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

by Jeff Shaara

  There was a small sound, and Mauk looked at the boy, and the boy pointed, wide-eyed. Mauk heard louder sounds now, turned and saw two horsemen moving along the open hillside. He crouched low, then moved up quickly, slipped behind the cover of a fat oak tree, raised his musket. The boy came up close to him, moved against the trees as well, lower, closer to the ground, pointed his musket as well. They see us, Mauk thought. Looks like officers!

  The riders slowed, then stopped, and one, the smaller man, said something to the other, and the larger man rode toward them, closer, shouted out, “Fire and you’ll be swept to hell! Surrender, or I will shoot you! Our troops are here, you’ll have to surrender anyway!”

  The smaller man moved forward now, a thick red beard, and he yelled, “Surrender your arms!”

  Mauk glanced down at the boy, said quietly, “I don’t see it.”

  He looked down the barrel of the gun now, thought the smaller man seemed to be in command. He sighted the small metal bead on the man’s chest, said to the boy, “Let’s shoot them.”

  Both muskets fired, and Mauk saw his target fall, saw through the smoke that the other man was not hit, had grabbed the fallen man’s horse, turned and rode quickly away. Mauk looked down at the boy, said, “I believe you missed.”

  Wolford nodded, said nothing, and they eased out from the tree, moved up the rise.

  Mauk said, “Let’s see what we got here.…”

  They moved up to the still body, the gray uniform stained now with a spreading flow of red.

  Mauk leaned over, said, “Look here, Wolford. Got him through the heart.”

  The boy was looking around, nervous still, and Mauk saw the men waving him back into the trees, small shouts, “C’mon.” He backed away from the body, said to the boy, “Best be moving on. He’s an officer, that’s for sure.” He moved away, the boy close behind, nodding now, a small piece of pride.

  “Yep, got me an officer.”

  LEE HAD SEEN THE TROOPS CLEARLY BY NOW, DID NOT NEED THE field glasses. They were moving in a slow steady wave, and there was no mistaking that the uniforms were blue.

  Longstreet was gone, off to manage the troops arriving on the trains. In the yard around the house, Lee’s staff had gathered what they could, but much would be left behind. The Turnbull house was now directly in the path of the Federal advance. Lee still did not know what had happened, how the line had collapsed. He moved to the porch, stepped down toward the big horse, saw Taylor, and Marshall, carrying bundles of paper, tossing them into the waiting wagon. Lee mounted Traveller, heard horses moving quickly up the road from the west. He turned, heard Marshall say, “Sir, it’s General Hill …”

  Lee saw the familiar horse, but the rider was not Hill, and Lee was surprised, then recognized the man, thought, Yes, Tucker, Hill’s aide. There were others, Palmer, Hill’s chief of staff, but Lee focused on Tucker, and the man’s face carried all the message Lee needed. He felt the cold stab in his chest, saw Tucker slide off the horse, waited patiently as Tucker gathered himself, looking at Lee through eyes filled with tearful grief.

  Palmer moved forward now, and Lee held up his hand—no, wait—still watched Tucker, and Tucker said, “Sir … I am sorry, sir. General Hill is dead. We ran into some Yankees—”

  Lee raised his hand again, and Tucker stopped. Lee thought, It does not matter, the details … not now. He closed his eyes, pushed it hard, held it away, his throat tight, the stiffness in his chest squeezing away the air. He opened his mouth, tried to breathe, fought for it, and now he looked at Tucker, at Palmer, saw tears on the faces of both men, said, “He is at rest now, and we who are left are the ones to suffer.”

  There was a quiet moment, but down below big guns began to fire, the air overhead ripped with the screaming of shells. Lee looked at Palmer, thought, Hill’s home … so close to this awful place. He said, “Go, now, to Mrs. Hill. Tell her what has happened. Break it to her as gently as possible.”

  Palmer saluted, moved quickly away.

  Lee looked at Taylor, saw him toss a pile of books into the wagon, said, “Colonel, get word to General Longstreet. Since we cannot locate General Heth, I wish General Longstreet to assume command of the Third Corps.”

