Corps would follow the Fifth, and the word had spread, as it always did, the instinct of the veteran, that this move was something new, a powerful advance by a powerful army, commanded by a fiery little man who would lead them straight into a fight.
The flag bearer rode beside him quietly, a small thin man, clean-shaven, boyish. Chamberlain could not remember his name. He was a sergeant, and Chamberlain wondered about that, if the enlisted men really thought of the rank as a privilege, the promotion as something to be valued. He’d known too many sergeants, had watched too many of them die, and so something in his mind kept him away from this new man, hid the man’s name in some safe place. He tried not to think on that, told himself, No, there is no plan here, the man with the flag is not necessarily doomed. He glanced to the side now, and the man looked at him with an excited smile. Chamberlain looked away, thought, He is new, has not ridden up here, at the front of the column. He still thinks it’s some kind of honor. I hope he’s right.
The low rise began to flatten out, and he could see thick trees on both sides of the road, the sound of a small creek. The blessed smoothness now ended, giving way to more logs, and he sat up straight, lifted himself slightly off the saddle. Out to the side he saw skirmishers falling back toward the front of the column, men pressing and forcing their way through vines and deep mud. Now men came into the road in front of him, emerging in dirty blue from the thick woods.
There was another sergeant, a dark man caked with wet mud up to his waist, and he saluted Chamberlain, said, “Sir, we’re moving out into the road. The men can’t push through this stuff. If you wish, sir, give us a minute, and we’ll move out in front a bit further.”
Chamberlain said, “Fine, Sergeant. We’ll hold the column for a minute. Have your men advance. Any sign of a … problem?”
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing. The rebs are up thataway, for sure, to the north. Nobody down in this infernal place. This is Arthur’s Swamp. We scouted it out once before. Mosquitoes as big as birds. Even the rebs stay clear. We’ll move up a ways, dry ground up ahead, then spread into line again, with your permission, sir.”
Chamberlain was impressed, said, “By all means, Sergeant. Proceed.”
The man saluted, and now more of the skirmishers flooded into the road, moved quickly ahead, some stumbling on the roadbed. Chamberlain turned, motioned to the bugler, and the man gave a short blast on the horn, the call to halt. Chamberlain watched the skirmishers move farther away, well in front of the main column, the men who would be the first to see the enemy. He thought of their sergeant, thought, It’s easy to forget that, sometimes. We are a very good
army, men who have done this before, who know how to do their job, and maybe the most important of all, who know what’s up there, in front of them.
Behind him there were small voices, men used to waiting. He watched the skirmishers disappear, moving off the road again, saw the sergeant look back, raise his arm, a quiet signal. Chamberlain looked at the bugler again, nodded, waved his arm forward, and there was another blast from the horn, the men beginning to move.
The horse stepped carefully, but the saddle bounced in one hard jolt, punched him from below, a shock of pain piercing up through him. He was not often bothered by the wound, But no, he thought, it won’t let me forget. He tried to hold himself aloft again, a small cushion of space between him and the saddle.
Beside him the flag-bearing sergeant said, “I wonder who Arthur is?”
Chamberlain saw the man gazing into the dense woods, and he flinched from another stab of pain, said, “What?”
The man looked at him, almost apologetic, said, “I meant, sir, he said it was called Arthur’s Swamp. I wonder why.”
Chamberlain stared at the man, said nothing, the man turning away, not expecting an answer. Chamberlain looked into the woods, thought, A good question. Why would someone want a swamp named after him? Maybe Arthur owned the place. He pondered the possibilities. Maybe someone named Arthur came to some interesting end in this place, a piece of local folklore. He glanced at the man, began to feel a small irritation. Now I will have to find out. Can’t let a question like that just pass unanswered. He could see the road ahead smoothing out again, prodded the horse slightly, a silent command, Move forward, please. He glanced at the young man, the flag slapped by a small breeze. Chamberlain said, “What’s your name again, Sergeant?”