  He looked to the west, could see more lines of blue moving toward the road, the route west, said, “I hope … General Heth has been able to join forces with General Anderson. We may not know that for some time.”

  The orderlies were carrying Lee’s small trunk, and Lee saw the telegraph operator now, a small thin man with tiny glasses. The man was moving across the yard, and Lee said, “Sir! Are the lines still up? Do you know if we can still send out?”

  The man stopped, glanced nervously at the sounds of the enemy guns, said, “Yes … yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”

  Lee dismounted, grabbed the man by the sleeve, led him up across the porch, back into the house. The man sat at his small desk, pushed away paper, his hand now holding the brass telegraph, and he looked at Lee, waited, a silent urgency for Lee to hurry.

  Lee did not look at him, thought of the words, of how the president would respond. He had thought this moment was coming for a long time, something Davis would never discuss. He believes it is the whole cause, he thought. We fight to keep him in Richmond. Lee was angry now, had often thought Davis should come out here, see for himself. There were always reasons; too busy, his bad health. So, this would be a surprise to him. Lee shook his head, looked at his watch, thought, He will be at church, at St. Paul’s, and I will interrupt his morning service. A marvelous luxury, sitting in a beautiful church, the peace of a Sunday service. Lee closed his eyes, thought, There is no time for that now. There is no time for luxury.

  He looked down at the small man, saw sweat on his face, the hand trembling slightly on the telegraph key. Lee put a hand on the man’s shoulder, said, “It’s all right … there’s time yet. You may begin … ‘To His Excellency, President Jefferson Davis …’ ”

  THE HOUSE WAS EMPTY, THE HEADQUARTERS NOW ON WHEELS, THE wagon already moving away on the road. Lee saw Taylor and Marshall mounting their own horses, gave Traveller a light nudge with his spurs, the horse now moving across the yard. There was a sudden shattering blast, a shower of brick and wood, a shell hitting the house, and Lee glanced back, thought of the family, the generous people. This is how you are repaid.…

  He moved the horse into the road, Taylor moving up beside him. Musket fire could be heard now, close below the house, a new line of blue emerging from the woods, a new line of defense giving way. He stared that way for a moment, could see officers, men waving their troops on toward the house.

  He looked at Taylor, said, “Colonel, this is a sad business.”

  THE ASSAULT HAD COME ALL ALONG THE FRONT. EAST OF TOWN, Gordon had held away the Federal advance as long as he could. The last strongholds were now falling there as well, the men in the small forts holding on until the last desperate moment.

  South of the city, Heth and Wilcox had been overrun by the Sixth, and Heth’s division was now split in two. What remained of Lee’s forces close to Petersburg began to move back in a tight arc around the city. But no one believed there was any reason to stay where they were. Grant’s army was pushing still, and there was only one alternative. Lee gave the order. When darkness finally came, the army would move north, cross the bridges over the Appomattox and evacuate the city of Petersburg.

  * * *

  IT WAS A GRAND PLACE, THE MAGNIFICENCE OF STAINED GLASS, THE breathtaking soar of the grand ceiling. St. Paul’s Church was usually filled by now, but there were gaps, empty spaces in the pews, many having left the city, gone to the safety of the countryside.

  It was the first Sunday of the month, and President Davis sat in his accustomed pew, midway down the aisle, listened to the solemn voice flowing out over the worshippers. He did not hear the words, his mind wandering, thought now of the early days, of cheering crowds, of Varina and the children.…

  The thought froze him, and he could not help it, glanced be
side him, the pew empty. They were gone, had been sent away in a wave of tearful good-byes, had left the city only a few days before. Varina did not want to leave, did not understand why she could not be with him, and he still did not believe it would happen, but the word kept coming, spreading all through the city; the meager defense forces were called out again, manning the works that faced the enemy. They said it was real, and close, and now Longstreet was gone, had taken much of the strength with him. But Davis still believed they would be back. Go, do your job, he thought. Take care of business, then return.

  Lee had continued to warn him, insisted he be ready to leave, and that angered him—there was too much left to do, too many details. They could not simply load up the government in boxes and move at a moment’s notice.

  He thought of Lee now: I should have been there, with you. He smiled sadly, thought of West Point, of Mexico. We were soldiers once, both of us. Of course, Lee is still a soldier. The people love him … he does not make them angry. The newspapers do not say hateful things. I do not understand … this is our fight, all of us. If we hold on, it will turn, it has to, it is the will of God.

  He tried to focus on the sermon, but the words flowed past him. Now there was a pause, the minister silent, and heads were turning, small whispers. Davis still stared off into some other place, tried to see Varina, to bring back that moment when the train had pulled away.…

  “Sir.”

  The voice was a faint whisper, and Davis turned, saw a young man in a black suit, leaning over. Davis looked at him, then saw the faces, the people all around looking at him. The young man whispered, “Sir, excuse me, sir. I’m from the War Department. We have received a wire, from General Lee. It is urgent, sir.”

  Davis took the folded paper from the young man, held it for a moment, the faces still watching him, and he slid a finger under the seal, his hand trembling, cold. He opened the note, saw his name, the familiar heading from Lee, read silently:

  … I think it is absolutely necessary that we should abandon our position tonight. I have given all the necessary orders on the subject to the troops, and the operation, though difficult, I hope will be performed successfully …

  He stared at the page for a long moment, then folded the paper, tucked it in his coat pocket. He turned to thank the messenger, but the young man was already gone. Now the minister began to speak again, and slowly the faces turned toward the front.

  Davis’s mind tried to work, thought of the details. If we must leave, yes, the War Department, go there first …

  He stood now, looked at the minister, and the man still spoke, made a subtle nod toward him, and Davis looked up, above the man’s head, above the altar, saw the words written high up on the wall, the words he had seen for years, the gold lettering, profound, simple, as if for the first time. He understood now it was for him, had been sent by God as a message to him.

  Peace I leave with you, My Peace I give unto you…

  He turned slowly, his hand on the end of the pew, felt his head spinning for a moment, steadied himself, then slowly walked up the aisle. Beyond the doors of the church, in the streets, the people were already in motion, the wagons and horses weighed down with the precious memories, the symbols of home, of the cause and the country that was collapsing around them.

  MIDNIGHT, APRIL 2, 1865

  THEY WOULD COME FOR HOURS, LONG COLUMNS OF MEN AND horses, the guns and wagons, crossing the river on bridges that would not survive, that would be burned quickly once the army was across.

  He had done this before, sat on the big horse, high above the banks of a river, watching his army move away from a disaster. He kept it hidden away somewhere, would never dwell on that, the defeats, pulling his army off the field where so many good men had been left behind. He had always remembered going north, the Potomac, the glorious marches by men who knew they were winning. Now the hidden places began to open up, and he remembered moving south, the same big river, after the horrifying day at Sharpsburg, and then, after Gettysburg, watching his battered army from a high bluff, sitting on the big horse in the misery of the rain.

  Now they were moving north again, but there was no spirit in the army, the men moving in slow motion, creaking wagons pulled by weak horses. He thought of Davis, all the oratory, the spirit of the fallen, the bizarre notion that somehow they could energize the army by calling on the memories of all who had gone. It was a fine emotional theme for the politicians, made for a rousing speech in those places where the war had not yet come. But here, Lee thought, here the fallen are greatly missed, and the spirit is hard to find in the men who have lost the leadership, who have lost so much.

  They did not see him, moved past under dull lamplight, faces locked forward, moving out of the city they had given up so much to protect. Many of these were Hill’s men, the Third Corps, and most did not even know that Longstreet would lead them. Many had no thoughts of being led anywhere at all, that what they did now was only for their own survival.

  He had heard from Anderson, finally, knew that Pickett was still with the surviving fragments of his division, that Fitz Lee could still bring horses to the fight. Lee had ordered them to move north as well, to link up with Longstreet and Gordon’s men, that a good hard march would take them all to the railroad depot at Amelia Court House.

  A line of wagons moved by him, and another column of troops, but there was something different about the sounds, men moving with more speed, even some voices, laughter. There was still a spark in these men, and Lee sat up straight, was surprised, looked for flags, saw now, reflected in the dull yellow of the lanterns, these were Gordon’s men. He understood now, these men had not been defeated, had held their ground, held the enemy away for a full day so that the rest of the army could make it to the bridges. There is a difference, he thought. This is … another march. He had not thought of that—there would be some who would be happy to leave this place. Of course, there is nothing encouraging, he realized, nothing to build the spirit enduring a siege. Now we are moving out, and the enemy will have to pursue us. He smiled, thought of Gordon. The irony … that it would take a man who is not a professional soldier to remind us that there is still the duty, the strategy. We can still succeed. They must pursue us, and they will be vulnerable.

  Amelia Court House was a forty-mile march, but once there, the Richmond and Danville Railroad could move them quickly away, southward, to link with Joe Johnston. He did not think of it as the last hope, the desperate move. It was sound strategy, might always have been, if they could have pulled out of Petersburg before. Lee thought of Davis, the pressure to preserve Richmond, thought, No, it was always a mistake. We knew there was no value, the city gave nothing to the army. This could all have happened sooner, we should have made it happen sooner. Now we will come together again, and there are fewer of us, but those who march, who still follow their commanders, there is still power in that. He knew that Ewell was coming from Richmond, had been instructed to go to Amelia as well. Ewell brought what remained of Longstreet’s men, with as much of the home guard as were able, and even some naval units, sailors who had burned their own ships and were taking their fight across the land. Once they united at Amelia, the trains would be waiting for them, great long cars of food, and then they would be strong again, would move on the railroad toward Danville, toward North Carolina. And if Grant continues to pursue us, he thought, we will look for the opportunity, and we will hit him hard in the soft place, drive him back to these cities he holds as meaningless trophies of war.

  There was a great rumble, and a bright flash of light, and he squinted, tried to see, the fiery blast shaking the ground. The men on the bridge turned, and there was a cheer. Lee thought, the ammunition, the depots. There were explosions echoing all across the town now, and far to the east the big Federal guns began to open up, a response to activity the Federal commanders could see. The sky was now streaked with bright light, bursts of red and orange, small pops and thunderous booms. There were flames now, patches of fire scatte
red through the town. Lee did not look at that, gazed up instead, at the billowing smoke reflecting the great flashes of light.

  He thought of George Washington, his great hero, the friend of his father, thought of the statue in Richmond, the tall dark bronze, where he used to go and just sit. He had often thought of Washington, the struggle for independence, what the man had endured to see it happen. The statue will survive, he thought, they will not destroy it, even those who would burn and loot the city would not do that. I would like to see that again, take that walk along the wide street and sit in the small park across the road, and just … talk to him. He would understand what we are doing here, what this army must still do. We are still fighting for the same things, there is no difference now. The fight is not over until we say it is over, and these troops still have the spirit for the fight, even in the worst of times, something George Washington would have understood.

  The sharp blasts from the enemy shells and the slow rumbling fires from the exploding munitions still lit the sky, and he stared up, marveled at the glory of that, thought, It looks like a celebration, Independence Day.

  The echoing thunder now fell slowly into a rhythm, a steady roll of drums. He turned the horse, his mind holding the bright and terrible images, and moved away from the bridge, out on the dark road, the road filled with his army, marching again to the sound of drums.

  44. LEE

  APRIL 4, 1865

  THERE COULD BE NO SLOWING DOWN, NO DELAY IN THE MARCH. Lee expected some pursuit, but the great Federal mass converging behind him in Petersburg was not yet on the move. On the left flank, down toward the river, Sheridan’s cavalry picked and punched at him all day, but the assaults were more of an annoyance than anything significant.

  They moved on roads that had not felt the marching of an army before, good roads, a network that fanned out to the west. Lee ordered the wagons and most of the artillery to move on a separate route, a parallel route above the army, so the foot soldiers would not be held back by the slow-moving horses. The goal was still Amelia, and that meant they would have to cross the river again. Once out beyond Petersburg, the Appomattox made a sharp turn northward. Amelia was below the river, and Lee sent specific word to each column of troops, to Longstreet and Gordon and Ewell, where they would cross the river, where the precious bridges should still be in place.